For three days, Josh was visibly depressed. I would love to say that we covered this dark place in prayer, but we didn’t. We were afraid to say out loud “We can’t have kids.” Somewhere between idealizing the 1 percent success stories of other couples, the realities of adoption with a handicapped parent, and considering that maybe the doctors just didn’t know what they were talking about, it was just too much to think about. I wanted to be a mother, but I could not even fathom adding a child to our already chaotic lives. I felt that if God blessed us, it would be much further down the road. Josh, on the other hand, was kind of upset that we didn’t start a family the minute we got married. The timing of starting a family came up constantly, even before Josh’s injury, and we would quickly change the subject. Now, it was another topic that would enter the no-fly zone.
JOSH
“It’s just the worst thing a man can hear,” I tried to explain to Paige after we got back to our room. While she somewhat understood how this was a tough pill for me to swallow, she remained thankful that there were at least other methods. I know I should have been, too, but I just couldn’t get over the words You probably won’t be able to have kids. You, Josh Wetzel, you cannot have children.
The chances of being infertile stayed in the back of my mind each time something had to be “fixed” in surgery. That area had suffered a lot of loss the day I got hurt, which riddled me with anxiety every time I went to surgery. Whether they were cleaning up scar tissue or just trying to close my wounds, I was so afraid one wrong move would mean I was messed up forever. I felt like I was freed from those fears after our first night in Building 62, but I never really considered that problems on the molecular level could keep me from being a dad. Part of me felt like I was being selfish. There were guys in that hospital who had lost everything below the belly button, and they would give anything for a doctor to tell them there was a chance to reproduce, even if it wasn’t naturally. I guess it was just finally coming face-to-face with the thing my willpower could not change. Up until this prognosis, I never really felt like the enemy had robbed me of anything. Taking my legs didn’t mean I couldn’t walk, almost blowing off my hand didn’t mean I would lose it, and every day I was working to prove that taking me out of the fight didn’t mean my spirit was crushed. This was completely out of my control. I was apprehensive about the alternative methods. I didn’t want to be on testosterone injections for the rest of my life, whether it be for conception purposes or just for my overall health as a man. I also feared the stress of other things like in vitro. What if that meant Paige had to be on a bunch of medications, too? What if it never worked? It was taking the one thing in our relationship that my injuries hadn’t completely stolen from me and making it about having kids. When the doctors asked me if my looks of frustration came from wanting to have kids right now, my answer was always that I didn’t know. And I really didn’t. I had watched the other families that had children here, and I just did not know how they survived. Nothing here was for kids or really even wives. It was all about the amputees. There was nothing for them to do. This environment would convince most childless husbands to wait for a more normal environment before having children, but details and timelines don’t really matter when the option is taken off the table, maybe even permanently.
As Paige and I dealt with the news of our potential as future parents, we received a short reprieve when I received official news that my guys were returning home from deployment. The Monday before Thanksgiving 2012, we flew to Fort Lewis to see those men return to American soil. Getting permission to leave Walter Reed for any length of time took a marathon of paperwork, but there was nothing more important than being there to see those men in person. I had tracked my guys the entire deployment. Some had come home early because of injuries. Overall, they were worn out and beat up. Every single Earthpig received a combat infantry badge, an “award” for performing during direct attacks, and many in the company received a Purple Heart. They had received some kind of contact every single time they went outside the wired compound.
I can’t explain how ready I was for my guys to come home. Hearing all the stories and seeing all the guys that had been sent home, I was
