What I remember most about my time in Iraq is the kinship that comes from working closely as a team on something so important, for so unrelentingly long. The bonds that come from such conditions warm my heart. Despite the moments of intense chaos, the storytelling and bonding in the fight against unrelenting boredom remain unbreakable.

I can’t avoid recalling aching for the time to come when we would be relieved and could return home. We spent hours talking about food that we were looking forward to eating, or the view of the blue ocean or a green forest. We also coped with the uncertainty that begins to swirl around returning home, worrying whether we’d be “extended” by having our relieving unit’s arrival delayed and thus our departure. Or, we might leave one area of operations only to have to go to a different area to fight.

This was the case when I was in Afghanistan; I treated Soldiers who were redirected to Afghanistan after spending time in Iraq and thinking they would soon return to the USA. Definitely, looking forward to returning home and longing for home becomes a double-edged sword that different Service Members approach differently. Some find it best to put it out of their mind; others perseverate on it.

As the date for beginning the egress out of combat grew nearer, Marines and their Corpsmen began to count down in various ways. Some looked at how many more patrols outside the wire or how many more convoys there were. Anxiety grew as everyone can imagine calamity striking on that last mission and missing the finish line. For me, that occurred on February 25, 2005, 4 days before we were scheduled to leave Camp Gannon. I was 8 ft from a 120 mm mortar round that exploded, knocking me to the ground, knocking me out, blowing out my left tympanic membrane, and peppering me with shrapnel. As was the directive on our base, I was wearing my protective flak jacket and Kevlar helmet. Thus I was spared what could have been a much more serious set of injuries . To be so close to harm and walk away, I was quite fortunate.

As is true for so many others, having been so close to being killed has been a powerful factor in my subsequent life. And, it’s yet another example of where a story that should be about fear, for me ends up being a story I tell with an emphasis on humor. I like to joke about my Corpsmen, who were very excited to throw me down on the gurney and cut off my pants. Or, I joke about convincing my wife not to worry when I told her I had to deploy a second time to the same area where I was in near constant danger—as though it was going to be a vastly different experience after a little over half a year.

Humor aside, I am all too aware of how minor my injury was, having directly cared for so many who were much less fortunate. I try to bring that humility into all of my life: when taking care of patients or being a father, a husband, and a member of society.

Fortunately, I was able to return home with my unit. It is an absolutely matchless occurrence to set off from such a dangerous place, where you truly feel that you have walked through the valley of the shadow of death, only to have your return date on the books. This phenomenon happens for Service Members every time they go out on a perilous patrol and make it safely back to the base, knowing they will return to that same danger the next day. There is a distinct feeling that you’re pushing your luck .

Deploying again with 1/7 in early 2006, my assurances to my wife about my safety were actually quite truthful. I was on a bigger base within the same area of operations, and things had indeed quieted down. All of the anxiety surrounding the unknown was gone. I had living conditions that seemed opulent compared to my first deployment.

This second deployment (known as OIF 5/7 ) did present new challenges. Having other medical assets co-located on the base, various collateral duties were assigned. One duty I found the most challenging was conducting cause of death assessments for fallen Marines. This involved walking into a highly air-conditioned metal container to inspect a deceased Marine. I can still vividly remember the exact sound of the door closing behind me, or the feel of the cold body through my latex gloves. These experiences confronted all the senses, including smell.

These were fallen Marines who I had served with and knew increasingly well. I was prepared and able to do this kind of work, but it did impart a particular empathy for those who have to handle the dead. That can include Mortuary Affairs workers or fellow Soldiers who have to clean up the body parts of their fallen comrade.

I learned to appreciate the unique challenges of the many different types of work that are done in forward areas. Having deployed in three very different combat settings, it seems like a universal truth that there is always talk about how we have it the hardest. I have come to believe that are lots of hard jobs in war, whether it’s the subspecialized surgeon who is the only one of his specialty at a major field hospital having to operate day after day for half a year, a nurse struggling with the indifference of an Afghani father to the death of his child, or the obvious emotional rigor of a Marine kicking in a door with no idea what he might find or if the door is rigged to explode.