Just over a month ago, I reached the end of tironut, or basic training. It had been a few weeks of not-so-intensive learning, nearly edible food, and teenagers dressed in khakis carrying M16 assault rifles around. We had lectures such as ‘why are drugs bad for you’, and ‘sexual assault: naughty naughty’, and we came to terms with the arduous task of cleaning up the squalor of the animals who share our base. We ended with a passing-out ceremony which, due to the size of our platoon (6 people), felt more like an intimate meeting with the boss than a pledge of allegiance to the state.
The next week, we moved on to the juicy stuff – starting with ATLS (Advanced Trauma Life Support) course – a world-wide programme run to a set syllabus, taught in the lovely fluffy western ‘criticism sandwich’ style, with phrases like ‘you did that procedure very well, but next time try to put the needle in his chest, not his eyeball...but otherwise it was very good’, or ‘I liked the way you intubated the patient, but traditionally we tend to only do that when the head is still attached to the body. Although your approach is still very valid’.
Gradually, we moved on to the Israeli adaptations – specifically, MTLS (Military Trauma Life Support) – essentially the same idea, but geared more to the realities of military medicine. Suddenly, the scenarios we faced changed from a driver who fell asleep at the wheel to a platoon of soldiers who had been ambushed and were spread over a wide area, with a combination of gunshot wounds, blast injuries and external bleeding... while taking into account the possibility that a Palestinian terrorist is still looking at you down the barrel of a gun. The pressure thus increased tenfold, and the learning curve began to steepen.
After one week of super-intensive trauma learning, we began “carap sadir”, the acronym meaning “Regular Medical Officers’ course”, the course that will occupy my time between now and the summer, with an array of different things to cover. Of course, there’s been (and will be) plenty more trauma learning, but at the same time, there’s a lot more medicine to learn too – how to write sick notes, how to prescribe paracetamol to a soldier pretending to have a headache, and how to tell the difference between a haemorrhage and ketchup. But besides from the medicine, seriously, there is an insurmountable amount of additional knowledge to take in. Ultimately, the role of a combat doctor is extremely broad. Aside from treating the injured people (on both sides, incidentally), we also play a large part in deciding evacuation routes, locations of field hospitals, helipads and safepoints, as well as all the training of medics and first aiders, public health and vaccinations... we’re even responsible for testing the water each day (after a tactic in recent years of poisoning soldiers with arsenic). So, in addition to learning how to deploy a medical unit, how to stock and maintain an armoured personnel carrier, and how to triage a mass casualty event, we are undergoing training in navigation, topography, communication and all sorts of other things which I unfortunately can’t elaborate on. Which is a real pity, because it’d make the blog extremely interesting.
The biggest issue is without question the language. Having coped pretty well for over half a year working in Hebrew, I didn’t expect the army to be that much tougher than I was used to already. But, as it happens, the army doesn’t speak Hebrew... it speaks Army Hebrew, which is worthy of a whole dictionary to itself. The number of abbreviations in daily use is just incredible. Unfortunately, I can’t give specific examples on t’interweb, but I’ll attempt to create the atmosphere through English. I’m not a doctor. I’m a Umo (Unit medical officer), and I don’t work in a clinic, I work in an Ugs (Unit gathering station). One of my jobs as a Umo is to maintain the Fog (forward observation group) which, if in one place for some time, is known as a Fos (Fog static). My CM (chief medic) is responsible for maintaining the mass (medical supplies). My boss, the Imo (Important medical officer) answers to the Chmo (Chief medical officer), who is the boss of Mad (medical division). So, if there are any problems with the fos – let’s say that the fog needs some more mass but the CM is a lazy AH, and so it isn’t fit to be classed as a fos at all, then the umo should probably speak to the chmo, via the imo, assuming that when the umo sat with the cm, no good outcome was achieved.
NOW, imagine all that, in a foreign language, for 18 hours a day. It’s not easy. Especially when you then need to learn radio codewords for the different roles.
So, if there are any problems with the apple – let’s say that the window needs some more banana but the tissue is a lazy AH, and so it isn’t fit to be classed as a window at all, then the bottle should probably speak to the flute, via the cello, assuming that when the bottle sat with the tissue, no good outcome was achieved.
The group itself is a mixture of native Israelis and immigrants – the Israelis are all scholars – in other words, fresh out of their internship year, wet behind the ears, and setting out at the beginning of a 5 year military service (in exchange for the army funding their degrees). Most importantly, we get to come home almost every weekend, and even one evening during the week, provided we’re happy to get up at 0430 to get back to base in time. This is a significant improvement on the original terms of service, whereby I can expect to come home for two weekends a month (although this could still be the case after the course), but on the other hand, this is the first time this course has been run residentially, rather than a cushy home-each-night format. Slightly irritating when I could have been on the last course if the army had been a little bit more efficient, but at the same time, I’m glad to be with a fab group of people, and the extra half year has certainly helped my language skills.
So, what about outside of the army? Deborah continues to work from home, while tentatively starting the search for pharmacy work to get a foot in the door. Much as we hate the separation while I’m in the army, it makes the days we have together much more special (provided I’m not studying for exams, or writing a blog). But, we have some very exciting news... no, she’s not pregnant.
Last week, we signed the contract to buy our apartment! Before anything else, it’s important to stress that things work backwards here. First you sign the contract and pay a deposit. Then you get the mortgage bank to pay off the previous owner’s mortgage, and only then do we obtain possession of the apartment. So, the show isn’t over yet. But here’s the story so far...
Back in December, we were leaving our apartment to head back to the UK, when our neighbour stopped us on the stairs.
“Is your landlord selling your apartment?” asked the sweet Russian lady. “Er... not that we know of. Why?” replied the suitcase-laden British couple. “Because I just found an advert for it online”.
We called him straight away, and were reassured when he told us it was clearly a mix up, and he had no intention of selling. But, to be sure, when we got to the airport and logged on to the net, we found our apartment, with full description, and our landlord’s contact details.
To cut a long story short, he maintained the lie throughout, constantly reassuring us, and explaining that he was trying to sell his car, and the website made him put up an additional advert, so he used our apartment just for the sake of it. Sounds perfectly reasonable to me... So we asked an Israeli friend to call and enquire as an interested buyer, and the apartment was very much for sale, and apparently available immediately from the end of our lease.
Ultimately we decided to jump in at the deep end – and somehow we obtained mortgage approval, and when we told him we had a budget, suddenly his attitude changed.
“Well, I don’t want to sell it, but I’d like to help you and Deborah get settled here, so I suppose I’d sell it to you, as a favour... but don’t tell anyone else because it isn’t really on the market”.
5 months of playing his little game later, and we have signed the contracts for our first ever non-rented home. And the best bit: if all goes to plan, we won’t have to move, and we already know we love the place.
So, as we start to come to terms with our new obligation (a hefty mortgage payment each month), it just remains for me to wish you Yom Haatzmaut sameach (Happy Independence Day) – Israel is 63 years old this evening, and it is to that I owe the pleasure of a day off from the army. Israel precedes its independence day with the annual memorial day for its fallen soldiers – the dark before the dawn, as it were. As I stood among a thousand soldiers this afternoon for a minute’s silence in honour of the 25,310 Israelis who have fallen in battle and terrorism in the past 63 years, and then moved on to sing Hatikva (The national anthem), it once again sunk in that Deborah and I are living in a dream. Moreso in my current role than ever, we can make a difference. We can save human life, show compassion, and fight for something we believe in. The dream may be a tough one, more like a nightmare at times, but thank G-d things are moving forward, both in our own personal life, and as a nation, and we can’t take that for granted.
I leave you with this link; an interesting short blurb in honour of this little country’s birthday.
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