The much requested Nu-skin story...

Well, I've had enough requests for the story so here goes... The pics also represent the dog lovin' that was going on yesterday, which while having NOTHING to do with the story, are incredibly entertaining nonetheless. The first bike that I bought and owned myself was a CBR600 F4i, bought July 3rd 2001, and died the end of July, 2002. This is how it all happened...

It was the weekend before I was to head to the final phase of Officer Candidate School, so I was out trying to maximize what fun I could have in preparation for the suck that was to come. OCS essentially is a "pay your dues" school where in addition to a little bit of training, there is a lot of "fun" stuff that is put in for your personal enjoyment of pain and misery. The final phase consisted of two weeks of running around the woods of middle Alabamastan, fighting mock battles, and then roadmarching all over creation, all in 95 degree heat and 3466788% humidity. Swimming pools are drier. Keep all this in mind as the story continues...

I was on my way to meet my girlfriend at the time for lunch, and decided I'd take the bike to maximize that enjoyment I wanted. I put on my usual gear. Helmet, leather jacket, boots, gloves, and a pair of blue jeans and headed out to her place. I decided to take the bypass to get there quicker, as it was usually deserted at this time of day. As I went down the on road I decided to open it up a bit and have a little fun... I gassed the bike hard in 1st and accelerated nicely. Then I did a quick upshift into 2nd and racked the throttle back again. Now while this size bike is no power monster, it does have a sweet spot where a fair amount is available. I was at says "this is a BAD idea"? In my head it is different. It says "this will be the best idea EVER! DO IT!!!"

Well after I let the clutch out after the upshift, the front tire decided that this would be an excellent opportunity to attempt to go into low earth orbit. "No problem" I thought, "I'll just back off the throttle a bit" which at this point was wide open. I loosened my grip on the throttle, yet the bike continued skyward. Still unworried, I lessened my grip a bit more yet the engine continued to rev higher, and the bike continued to pivot about the rear wheel. Finally I hit the point where I was staring directly at the gas cap. Unless one is looking down, this is never good. It was at this point I though "uh oh.... This is bad. Very bad." As I loosened my overall grip on the bike, and fought to not lose my grip on my bowel control, I slowly slid off the back of the bike. This is now ending badly. I distinctly remember looking up at my bike tearing off down the highway without me, hoisted on one wheel and still rocking back and thinking "wow my bike is REALLY tall!" I also heard that tinny voice in my head laughing hysterically at my misfortune. Then I hit the ground. Some of you might notice hitting the ground it a common them in my life...

Well as I hit I landed first on my butt, then back, and finally my head. The bump on the back of the head blacked out my sight for a sec, but I could still here by bike bouncing down the road, and more importantly, my butt bouncing after it. Finally everything came to a stop and I jumped up and sprinted for the grass, afraid I might be about to be run over. After I got to the grass I did my traditional "helmet toss" that signifies the end of yet another harebrained ride, and then remembered my bike. I ran back to the road where I stopped and just stared at my pride and joy, one a gleaming red machine, fury on two wheels, slayer of curvy roads and destroyer of all comers, now vanquished and folded mostly in half in the middle of the road. "Aww crap" I thought, and then ran back to the grass where I laid down face first and sulked.

After a moment, a passerby stopped and came over and asked if I was ok. All I could manage was a tine "nooooo" as I began to notice the odd burning sensation on my rear end. I stood up and made a quick damage assessment, and realized the rear end was the only painful place on my body. I took my hand and patted my backside to make quite the discovery. Apparently, at some point in the crash sequence, some sort of bad fashion police had accosted my obviously unconscious body and dressed me like Prince. I now was sporting a hot set of "assless chaps" of the Purple Rain tour vintage. Oddly I didn't feel very stylish, nor did I have a desire to change my name to "The Artist." As I finished swatting at my rear, someone asked if I wanted them to call anyone. I told them to call my dad, and then stared blankly as they asked what his number was. I repeated again to just call my dad, and still didn't think to give them the actual number... Funny how after the helicopter crash I remembered the number but now I couldn't.

They finally got ahold of my dad and we had the usual "I just wrecked my bike" conversation, and he loaded the truck with the medical kit to come get me. Again. You'd think by now he'd be used to this phone call... He finally showed up and we loaded what was left of the bike into the truck and headed home. One there I hopped in the shower and did the usual debriding process to get the blue jean, underwear, gravel, dirt, and pride out of the wound before putting a bandage on it and calling it a day. The wound was actually superficial and didn't even break low enough to break open blood vessels so it actually looked like more of a horrible blister on each cheek. Picture a large egg sized and shaped raw spot on each buttcheek, and that's was I was sporting. Coolness is not a word that comes to mind. I just hoped since it was so shallow it would heal fast. It didn't.

See when you get an abrasion would that isn't deep enough to bleed, you don't get a scab. You instead get that crusty plasma covering the just reopens every five minutes. Also, it doesn't heal, it just slowly grows out as the skin under it is replaced naturally. this takes a while, and hurts. Badly. It also leaves all your nerve endings open for the world to play with. Needless to say I spent a lot of time on my stomach hoping it would heal faster. Of course it didn't.

Well after a few days I had to go to Nashville to catch the bus to the OCS field phase in Alabama. I stayed the night with my 70+ year old little German grandmother so that I could be there at 5 a.m. the next day for roll call. Well I realized that there was no way I could go through OCS with open butt wounds, I started trying to think of something to put on it to cover it. I came up with a brilliant idea. I would use Nu-skin! I'd used it a lot for minor nicks while in the field, and figured this would be great. For those who've never used Nu-skin, let me describe this to you. Usually it comes in a small bottle and is applied with a little brush just like nail polish. I happened upon a newer version though, This one was in a little aerosol bottle just like spray paint. "Perfect!" I thought, "I can cover the whole area really fast!" Yeah... True... However, here's a little bit more about Nu-skin.

Nu-skin in the spray bottle is designed to be kind of a liquid band-aid. Essentially, it is polyurethane or something rubbery like that dissolved in alcohol, acetone, clove oil and a secret ingredient. The secret ingredient isn't listed but I'm relatively certain it is some form of molten magma that they managed to scrape out of a volcano and can it. How do I know this? Do read on...

I got back to my Oma's house with my purchase, took a shower, and readied myself to be nu-skinned. I looked this way and that, but no matter how I tried I couldn't get the angle needed to correctly apply the Nu-skin. Given the sensitive nature of the area it was going, I didn't want to just spray it all willy nilly. I finally decided that I was gonna have to ask Oma to help and headed into the kitchen to ask.

I asked her if she could spray it on each side and get a good coat on for me. She hesitantly agreed, and I turned around and presented the full moon over Tennessee for my treatment. Well she sprayed one side, and I noticed a mild burning sensation, but nothing too horrid. Then as she started on the other cheek, my brain began to register the full effect of the liquid h*ll that was being applied to my backside. As it sunk in I began to sweat and see stars. Finally instincts overcame me and I did what any mature 25 year old man would do. I dropped the towel and ran in tiny little circle in her kitchen, screaming at the top of my lungs while fanning both of my butt cheeks with my hands. Sitting on the surface of the sun would have been a welcome relief to the pain I was experiencing now. I'm 99% certain on the side of the bottle it says "proudly made by Satan and his minions." To make matters better, Oma is yelling at me in her German accent "Pheeellip, I deedn't get it all, ach you need to let me feeneesh." Torqamada and the spanish inquisition would have been music to my ears over that. Finally I settled down and picked up my towel, which was conveniently lying on the floor right next to my pride, and readied myself for round two.

Well I can honestly say round two went slightly different. As she sprayed, I managed to maintain my composure. I was a rock. I was a statue in need of repair. I was about to pass out from the pain. This time I ran in circles cussing through the whole house, rather than just the kitchen. Yes, towelless. Again. See I told you it went a bit different.

Well the next morning I went on down to where we were getting ready to go to Alabama, and recounted my tales of woe to all my friends there, who could only shake their heads and mutter something about how brave I was. Or maybe it was how stupid. I'm not sure anymore, the details have been lost to time. This is also a good time to reflect on what a true friend is. See nu-skin only stays in place until friction rubs it off, which on ones hind-end isn't very long. So I managed to rope my good buddy Colby into spraying my arse down every day with the Nu-skin. I think he may still be traumatized. But what a friend!

Down in Alabama, the fun continued... I couldn't tell the instructors what the level of my injury was out of fear I would be booted out of the class. The next two weeks were spent with me trying hard to never have to sit down, while simultaneously not giving away the fact that sitting was next to an impossibility for me... On the other hand however, the members of my team knew the deal so any time the whine factor got a little too high I'd have to set them straight with a little "you don't know how much this COULD be sucking for you right now" tiny tale of woe. In the end I managed to finish the course and commission with a minor infection in my rear end, and a new appreciation for how much pain can be bottled up in a tiny canister of Nu-skin. Happily I can also report that was the last time I ever slid down the highway on my rear end. Now if only that had been my last motorcycle crash, too...

Well everybody, I've made it to south Oregon, and tomorrow I start my way through California. I hope to make it about halfway down before I cut over to Las Vegas. I ought to be there this weekend sometime so watch and see. Also RTD has been a little sick today. I'm hoping it's a result of the wormer I gave him yesterday, but I dunno. If he's still sick tomorrow I may end up going to a NoCal vet somewhere, so I'll be sure to update! Until then!

Opinions and derierres have much in common...

Well everybody, today has been an interesting day, to say the least! I made it to Bar Harbor, had a big time, took a lot of pics, and thought on what i'd like to post tonight. However, a few turns of events has caused me to feel the need to address a little "issue". I mostly want to do this b/c I feel it's an attack on MY character, which may not be the best, but isn't THAT bad. Don't worry, this blog will NOT digress into arguments etc etc, and my Bah Hahbah (local accent) post will follow ASAP! Anyhow, here's the deal...

Today a couple of interesting things happened... I received an e-mail from the pilot of the other aircraft that we were escorting when we crashed, which may/may not have been rescinded. Anyhow, a bit later this comment is made on my post detailing the crash (Prologue):

"Task Force Knighthawk Soldier said...
Daniel is incorrect in stating that a Blackhawk was the cause for his crash. I was a part of Task Force Knighthawk during OEF VII and know for a fact that the accident investigation in no way implicated a Blackhawk or its crew. I'll leave it to Daniel to tell you all what the real findings of the investigation were. In any case, it was a tragic event and I wish him all the best in his new life."

Now a few things about this piss me off. First though let me say I may not have been clear in my telling of the version of the crash featured in "Prologue" that this is what I remember. It is also amazingly similar to what the other pilot remembers. Anyhow, with that said, it is only what WE remember. No footage exists etc etc etc of the crash, so all that's available are witness statements...

So back to it. First, if you are going to publicly refute someone on their statement, anonimity is NOT a good start. Secondly, given the command climate there at the time, I'd be willing to wager that it could have been witnessed by ten different people, and the "results" would be the same. Thirdly, if you have a copy of "the real findings" I would LOVE a copy! They should be right there next to your copy of the Area 51 report and the names of the shooters on the grassy knoll. I say this for a few reasons.

A: If you have a complete copy of the Safety Center findings, you could have them only by theft. The Army protects those to no end. I requested them under FOIA and was denied, and eventually drove to Ft. Rucker and demanded them, only to be met by a LTC JAG officer who calmly explained they are sealed. He then let me know what I COULD have, which was essentially a weather report for the day we crashed. I know flightfax listed the crash as due to "error on the part of the pilot on the controls (not me) in which the aircraft was put into an unrecoverable unusual attitude, resulting in a crash."

B: If you are referring to the collateral investigation, I have no clue. Again, the esteemed 2-10 AVN has never bothered to return any of my requests to see that, so I'd like a copy of that, too. Given that the usual Army method is "ok, you crashed so you will be the liars, and they didn't so they will be the truthtellers" I can reasonably assume what the result of that investigation is.

C: While i've been attempting to find out WHY i've never received a Purple Heart for injuries received due to a combat related accident (which CLEARLY qualifies according to the regulation) I was told by the Army Wounded Warrior liasion that the crash was listed as "due to mechanical failure while on a non-combat related flight". Now, if you were THERE, and if you were on the aircraft, then you SHOULD know we were inbound to clear a possibly hot landing zone of suspected insurgent action for an EOD crew to remove an IED. Now that sounds an AWFULLY lot like combat to me.

So now apparently there are more "real reasons" than I care to count. In the end I still maintain my side of the story. Given that not ONE single person from the unit involved in the accident (Blackhawk guys) bothered to ever so much as call me or send a single e-mail while I was in the hospital (except the flight surgeon), my respect for ANY information that comes from 2-10 AVN and TF Knighthawk is pretty slim. Nil, even. Perhaps if anyone who knew "what really happened" had bothered to contact me in the last two years, we wouldn't have this issue now, would we?

Finally, here is a copy of an e-mail I sent to my unit five days post crash. I was in a morphine haze and have very little recollection of sending it. Seems like even then I seemed to have remembered the Hawk turning in front of us. I also seem to have thought we were getting shot at, so maybe I was wrong.

"Hey man.... Treatment varies w/ hospitals... they nerarli killed me at one place. About dropped off gurney then drowning in own puke b/c of incompetance. St. louis is nice....on toTX tomorrow. Careful with them wall lockers though...lol... still a good group of guys. Look in behind drawers and shit b/c i hide money and forget.... never knopw. My daD is pretty upset, as is the rest of my family, so i keep up the 'i'ts no big deal'' face to keep them happy...Anyhow be careful, and if anyone asks, Johnny did his BEST. /I rememeber haxk did a HUGR 90egree bank in front of us on short final.... Joknny rolled garder left toavoid and i saw some haji takin shots at us... we went in maybe 200m later. There was nothing he coulda done, and no one else seems tohave seen the shooter. No one seems to believe i saw him, but he was there plain as day.... Any... if anyone caes for my side of it, that's it... anyhow be careful man...it's like i say...NO one plans on crashing that day.... take care brotha,m and get me pics of everyone!! And the crash site, too!!!!"

Anyhow, I'm sure you've noticed I've not once mentioned the names of the other crew. This is b/c if I have and will continue to do my best not to discredit the name of the others involved whether they were at fault or not. Perhaps while you are around, you can use your knowledge to figure out WHY my crash was listed as non-combat so I might receive that Purple Heart which I gave my hand for.

To all who are aggravated by this airing of dirty laundry here, my apologies. I just don't much care for the implication that I am a liar, or at best an unwitting deceiver. To whomever cares to post comments, if you are going to question me publicly, have the courage to stand behind your name. To the pilot who sent me the e-mail today, I'll gladly take you up on your offer of a beer if the offer still stands, but the e-mail I received today made it appear it was rescinded, so I don't know. To the rest of you, a teaser pic for the Bar Harbor post!

PROLOGUE TO THE BOOK!!

As I sat in Starbuck's coffeeshop today, I realized this may be harder to write than expected. never mind the fact that i'm typing at 25 wpm with one hand, I'm thinking mental. I have relived this in my head numerous times, and retold the story in ad nauseum. I however have never tried to write it down, a process which has made it much more "real" to me. I came close to tears, which would have only been the second time i've cried over this since that first day. Amazing are the power of words.

Hopefully I'll be able to to turn this trip and my story into some sort of readable/organized book. Please let me know what you think so far. In the interest of that I present to you for your reading enjoyment, The Prologue.

“Well hell. There goes med school.”

I sat there stupidly staring, feeling the anger rise within me, at the sleeve where moments ago my hand had been. People often reflect on their having survived some great tragedy with the thoughts of impending doom and life’s end they had at that very moment. Not me. My feelings and thoughts were centered on the future, and what wasn’t going to happen now.

I remember the violence, and then the lack of violence. I looked at the sand just in front of my feet and the hot desert stretching for miles in front of me. I knew the desert shouldn’t be in front of me. Not like this. I should be looking at the ORT, the gauges, the fire control panel. Instead all I saw was rocks, scrub and dirt. The smell of jet fuel, oils, and a dozen other odors I couldn’t place reached my nose. What I didn’t notice was the coppery smell associated with what was to come. I was hot, sweaty, miserable, and couldn’t hear shit. It occurred to me that I wasn’t wearing my helmet now, and I knew I’d not taken it off. I was taken off for me, not by hand, but mechanically. That wasn’t all that was taken off for me as I was soon to learn.

Between the heat, desert, odor and pain, I often joke that I first feared that I’d arrived in Hell on an express train. I continued to survey the landscape spreading out before me like a set from a bad western. How different it looked from the ground, the desert. Usually I witnessed it from above, feeling sympathy for the poor infantrymen on the ground, living the life I’d once lived. Now here I was again, the poor bastard on the ground, and as usual not by choice. I could feel my back, and it hurt. I wondered if it was broken, but my feet still moved so I figured it wasn’t. It was, but I didn’t know that yet. I then noticed the dull ache in my right arm, and knew it was broken. I’d felt this pain before, usually shortly after making an early departure from the motorcycle I was riding. I looked down to see how badly it was broken, and badly it was.

I was greeted not with an arm bent awkwardly at some unusual angle. No it was much more minimalist than that. I was instead greeted with just an empty sleeve, bloodstained, yet oddly not all that tattered. I stared for unending moments at that hollow sleeve while wrestling with the bleak future that was presenting itself to me. The future was making its’ introduction to me, and I didn’t even have the hand to shake and make acquaintances with. My dreams of med school went the way of my fingers at that moment. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, and yet it did. I laid my now useless stump on what was left of the radio panel on my right side, and looked to my left to see if maybe my hand was there, a misplaced glove waiting only to be found and donned. It wasn’t. Given the training I had in an earlier non flying life as an EMT, I realized that if they didn’t find the hand and quick, it wasn’t going back on.

Unfortunately my training as an EMT seemingly ended at the knowledge that if I didn’t find the hand there was no hope for it. I continued to just sit there and bleed while growing angrier. The tourniquet in my survival vest was the farthest thing from my mind. The fact it was designed to be used with just one hand was just slightly farther away.

While I sat there enveloped in my own anger, the Blackhawk that had been the whole cause of this episode was landing. The EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) team we had just been escorting moments ago got out with a whole new mission; recover the downed pilots. My backseat pilot was already out of the broken bird, but dazed. That left only me. The EOD team made it to me and went about getting me out. I mostly just sat there, too dazed and angry to be of help. As they dragged me from the cockpit, the pain in my back alighted with renewed vigor, and I’m pretty sure I yelled at them. The dragged me a few feet away and laid me up with my back against a ditch where I could see the Apache while they went to work on me.

I surveyed the bird from my new vantage point and thought to myself “this isn’t good. It shouldn’t look like this at all.” I remember noticing that all the blades were gone. Not just broken, gone. I could see that where the cockpit once was, there was only emptiness. The aircraft towered over us, a great warbird now grounded and sitting on its’ own tail, too broken to ever fly again. The EOD soldier was kneeling in front of me with his back to me and my right arm tucked under his arm so as I would not be able to see what he was doing. This is textbook procedure to keep a wounded comrade from losing hope at the realization of their injuries. I stared at his back, the aircraft, and his back again. Finally I think I tapped his shoulder and said “hey, I know the arm is gone, just put the tourniquet on.”

With the tourniquet on, the EOD guys asked if I could walk. I told them I could, and with assistance we made our way to the awaiting Blackhawk. They grabbed my backseater, CW4 Belisle and tried to get him on the aircraft too. He told them he couldn’t find his M4 and started again looking for it. They grabbed him again and told him if he didn’t get on the aircraft now they were leaving him here. He then got on the helicopter and away we went, back to the field hospital at Qalat, Afghanistan.

The trip to Qalat was hellishly long; at least it was to me. The reality was it was only a few minutes south of where we made our unscheduled landing, but to me it might as well have been on another continent. I lay up against Johnny, alternately trying not to cry, vomit, or get more pissed. Every bump and shake of the hawk sent pain shooting through my body, reawakening me to the situation I was now in. About every two minutes or so I would look up at Johnny and ask “Johnny, what happened? What the fuck happened?” Every two minutes or so he would have to reply with “I don’t know man, I don’t know.”

Finally we landed at Qalat and the field hospital it contained. I’d landed at this same Forward Operating Base (FOB) many times before, and even stayed here for two weeks just a few days prior. I didn’t expect to be back so soon and never like this. Someone came and opened the doors to the Blackhawk and asked again if I could walk. Again I said I could, and they helped me out. I got out of the aircraft and walked a few steps. I then stopped and looked over to my right and could see another apache. This one was whole and good and currently spun up to a hundred percent and ready to fly. I could see the pilots in the cockpit looking back at me. I knew it was Mr. Philamalee and Mr. Call in the bird, and that they were about to go where I had just been. I looked at them a moment longer and then looked back toward the field hospital and the safety it represented. Finally I looked at the rocks of the landing area and thought it odd that they seemed to be moving towards me. I was a million miles away by the time my body hit those very same rocks. I never even felt the fall.