But they weren’t being spared; the emails kept coming in. I received blackout emails every week, followed by the report of injury or death. There was no point in asking Josh questions, because giving answers was not allowed.
His family asked me so many questions during his deployment that I just could not answer. Not only was I not hearing from Josh on a regular basis, but his family heard from him even less. They didn’t receive the blackout emails. They hadn’t seen the faces of the deployed soldiers I saw walking to the bus in March. His family sent him messages and care packages and had their own countdown calendar, but I didn’t want to risk Josh’s safety or an emotional breakdown by telling his family the truth. So, I gave short responses and avoided answering the phone, blaming it on the time difference. Isolation was never my plan, but keeping quiet about how things really were for me was the only safety net I had.
I sat in Josh’s hospital room while he went back into surgery. It took less than a week at Walter Reed to realize we were still very much living an Army life. Walter Reed, a premier military hospital and rehabilitation center, followed strict military protocols. Whenever we felt like we had conquered a medical hurdle, such as sitting up in the bed, eating a full meal, or just surviving a surgery, military policy and procedure had the power to demand more from us. I knew they had jobs to do and patients to track, but these great moments of clarity where Josh would brag on his guys were so hard to come by, and they were constantly interrupted by pain, fatigue, fevers, or nurses’ checks. Every time someone came in just trying to check a box, I was being robbed of time that gave me hope. I needed those moments, even if they were suggestive of a few skeletons in the closet. When those clear moments faded, I feel like all I did was watch him try not to suffer. He sat in a hospital bed twenty-four hours a day. He had surgery every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, each for at least nine hours. When he wasn’t in surgery, he was drifting in and out of a drug-induced consciousness, often confused about where he was and in extreme amounts of pain. While he slept, he was restless and stressed. Our room was also a revolving door to anyone who wanted to come in. Josh was a critical care patient, which meant we did not have the authority to keep our door shut. We easily saw a dozen different people in a day, ranging from nurses and doctors to Army officers, physical therapists, and psychologists. Josh did whatever he could to get those people out of his room as fast as possible. Observing Josh under constant stress, I felt like it was not my place to tell him how to handle his situation, even though I felt like some visitors were worth more of our time.
I continued to read from Josh’s journal while waiting for him to return from surgery. Reading his own words made me feel like I knew my husband less and less. I didn’t see Army Specialist Josh Wetzel. I saw a light-hearted adrenaline junkie who just rolled with the punches of life. He influenced me to be more positive and relaxed, even though he was the one preparing for war. Accepting that this journal full of trauma was written by this helpless person who couldn’t even brush his own teeth filled me with both sadness and gratitude. I dealt with some disbelief that someone I was so close to had seen these things with his own eyes, things that were much worse than any hallucination or narcotic could put in his head. My heart ached for his future with this cross to bear, knowing I would never know everything that happened over there. On the other hand, I had the same feeling I had when I learned that his explosion did not break his neck and knock him out—pure gratitude that even through all this trauma and all the medication, my Josh was still in there. A guy who was reaching for why God had let him live and still loved me deeply.
JOSH
I don’t remember specifics about my first weeks at Walter Reed, because every day felt the same. It took me almost a full twelve hours to recover from being under anesthesia, and being put under three days a week left me really foggy. However, I always had family with me. My mom and Paige were constants, but I also had amazing help from my aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends who would drive all the way to Washington, DC, to help. Paige was exhausted, and rightfully so—she crossed three time zones to meet me at Walter Reed and had not been able to rest since arriving. There was so much chaos going on during this time. The main focus was still trying to keep me alive. For the first three weeks I only slept about an hour at a time but was always woken up by pain, fever, vomiting, and so on. If Paige or Mom did not respond fast enough, it was possible that I would code. I kept them very busy. Then when things did calm down, it was because I was high as a kite. I would fall asleep in the middle of speaking a sentence and just talk nonsense because of the drugs—accusing them of things like flickering the lights or turning the TV down or taking my stuff.
Emotionally, I wasn’t capable of much, but I can remember that when my brain would clear up from the drugs, I always had one motive: gaining
