Military Base Clinic: Where Duty Meets Sacrifice
April 16th
We headed off to conduct another clinic, this time at a military base where soldiers stay with their families. It’s crucial to understand that these “soldiers” are not all career military – they’re teachers, farmers, office workers, and tradespeople who have been thrust into war to defend their homeland. Our small caravan passed through a checkpoint, where after some discussion about our identities, we were allowed entry. The base’s clinic proved too small for our team, so they repurposed an old Soviet-era hall, complete with a stage once used for political speeches. Our makeshift examination booths were basic and cold, but we made them work.
The day brought a steady stream of ordinary civilians in uniform and their families. One woman’s story particularly moved me – she had joined the military after her husband and two sons were sent to the frontline. A former kindergarten teacher, she now wore fatigues instead of an apron. Despite receiving inadequate medical care previously, she expressed immense gratitude for our help. We exchanged patches – her chevron for my Australian patch – and sealed our brief but meaningful connection with a hug and photo.
Another patient turned out to be a highly decorated colonel who had retired a decade earlier but returned to service when the war began. In civilian life, he had been running a small business before choosing to return to protect his homeland. Now running a medic unit, he half-jokingly offered me a job. When I mentioned needing to consult my husband first, he laughed and said, “Bring him too, we’ll give him a rifle and send him to fight!”
Midway through our day, we broke for lunch, walking through a security gate with military escorts to reach the canteen. It was then I realised the two soldiers assigned to us weren’t just guides – they were keeping watch over us.
The emotional weight of our work became increasingly apparent with each patient. One woman kept looking between me and the translator, repeatedly saying how beautiful our smiles were and how our kindness lifted her spirits. We returned the compliment, noting her lovely smile too. She summed up our exchange perfectly: “So we helped each other feel good in these bad times.”
Then came a moment that will forever stay with me. A woman arrived with several physical complaints, but her demeanour – profoundly sad, verging on tears – spoke of deeper pain. Though she initially mentioned only her physical ailments, I felt compelled to ask if she was truly okay. Her response shattered my heart: she had just lost her son. Words failed me. Tears welled in my eyes as I simply reached out to embrace her.
There is so much pain…
The day stretched long. The hall remained cold, there was no coffee or tea available, and the medicine was difficult and draining. Yet I would have stayed longer if possible, just to help these people—teachers, farmers, shopkeepers, and office workers—sacrificing everything to defend their country and families against nearly impossible odds. They fight not out of hatred or nationalism, but from a desperate need to protect their loved ones from the unspeakable horrors that Russian occupation would bring.
One bright spot was connecting with my interpreter, another inspiring Ukrainian medical student. This remarkable young woman was nearly completing two medical degrees simultaneously – one in Ukraine and another in Italy. Like so many others, she volunteered her skills while maintaining her demanding studies. Chris observed that the Ukrainian life expectancy in 2022 was just 68 years – about fifteen years less than Australia’s – a stark reminder of the harsh realities facing this resilient nation.
We returned to the church where the local women had prepared another delicious dinner. As we stood together to express our thanks and say goodbye, they asked through our interpreter if we enjoyed Ukrainian food. When I praised its deliciousness, they responded with a sentiment that captured the soul of their culture: “It’s always delicious and always made with love.”
Villages, Hotels, and Journeys Between
April 17th
Our morning pickup was delayed by two hours, so we didn’t leave until 10 AM. We bid farewell to our gracious host Yuri and climbed into a van for our journey to Korosten. The first stretch was particularly rough – a suspension-less van meeting bumpy village roads creates quite the experience! Despite the jolting ride, the scenery through fields and villages was breathtaking. I noticed a common sight: babusyas (grandmothers) sitting on benches at the front of their yards, watching the world go by.
After a few hours’ drive, we reached our hotel with enough time to rest, recuperate, and wash some clothes. The hot shower felt like luxury after days in rural settings. The army chaplain who drove us shared an unsettling detail – our hotel had once been a military barracks, so early in the war, Russians targeted it with a drone. They were using old Soviet maps that still marked it as an active base.
A Collaborative Clinic
April 18th
An early start today as we travelled nearly two hours to our clinic site near another military base, accessible to both locals and military personnel. We joined forces with a Taiwanese team, creating an impressive medical ensemble: two GPs (ourselves), a psychologist, a cardiologist, an acupuncturist, an emergency physician, a dentist, and an oral surgeon, plus equipment for ECGs, blood tests, and a pharmacy.
The morning began slowly but quickly gained momentum, with each patient seen by several specialists. My translator was another dedicated medical student with dreams of becoming a trauma orthopaedic surgeon working for the military. These Ukrainian medical students who volunteered as our translators were extraordinary – smart, funny, kind, and often volunteering with multiple organisations while pursuing their demanding medical studies.
Again, we encountered so many heartbreaking stories. Nearly every patient suffered from extreme stress, whether from serving on the frontline, having relatives in combat, experiencing displacement, or grieving losses. One man—a former accountant with three children—had survived brutal battles in Mariupol and was now fighting in Pokrovsk, just rotating out temporarily while still suffering from concussion and ear injuries. Others had fought or been injured during the 2014 invasion and returned to fight in this one.
What struck me most was how these weren’t professional soldiers but ordinary citizens of all ages who had taken up arms reluctantly. We frequently met people who had come out of retirement to fight, unwilling to let their sons and daughters face war alone. Grandfathers in their sixties stood alongside university students, united by their determination to protect their families from the horrors of occupation. Every soldier I met was just an ordinary person who, under normal circumstances, would never have chosen to hold a weapon. They fight not because they want to, but because the alternative—allowing the evil that comes with occupation to reach their families—is unthinkable.
One soldier—a former high school physics teacher—complained of chronic headaches and upper back pain. I wanted to demonstrate exercises to help him, but he explained that upon returning to the front, he would need to wear body armour sometimes 24 hours a day without breaks for such activities. “We sleep in our armour in the trenches,” he explained matter-of-factly, the normalisation of this extreme discomfort reflecting the immense suffering these ordinary people endure daily. Another man, a plumber in his previous life, wanted to quit smoking but wasn’t sure he could manage it. “Sometimes in the trenches,” he told me, “you are so freezing and there is no hot water. It feels like the only thing that will warm you up is a smoke.” How could I lecture him about quitting when this small comfort helped him endure as he faced death daily to keep the invaders away from his wife and children?
After another two-hour drive back to our hotel, I relished the simple luxuries – time alone to decompress, washing clothes in the bathtub, enjoying a hot shower, and using a normal toilet instead of the squat toilets common in the villages
Easter Weekend in Korosten
April 19th
Today’s clinic was held in a church in Korosten, where we were again fed breakfast by church volunteers. We saw many locals, including military personnel and their families from surrounding villages and bases. Almost everyone was suffering from stress, grieving, or worried about loved ones on the frontlines.
The soldiers we treated—former shopkeepers, IT specialists, and factory workers—frequently complained of back and shoulder pain from the heavy gear they wore day and night. These weren’t people trained for the physical demands of warfare; they were ordinary citizens experiencing extraordinary physical and emotional trauma because they refused to surrender their homeland to invaders who threatened their families’ very existence.
We finished a bit early as fewer people came due to the Easter weekend. After taking photos and exchanging warm goodbyes, we waited for our ride to Kyiv. The chaplain who had been driving us everywhere engaged me in a conversation via Google Translate. We discovered our shared history – both having grandparents whose families suffered at the hands of Russia. He expressed his belief that “there will never be peace for Ukraine until Russia is finished.” History, sadly, supports his view.
I learned that his work as a military chaplain included aid delivery to stabilisation points 10-20 kilometres from the frontline. When I asked about my grandfather’s village near his operational area, he informed me it was just 10 kilometres from the front – not safe to visit. “The road to this area,” he added soberly, “is littered with burnt-out vehicles.”
We travelled back to Kyiv and waited at the train station. Just as we arrived, an air raid siren sounded. Our plan was to wait in McDonald’s – don’t judge me – for the power outlets and toilets, but armed police turned us away at the door as they close during air alerts. The train station was also off-limits. Interestingly, just twenty minutes earlier, Putin had announced an Easter ceasefire starting at 6 PM, and the air alert ended at 6:03 PM. Nevertheless, we heard that there had been air defence explosions a couple of kilometres away.
Easter Sunday in Lviv
April 20th
Our night train arrived in Lviv around 6:30 AM, and Rudi kindly met us to provide keys to Regina’s apartment. Though I’d planned to attend church with Rudi’s family, his son had been battling a high fever overnight, so those plans changed. Chris ventured out to experience an Orthodox Easter service at a local church while I rested, having barely slept on the overnight train.
By afternoon, Rudi reported his son was feeling much better, so the invitation to Easter dinner prepared by his wife Anita was back on. When Rudi came to collect us, we were pleasantly surprised to see Ihor with him – the same Ihor we’d met in Kyiv. He had been sent to the training base in Lviv and was organising preparations for his unit’s upcoming deployment back to the frontlines.
The Easter feast was magnificent – Anita, from a village in the Transcarpathians, treated us to traditional delicacies made with the finest local ingredients: homemade sausage, smoked pork, wild forest mushrooms in sauce, potato pancakes, elaborate salads, and herring. We savoured these favourites alongside traditional Easter bread called Paska and homemade steamed dumplings filled with a special “jam” made from Transcarpathian plums cooked for two days without sugar.
Everything was served at a beautifully arranged table on a sunny veranda, as the weather had improved to create a perfect spring afternoon. This made for a wonderful conclusion to Chris’s trip, as he was departing the next day. The experience was made even more special by discovering that his son-in-law came from a region near Anita’s home – giving him a personal connection to share when he returned home.
The only shadow over this lovely day was hearing how air raid alarms affect children. One of their kids’ friends was near a missile strike some time ago and now becomes extremely distressed with every air raid siren. Anita’s four-year-old son experiences air alarms at his kindergarten, where the children must shelter in stairwells. Most heartbreaking was hearing that when her son was feverish and half-dreaming during his recent illness, he reached out to her saying, “We have to go to the shelter.”
That should not be what a child dreams about…
This is Part Three of my Medical Mission to Ukraine series. Through these stories of resilience and tragedy, I hope to bring awareness to the ongoing humanitarian needs in this war-torn region. Sign up HERE to receive future alerts on this series and others. Join me in supporting the Ukrainian people as they face unimaginable challenges with dignity and courage.
