steve02001 when did the Iraquis start a civil war and why were we not informed of this war.
Technically, I Was Dead
A reporter, wounded in Iraq, fights to keep people from looking away.
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It's hard to shake the whole "I almost died" thing. Put another way, many very well-meaning people will not let me leave it behind—in grocery stores, in gas stations or even at work. "Oh, you're … that reporter—from that car bomb. How are you? Are you in pain?" They can't comprehend how the shattered woman they saw on their TV screens almost two years ago, unconscious on a stretcher, got better. Maybe they can't quite believe it.
So to catch up those who may have forgotten: I'm a correspondent for CBS News. My team and I were hit by a car bomb in Baghdad on Memorial Day 2006. My colleagues, cameraman Paul Douglas and sound man James Brolan, were killed, as was the U.S. Army captain we were following, James Alex Funkhouser, and his Iraqi translator, known only as Sam.
At the bomb scene, I lost more than half my blood. The bomb "blew right through" me, as one of the surgeons later put it, peppering me with shrapnel, including a small shard to my brain, smashing both femurs and scorching off muscle and skin from hips to ankles on much of one leg and part of the second.
Once the rescue team got me to the Baghdad casualty hospital, I technically died about five times, or rather, I "coded." I just met one of the doctors who did the chest compressions on me. He complained that I "tried to die for two hours." (You won, doc.) Then came the pain of two-dozen-plus surgeries, the whole learning-to-walk thing, more surgery and the slow return to jogging, then running. Throughout the first six months, there was the ever-present wallop of grief and guilt that comes from surviving when those around you have died.
So I was driven to write it down—or rather, suckered into it. The counselor and the Franciscan monk at Bethesda naval hospital who tricked me into it knew they were sending me on the most painful reporting assignment of my life. At first I cried every couple of pages, every few hundred words. I wanted to chuck my computer out the window.
That was a year and a half ago. I ended up rewriting the first nine chapters about five times. Then I was told by multiple publishers, "Too raw. Too much medical detail. Too emotional." And also, "Sorry, but books on Iraq don't sell. The public doesn't want to hear about that anymore."
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