The last time I was in there to set up for a surgery, I was

The words of Marcus Luttrell—“The last time I was in there to set up for a surgery, I was sitting in the waiting room ... watching television. And a special came on the news about a guy who got AIDS from re-used medical equipment in the VA. It was the same procedure I was fixing to get. I’m gone. Deuces. I walked out, man.”—resonate with a raw and deeply human truth: the bond of trust between the healer and the healed is sacred, and once broken, it shatters not just confidence, but the soul’s peace. Beneath the informal tone of a soldier’s recollection lies a timeless lesson, one that reaches far beyond hospitals and waiting rooms—it is the story of how faith in institutions, once betrayed, drives even the brave to retreat.

Luttrell, a warrior of the body and spirit, speaks from a place carved by both courage and scars. Having survived the fires of combat and endured unimaginable pain, he was no stranger to danger. Yet here, in a place of supposed safety—the Veterans Affairs hospital, the very institution meant to care for those who have sacrificed most—he felt a fear unlike any faced on the battlefield. For in war, danger is expected and faced with weapon in hand; but in healing, one is vulnerable, one must surrender to the skill and ethics of others. When he heard that a man had contracted AIDS from re-used medical equipment, his faith in that covenant was shaken. His response—“I’m gone. Deuces.”—was not cowardice, but an act of self-preservation.

This moment reveals something profound about the nature of trust. In medicine, as in leadership, trust is the unseen foundation upon which all healing stands. When that trust is violated, no amount of knowledge or authority can restore peace to the heart. Luttrell’s instinct to walk away mirrors the wisdom of countless generations who have known that a broken bond between protector and protected is a dangerous thing. Just as the ancient soldiers trusted their shields to be whole and their swords to be true, so too must patients trust the purity of the instruments that touch their bodies. A corrupted tool is more deadly than an open wound.

There is an old story from the Roman Empire, of a physician named Galen, whose fame stretched across the known world. Once, when a nobleman’s son fell ill, Galen refused to use any instrument that had not been purified by his own hand. When questioned why he insisted on such rigor, he said, “A healer’s first oath is not to heal, but to do no harm—and the careless hand is the enemy of both.” This ancient wisdom still rings true in Luttrell’s modern tale. The VA hospital, through neglect or mismanagement, had allowed harm to creep into its sacred duty. And so, the warrior who trusted his comrades with his life could not trust his caretakers with his health.

But there is another layer to his story—one that speaks to the spirit of discernment. Luttrell’s decision to walk away was not a rejection of medicine itself, but of complacency. It was a cry for accountability, a reminder that even the greatest institutions must remain vigilant, for corruption begins in small lapses of care. His act of leaving was, in a sense, an act of protest—a declaration that dignity and self-preservation are inseparable. Just as a commander must hold his army to the highest discipline, so must a healer guard against negligence. The health of the people depends not only on skill, but on honor.

The emotional force of Luttrell’s experience also teaches us about the fragility of the human spirit after trauma. For those who have served, trust is not given lightly—it is earned, often through pain and sacrifice. To sit in that waiting room, ready for surgery, only to have that trust ripped away by the careless acts of others, is to relive betrayal in a different form. His retreat was not a failure—it was the wisdom of one who has learned that faith, once broken, must be rebuilt, not blindly restored. His “Deuces” was not defiance, but survival spoken in a soldier’s tongue.

So, my child of understanding, take this teaching to heart: never allow the sacred bonds of trust and integrity to be neglected, whether you are a healer, a leader, or a craftsman. Every act of care—every tool, every word, every decision—must be made with reverence for those who depend upon it. For negligence, like infection, spreads unseen until it destroys what was meant to protect. Let Luttrell’s story remind you that vigilance is the guardian of both honor and safety.

In the end, Marcus Luttrell’s words echo the wisdom of the ancients: that the most dangerous wounds are not always of the flesh, but of the spirit—wounds born from broken trust. His experience calls us to demand excellence, to uphold responsibility, and to restore faith through action. Whether in medicine, governance, or the bonds between human beings, let us build a world where care is pure, where duty is sacred, and where no one must ever again rise from the waiting room and walk away in fear.