Yesterday I had a date to call my husband on the satellite phone at 7pm Sudan time, 12-noon Brampton time. It was our 7th wedding anniversary. Exactly 7 years ago yesterday, we got married in a small white chapel in Kleinburg, Ontario. The 43-year-old bride had the audacity to wear white and her soon to be husband looked quite distinguished in a blue suit and a new tie. After a long, complicated 10-year courtship, I suspect family and friends heaved a secret sigh of relief.
Yesterday was uncharacteristically quiet here in Lankien; at least it was until exactly one hour before my phone date. At 6pm I was summoned to come quickly, another gunshot wound to the chest.
The bullet had entered just next the young man's nipple and emerged soon after on the other side. It had continued on into his upper arm, shattered the bone, and blasted out the lateral side; every hole was successively larger that the one before. The exit wound smelled terrible and was oozing green pus. It had not entered into the chest cavity though, making management infinitely easier than when a bullet enters lung and large blood vessels!
I was back at the compound by 7pm for my phone date. I left the base nurse to finish dressing the wound.
"Happy Anniversary, sweetheart." I heard myself say into the satellite phone, and then, " No, just a regular day, nothing special. How was your day?"