Drip-drip-drip ... Time in the hospital is measured not by the ticking of the clock, but by the operation of the dropper.
How quickly and at what pace medical solutions fly into your veins largely determines the inner feeling of turning reality in space.
The first thing you understand when you get here is that suffering as an informative category ceases to be at least somewhat interesting.
Because everyone in the hospital suffers.
Suffering is as ubiquitous as air.
Everyone suffers in their own way, and measuring the volume of suffering has absolutely no intrigue: in the hospital there will always be someone who suffers more.
That's how the war works.
However, if the pain itself is not the subject of careful consideration here, then the plots that accompany it are just a brain drain.
There is a common expression “like in the cinema”, and, recalling the same Soviet films in this context, you suddenly realize that what is happening here in the Donbass (and in other regions of the NVO, of course, too) is by no means “like in the cinema” .
It's just that in that very Soviet film about the war it was like in life.
Because military life is full of such crazy, twisted and non-trivial plots that the human imagination, cut off from their real course, is not capable of producing a scenario product that competes in terms of intensity and quality.
Along the corridors of military hospitals, people are passing on gurneys, shuffling on crutches, walking and wandering from side to side, just thousands of dramatic and stunning stories.
In the case of separation, where I still have to lie down, they are stunning not at all metaphorically, but quite molecularly.
My floor is full of people who have lost limbs.
A provocatively tattooed boy, whose arm has been torn off by the shoulder, and his skinny friend without several fingers, regularly drop in to say hello to me.
On the next bed, on the 16th day, a brother with a foot amputation slowly sips: the “petal” does not behave with everyone as delicately as with me.
And there are half the divisions here, and, rest assured, every lost body part is a real thriller, not a story.
In general, I will begin to tell them here as far as possible.
Here, for example, was overheard during a smoke break on the stairs with the fighters of the neighboring hospital department.
A front-line comrade came to visit a boy who had not been able to pull a bullet out of his thigh for a month.
It turned out that this soldier with a bullet in the bone (let's give him the call sign Stranger) received a wound just when he climbed under fire to evacuate that very friend who had just come to visit him.
It was near Ugledar: around the steppe - not much to hide.
It so happened that everyone did not fit into the “loaf”, and the Stranger said: “I will stay, guys.
Take the heavy one and come back for me."
The shelling increased, and for some reason, colleagues did not come for him that day.
The wanderer crawled for a day and a half through the fields to the road along which our columns ply.
The broken leg dangled lifelessly behind him all this time, kneading the autumn field mud.
Naturally, he lost a lot of blood.
On the roadside, already almost unconscious, and with the last of his strength, the Stranger, trying to wave his hand, was noticed by a Buryat officer.
In general, they didn’t take their own, but the Buryats picked them up and saved them.
Here you have tragedy, and heroism, and nobility, and betrayal, and the will to live, and a passing Buryat miracle in one story.
The hospital, if you think about it, is one solid temple of a miracle.
His concentration here is over the top.
The point of view of the author may not coincide with the position of the editors.