As we tried to chip away at the hurdles to retirement, we often fell victim to the high employee turnover at Walter Reed. Many cadre at Walter Reed were on the path to retiring themselves, which often left us needing a signature from a position that had not been filled yet. The guy who signed off on one thing a week ago was no longer there, so we had to go find a new guy, but no one knew when the new guy would actually start. When we asked if someone else could sign off, they said no. When we asked if we could get other signatures while we waited for a new cadre, they weren’t sure. So, we banded together and became as annoying as possible. We sat in front of office doors at 7:30 a.m., waiting for a nurse case manager or higher brass to come into the office so our paperwork could be the first thing on their desk. We alerted each other when commanders came back from leave, and within an hour a line would form outside the officer’s door. Even when they would encourage us to come back later, we all responded with a “Geez, you know, we would love to, except we’ve been waiting on this to get signed for almost two weeks now, and we all have physical therapy later. You wouldn’t want us all to miss that, would you?” The squeaky wheel gets the grease. We stayed on top of our leadership until Christmastime, then I began my final phase of retirement, discussing VA benefits and finances.
After Christmas, the Wetzel finally received a leave date: January 27, 2014. Just four months shy of two years since my injury.
PAIGE
I realized the finality of my situation. I had just spent my first months as a parent and almost two years of my marriage living in a hospital. I had been the caregiver of two helpless human beings who gained age-appropriate independence through their own hard work and determination. It was sobering just to say out loud, “We’re leaving.”
Every resident at Walter Reed, no matter why they were there, had a persistent feeling of being out of place. Their mere existence there meant something at some point in their military careers had gone terribly wrong. The base and the hospital were the roof over our heads and the food in our mouths, yet it was never designed to be more than an amputee hospital and rehab center. Whether we brought no kids or eight kids, we still got assigned the same little barracks room with a half kitchen, love seat, and office building carpeting. By no other choice, we had to delegate out every responsibility we had before the injury. The friends we asked to watch over our houses were now helping us sell them. The friends who checked on our pets had to adopt our pets or find other homes for them. The veterans cried, had nightmares, starved, detoxed, became wheelchair bound, got sick, and went to surgery, while caregivers neglected themselves, handled personal affairs, paid the bills, managed the schedule, fought for the best care, and cried themselves to sleep for months and months and months. Both sides felt out of place and prayed to be out of this place, hoping with all our hearts that this would be a short phase in life—a short but important chapter in the “history of us that won’t last forever.”
But then I did an inventory of the takeaways. Even though nothing about that experience was about me or for me, it shaped me into a wife who cherished the bad times because they built me up. I learned how to love when there was no time or energy to be loved in return. When I saw Josh accomplishing his goals, I took them as my own victories because I stayed busy behind the scenes, trying to set Josh up for success. I also had my first child! There is no personal victory for a woman like delivering a baby. I endured a lot of pain right in front of my husband, and I know he left with an all-new respect for what moms go through. And, my friends, wow. You see, being at Walter Reed is like being on an island especially made for amputees. Everyone helps everyone. If an amputee needs a push up the hill, a mom, kid, military officer, or hospital staff gives them a push. In fact, people will call you out for walking by someone struggling like that. We watched one another’s children, we brought each other food, we helped each other fill out paperwork, we took responsibility for one another. No matter where our lives take us, Walter Reed Medical Center was the only place any of us will ever be where everyone there was just like us. When I lived there, I longed for the civilian world—a place where I could actually do things like sign my kids up for sports or have a permanent residence. I never thought about the fact that wherever we ended up, Josh was probably going to be the only amputee anyone knew. The time in my life when I felt most out of place might actually have been the time we spent in the place that understood us the most.
The night of January 26, we loaded a U-Haul trailer, went out to eat with our friends, and hardly slept in anticipation of our freedom date the following morning. The next morning, Harper and I hopped into my car, while Josh climbed into his truck with the U-Haul trailer attached, all of us smiling, giggling, and high-fiving. We left Walter Reed Medical Center at 4:00 a.m. and headed south, never to return.
We left a snow-fallen Washington, DC, and stopped at a halfway point to spend the night near Charlotte, North Carolina, where Jenn, Drew, and baby Easton Mullee had moved
