“Yeah, but you have a driver’s license! I don’t have any form of identification! They are not going to let me back in!”
I facepalmed. “Josh, how about the fact that you are hooked up to wound vacs that say Walter Reed Medical Center? Or the fact that you have no legs? Or the hospital bracelets you’re wearing?”
“None of those are official forms of ID!”
We argued over this for the three-mile ride back to the hospital. We turned in to the gate, where we would face the moment of truth: Would they let us all in, or would just Cathi and I get to go in and Josh would have to sit on the curb? The Navy officer stepped out of his guard shack and asked to see our IDs. He looked at Cathi’s ID, then looked at her and handed it back. He then looked at my ID, looked at me, and handed it back. He asked us to roll down the window so he could see in the back seat, where Josh was now visibly sweating.
“He doesn’t have an ID on him,” I said calmly.
Josh was unable to contain his panic and with a lightning-fast movement kicked his left nub in the air, almost connecting with the officer’s face, and said, “I don’t have any legs!”
The officer jerked backward to avoid being hit and said, “Uh, I can see that. Drive on and have a nice day.”
Cathi sped off and we laughed all the way to our building, while Josh was still in the back seat trying to convince us that we barely got away with that one. Although it was hilarious, I was still short on ideas for how to deal with normal, everyday tasks. Josh was mowing down all the obstacles in physical therapy, but small things like going to get something to eat or entering a room with more than ten people were still really stressful for him. I just wanted some normalcy. I wanted to be able to go off post whenever we wanted or take Josh over to my room at the Fisher House, where we could both lie down on a bed at the same time. We were getting into a fairly predictable rhythm, and if our activities didn’t expand as the surgeries tapered off, I was going to get cabin fever quick.
JOSH
Lying in bed all day every day, it was hard to think about doing anything more than getting through the day’s schedule. I wasn’t trying to do anything more than eat, sleep, and recover from physical therapy or surgery. It took all my willpower to achieve little milestones, but with every move I made, Paige acted like I had just won a gold medal. I knew she was trying to stay positive and keep the darkness out, but it kept creeping in from every corner. Keeping my mind busy with relearning basic functions and adjusting my mindset to things I used to be able to do blindfolded proved to be very therapeutic for me. The day I came out of surgery and my right elbow finally was free to bend and not splinted to my shoulder was a game changer for me and my outlook around recovery. For the first time since Afghanistan, I used a toothbrush, razor, Q-tips, fork, pencil, and the TV remote. The little victories progressed to two free elbows, sitting up by myself, rolling over, eating regular food, and coming back from surgery “unplugged” from another machine.
By the end of our first month at Walter Reed, the entire Wounded Warrior floor was full of amputees, each with our own wounds. Meeting other amputees helped me learn more about myself. Sure, we asked each other questions about how to deal with pain, wheelchairs, sleep, and other things, but what it really gave me was a gauge on my potential as an amputee. Attacking challenges is more my style, but without legs, I had to relearn even the most basic things. Everything I relearned always came with a consequence of pain or extreme fatigue that would ruin the plans for the rest of the day. It was easy to get nervous about PT or a day trip because of the consequences, but the amputees around me would encourage me to push. Sometimes a few of us would be doing the same exercises in PT, and when we all had to do something new, we would all just kind of nod at each other like Here we go. After a while, we all just embraced the cycle of life, trying to get stronger.
Following the “Incoming” night terror, as we’d not-so-fondly named the event, I started seeing a therapist, primarily because Paige demanded it. I was finding it easier bit by bit to talk to him than to her. My therapist was a combat veteran and was able to keep up with my stories, thoughts, and ramblings without stopping me for definitions, context, or asking who was who. I still battled myself, wondering why it was so hard just to talk to someone. As a man and someone in the military, I felt like talking about it was a weakness. Mental or emotional struggle often translates to a failure in training or preparation. In Afghanistan, the ability to move on from hostile situations was life or death. We default to our training, clean up the mess, and keep moving. The rest of the mission is distraction enough, but when the day ends, that stuff comes back and it hits you like a ton of bricks. I was dealing with things that I didn’t think anyone would ever understand. In my mind, I just needed to deal with it and move on. But I couldn’t make myself move on, because it wouldn’t leave me alone. I was haunted day and night. Sounds, strangers, and sickness mixed with narcotics gave me little control over the thoughts in my head. I’ve also never been the type to talk about
