HAVE MERCY w/Lori Butierries

Sometimes, I have to hurt my terminally ill and physically disabled son to help him.

Invasive procedures that make him cry may be necessary to prolong the longevity of his life. I hold him down while he pleads with me to stop, knowing that if I let go, I am surrendering him to something far worse.

They brought a local to the Battalion Aid Station (BAS) for help. The Afghan civilian’s head had been crushed between two Conex boxes while working at the Forward Operating Base (FOB). Brain matter and cerebrospinal fluid leaked from his ears, yet his chest still rose and fell with each labored breath.

“Mommy, help me!” he cries, but I can only hold him in place and whisper that I’m here. Offering him my presence instead of the freedom from pain that he begs for.

Since he wasn’t dead yet, medical didn’t want to waste the opportunity for hands-on training. They practiced intubating in front of the people who had brought him in, who watched, believing we were saving their friend. They didn’t know the truth.

I had a choice then. I could participate in what felt like cruelty masked as care, I could say something, like “This isnt right,” or I could walk away. I left him lying on that table at their mercy and ran from the barbarity of the scene to cry in private.

But there’s no running now. No looking away. No escape from the impossible choices. This time, I stay. I do what needs to be done, even when it breaks my heart.

Lord, have mercy on my son, even if I was unable to grant it myself. ∎