I felt like I had run a marathon when I got back to my chair, but I could not wait to stand up and do it again. There was so much I wanted to figure out. I already felt like there were things I might be able to do about the angles of the feet that could help me walk better. I was ready to make these things part of me. I didn’t shy from the pain; I was already too busy envisioning myself as a walker. I was ready for this to be second nature. I was ready for people to stop saying, “Josh is in a wheelchair,” and start saying, “Josh walks on prosthetic legs.” I was ready to see the world every day from five feet ten inches high, and I would go through any amount of discomfort to make it happen.
I was one of the fortunate few who were able to walk after getting blown up, and there was no way I was going back to a wheelchair just because it was hard. Some of the guys in that hospital would never walk again, no matter how hard they tried. Some had lost too much leg to ever fit a prosthesis, and some experienced paralysis, most of whom would do almost anything for the painful opportunity of using all their might to move thirty-five pounds of metal a couple of inches. My entire recovery thus far had been about pursuing things I thought I could do. I could not let that come to a halt because this was harder, slower, and more painful than anything I had tried. Not doing what I can is an insult to those who truly can’t. I wiped the sweat from my face and did two more trips down the walkway, pumped up with one goal in mind: By the time my guys come back from Afghanistan, they will see me standing taller than before—literally.
PAIGE
How many ups and downs had we had? Two months previously, I couldn’t even see Josh being able to bathe himself again. Then, he started making so much progress that I was certain we were going to steamroll every obstacle he faced. We had experienced physical progress, loss and grief, life-threatening sickness, and marital problems that were all still very present the day we rolled into the prosthetics lab for the first time. But seeing my husband liberated from that chair was life changing. Seeing him stand up was seeing him rise both physically and spiritually, and it absolutely took my breath away. It was a graduation of sorts. An uncaging. I was often inspired by Josh in hindsight after I had a moment to recall all the things he had done in a day. But this was a genuine You’re my hero moment. I wanted to cry, clap, fall on my knees, and laugh with joy all at once.
He fought for every inch, even when he looked like he might pass out. Walking in prostheses wasn’t like other things I had seen Josh pursue. Moving at a snail’s pace while using every muscle in his body to stand up was hardly satisfying for the adrenaline junkie who lived for the fast and dangerous. Yet he was laser-focused on each and every tiny step with an incredible determination. I kept waiting on him to collapse or ask for his wheelchair, but he never did. He patiently and carefully put one foot in front of the other without complaint. Before his last trip down the walkway, we stood for a picture that confirmed the best surprise ever: We were finally the same height! Our entire relationship, I had been the taller one. When Josh left for Afghanistan he was around five foot seven. The robotic knee he needed could only be made so short, so he couldn’t keep his original height. For the first time, we stood at eye level at five foot ten. I was overwhelmed with that day.
There is a story in Luke 10:38–42 about Jesus visiting Martha and Mary. Martha stays in the kitchen preparing a big meal, and Mary sits at the feet of Jesus, hanging on to His every word. Martha even asks Jesus to tell Mary to get up and help, but Jesus tells Martha she is worried about too many things while Mary is focused on the most important thing—the thing that won’t be taken away from her. Up until this point, I had been a Martha. It was my job to get things ready, make sure we were on time, take care of setbacks, and keep the ball rolling at the expense of being part of a miracle. August 24, 2012, woke me up to the importance of being a Mary, a person who will stop and listen and watch the valuable thing that’s happening right in front of her eyes.
I was so proud of Josh and for Josh, but the truth is, I almost missed it by thinking I was there to take notes, ask questions, and hold a wound vac like it was just another day. How disappointing would it have been if Josh had just stood on his own for the first time since his injury and I followed it up with logistical banter? “Yeah, honey, that’s great, but we need to hurry because you’ve got an appointment in thirty minutes.” I was caught off guard by my emotions because so much more had happened than what the eye could see. Not only did Josh rise up out of limitation, but there was a literal transfer of power that I did not expect. Making these prostheses walk was the first thing that I couldn’t do for him. He had learned how to bathe himself, propel his own wheelchair,
