Bandaged at the Roundabout

Bandaged At The Roundabout

Synopsis

A nurse returning from the Vietnam War must draw on the courage and fortitude she gained from the past to face her future.

I need more bandages, I need more bandages! Covered in blood, there was no response. An arm was lying on the floor next to me. Crimson rising from the floor, and I scream, “I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!”

Awakened, I found my breath. I could not place my setting. DEEP BREATH, I told myself: 5-4-3-2-1, breathing out through pursed lips. Second nature to me now after coaching soldiers in this unending chant. Many were subdued from shaking by this complex yet straightforward exercise. Now, accustomed to calming myself when roused in the middle of the night after my time in Vietnam. A drop of sweat left my brow to scorn my eyes with a sting. Seeing the bright green Queen Anne chairs my aunt laid out like jewels in the crown of her living room reminded me of the delay I bought for myself in Swindon, England. A place to catch my breath before returning to the sane life of home.

Afternoon tea included a simple conversation about my plans to return to America. It was not long before the topic of plans with my fiancé incited a tightening of my throat that hastened my leave of the conversation. Once, I could not wait to see him, to hug him, to feel his embrace, and be redeemed by his familiar scent. Now that glimpse of security came with the responsibility of being normal. How can I approach that life while being awakened by terrible memories, corrupting my thoughts with horror that erupts with vicious screams? What would they mean for my groom? One day, my children? I am ashamed of the possibility that I will lose myself to these terrors and expose the grim life I led. It would not be long before I would have to return to Philadelphia. My tour in Vietnam was over, yet I knew I couldn't face my old life. Charles and I were so full of possibility, but now. I was changed.

My second week here, my favorite uncle noticed my discomposure and spoke gently to me, perhaps in an attempt to give my mind some new fixation, my uncle suggests a trip to the new Magical Roundabout. A complex collection of turns that is meant to deconstruct the monstrosity of traffic in the center of town. “There is a calming that happens when one is surrounded by cyclical motion, he said. It gives you peace somehow.” Well, I was eager to see how the magic would work on me, maybe some remedy for my soul's inability to rest. Finding myself intrigued and in need of distraction, I gathered my journal, writing, and pencils and accompanied them to the circle.

It seemed simple, as a complicated matter could be. Navigate to your destination while doing as little harm as possible to others. In this, it had failed at least in its early stages. People were beeping with confusion and frustration. In a typical case, he shouted at another driver. Becoming overwhelmed was not the purpose of the day, so I needed an out. I asked if, during one of our long pauses, I could exit the vehicle and take a look around, and my aunt agreed. I leaped from the car and sprinted to the safe grass.

I spent much of the day sketching the roundabout in a garden near itś edge. The intricate entryways were meant to dilute the stream of traffic through the center of town. As I watched, it seemed that some people circled indefinitely, gaining a different experience each time. I must have dozed off because an unfamiliar brush on my arm awoke me.

It was a cat. A lovely white cat went into the smallest entryway in the center of a tiny tile in the wall I hadn't noticed. When she at last could see me, she seemed to blink her eyes at me as if to say, follow. I had no recollection of time and found myself following her.

Once inside, I saw doors with certain calendar months on them, with dates circled. I entered the first one — May 21, 1881 — and took a deep breath. A woman in a white uniform and bandages was speaking to a crowd of dignitaries. Her name tag read Clara Barton, and she spoke with passion that I have never heard before or since. She spoke of networks within the Red Cross that would serve as a symbol of the engagement and education of people to serve in all capacities during conflict. The people cheered, and at the conclusion, she looked at me and said, Your burden is heavy, but your purpose is pure. An alarm sounded, and I walked back into the hallway.

March 20, 1854, It was the Crimean War. A woman was speaking to nurses numbered 1 to 38. She led them with an encouraging charge. Reminding them of their duties, to do it all despite their horrific conditions. Cautioning them to rest when their shift was over, so they might be of use to those who need you next. She ended by asking if they were with her, to which they all responded: ¨We are Florence!” I had heard so much about the amazing Florence Nightingale and her dedication, but this was fantastic. She raised her arm as if waving goodbye and said, “Remember, you can do all you can for as long as you can, but you must also heal. With that, I was through the door into the hall.

Finally, I entered a room where the calendar day, May 23, 1865, was circled. A woman crossed a field in Washington, D.C, with hundreds of soldiers after the Grand Review of the Armies to receive acknowledgement of services rendered beyond expectation. She helped many men cross the line and, finally, being charioted herself, was Lucy Higgs Nichols or Äunt Lucy. The most endeared nurse of the Civil War accepted their acknowledgement. She spoke of her escape from slavery and choosing to help those who needed her on the battlefield. She said the battles ahead of her, both emotional and literal, were ones that she would tackle. She looked at me, and in her glance I saw her encouragement to do the same.

Friendly purring and warm fur stirred my awakening. Like a fluffy cloud streaming across the sky, the cat gently awakened me with a gentle brush of its tail. I whispered my farewell with a loving stroke of my magical friend. For the first time since my return, I awoke without some contorted cry of fright. Horns soon penetrated my peace, and a busy stream of traffic horns stirred me to head back to my Aunt's house. The morning commute. I must have slept through the night. I gathered my journal and my courage, bound for home.