I felt like my next move should be to call Barrera’s wife, Lucia. I got as far away from the courts as I could, fully expecting crying and hysteria. However, when I got her on the phone, she was surprisingly calm. What may have sounded like my calm voice on the phone when I was telling my family about Josh’s injury was actually just me in complete shock. However, Lucia seemed to be completely aware of what was going on with her husband but was still diligently making travel plans and packing her things. I finally asked, “Lucy, are you okay? You seem like you are taking this really well.” Confident in her husband’s stubborn resiliency, Lucy said something that meant so much to me. She said she and her family had followed Josh’s recovery and had been watching him get better, and even though she was anxious, she felt like she knew what to do.
My heart skipped a beat. That’s all I’ve ever wanted out of this, I thought. Time and time again I questioned whether we were doing the right thing by allowing the online world to follow along. I wondered if I was exploiting Josh in some way. If he were cognizant enough, would he totally object to what we were doing? We lived in an ever-swaying reality: One minute we were cheering for a milestone in Josh’s recovery; the next we were holding our breath to find out who the last blackout email was about. For once, I felt like what I was doing was still helping the cause of the deployment. I knew his platoon was rattled from losing their hype man. I thought about them in the context of Josh’s life as he portrayed in his journal—balancing between being ready to fight and being ready to die. My wish for showcasing Josh’s progress was that it would take the edge off the day, maybe even lift their spirits for the next mission. Lucia and I talked about questions she needed to ask to get real information on Edgar’s situation as well as what to expect with traveling. While I hated that another soldier in Josh’s platoon had become an amputee, there was no one on earth who could rehab Superman like Superwoman, Lucia Barrera. I went to bed that night after our games thinking, Lucy has got this. Sergeant Barrera and Josh will help each other, and this will be another victory story. I thanked God that night for the kind of person Lucia is and felt good about the outcome of their situation as I fell asleep in the hotel in Ohio.
My team played the next morning, and I was constantly checking on Josh and the Barreras. I don’t remember how the tournament finished or even how we played, which had been the entire point of me going out there to see them, but I do remember being very emotional, knowing that I had probably just coached my last game of volleyball and would likely never coach with Flo again. In the grand scheme of things, stepping away from coaching is not the biggest sacrifice anyone has ever made, but it really put my life in perspective. It was crushing to fathom how I had gone from Alabama college player to Washington state transplant and aspiring college coach to a full-time caregiver for my husband in less than six months, a title that had no end in sight. Saying goodbye to my old life, I headed back to Walter Reed with my sister and parents, doing my best to remain grateful for my last day on the court. A week ago I was praying for the president of the United States, and today I was praying for another soldier’s life, another’s recovery, another’s amputee journey. Now was the time to focus on Josh’s mental health as Edgar
Barrera was flown in so we could be there for Edgar and Lucy.
JOSH
Why is no one replying back to me? I furiously typed yet another message to my group still in Afghanistan. It is already afternoon there, so why aren’t they back from patrol and seeing my messages? Paige had returned late the night before and was almost asleep on her cot. While checking her phone, she said, “It looks like the communication blackout has been lifted. What have you heard from the guys? When will he get to the States?” I didn’t know, and I was really upset about it. Eventually, I fell asleep with my iPad in hand.
The next morning, I still had nothing. I had woken up around 4:00 a.m. and could not go back to sleep, so the search continued. Why is it so hard to get in touch with anyone? I thought angrily, knowing Paige was receiving news, even though not specific news about Barrera, and I wasn’t. I began to worry that something had gone horribly wrong with Barrera. There had to be an answer somewhere. I checked my email, Skype, and social media, looking for anything that would explain why everyone was still so quiet. Then, I found it. The most horrifying words I had ever seen in print:
“RIP Juan Navarro.”
On July 7, 2012, a twenty-three-year-old soldier died more than three thousand miles from his home. This had been the kind of news Paige had actively been praying against since we arrived at Walter Reed. As she settled into her bed-chair, she would start praying for all my men still overseas—those we knew and those we didn’t. And now, not only was Edgar Barrera coming home without legs and a hand, but Juan Navarro wasn’t coming home at all. His body was, but nothing more. This was never supposed to happen. This was hell.
More messages finally trickled in, and the pieces of the puzzle of that awful day were finally starting to come together. There were two separate explosions within just
