Beautifully Broken

by Paige Wetzel

  PAIGE

  What even were these words? I only understood about half of what Josh had written. I kept my phone out while reading and was googling almost every other word it seemed. I had learned what an IED was prior to deployment, but what I was reading was straight out of a movie. Except it was real men, real IEDs, real gunfire, real war. Even though Josh didn’t use a lot of time to set the scene, I saw vivid images that scared me: the gunfire, the burning truck, the child. It was horrific. I realized these were the things he needed me to read and not hear. He was talking about the wins. The journal told of the devastating, nightmarish losses.

  I was creating my own dictionary of military terms while I read and reread entry after entry. Ground lock meant controlling the Stryker area for seventy-two-hour shifts. SAW, 240, AT4, LAW, 320, and M-4 referred to the types of weapons they carried. The SAW and 240 were belt-fed machine guns, the AT4 and the LAW launched rockets, and the 320 was a grenade launcher. The M-4 was the standard rifle that everyone but the belt-fed machine gunners had at all times. ANA and ANP were the Afghan Army and Afghan Police groups that were set up with support from the United States to start to control their own country and fight the Taliban. HME stood for homemade explosive. The HME factories were being set up in people’s homes or abandoned buildings. HMEs are hard to detect because they look like regular stuff that could even be mistaken for trash, like scrap metal, glass, and wood. But when the scene also included explosive materials like fertilizer, large numbers of batteries, or the notorious two-gallon jugs the Taliban liked to use to hold all the scrap material for buried IEDs, it was time to arrest someone.

  Reading Josh’s journal reminded me of when I had suggested a plan for how we would support each other during this deployment. We had made a promise that we would always be positive for each other. Knowing we would not have many opportunities to communicate, we decided that every conversation would be pleasant and reassuring. A “recharging of the batteries.” For the first time in our marriage, I was promising to put aside my list of complaints and put Josh’s needs first. That had been our sink-or-swim moment. Combining my self-centeredness with Josh’s military mindset and making this plan to stay positive during deployment had been the most vulnerable moment of our infant marriage.

  As I thought about the weeks leading up to his deployment, I knew that we stood in different places spiritually, our spirituality probably being the most infantile aspect of either of us. God had mostly listened to my frustrated, self-absorbed side, and I believed He only heard from Josh during times like this. Even in our immaturity, we anchored ourselves in believing that God’s plan was for Josh to be a soldier and fulfill this mission. Looking down at Josh’s journal, I remembered the things I had written down before he left. Following that unpleasant FRG meeting we’d gone to together and Josh crying, I wrote in my journal before I went to sleep:

  Since this is God’s plan, I told Josh that I just don’t believe that Afghanistan is his final resting place. He is trained and prepared and I feel he is going to be another typical soldier who deploys, fulfills a mission, and comes home. Lastly, I told Josh that if this is the end of the road for him, I am going to work to find what God wants for me. I know all this is much easier said than done. I decided that I would rather live in a positive (and maybe unrealistic) world believing in the best possible outcome than to live in fear every day for nine months that “this could be the day.” I would rather be shocked by the death of my husband and left with the dilemma of figuring my life out from that point, than living in the misery of “preparing myself” for the worst possible scenario.

  I remembered promising myself that it was going to be good vibes only. Yes, we had to swallow a lot of tension and anxiety, but we were determined to make our time together pleasant. With the exception of Matt and Brittney’s wedding in Florida (as it was outside of the allowed travel radius), we had spent as much time together as possible. We spent a weekend at a little resort tucked away in the mountains of Washington relaxing, drinking wine, and staring at the Olympic mountain range tangling itself in fog rising from the Hood Canal. For just a little while, we pretended we had nothing looming over our future. While we were at the resort, I gave Josh a deployment gift: two charms, one for him and one for me. His charm was an iron battle ax to put on his dog tags. Mine was an iron anvil. Together they represented Proverbs 27:17: “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.”

  As we prepared ourselves for Josh’s approaching tour, I reflected on who we were as a couple. I knew who I was, and Josh I assumed knew the same about himself. But what were we? Since we had been married, I was constantly planning on how I would handle a deployment, knowing Josh couldn’t be there for me. I assumed he wouldn’t have time or energy to give to me, so I had to figure out my own way, and he had to figure out his. I thought differently about our time together as the date of departure got closer. Maybe we could be there for each other without either of us asking for something. The dictionary might call taking pleasure in one another’s presence enjoying each other. I realized I had never really enjoyed my husband in a meaningful way before, and I felt shame.

  I put the journal away as Josh was wheeled back into the room following surgery. Another day had passed, and my mind and emotions hadn’t yet caught up with my physical body sitting in Walter Reed. Josh had already had over a dozen surgeries, and I was ready for the typical long night of irritability and brain fog. Just weeks ago, I was living in Tacoma with Cooper. How is Cooper? I haven’t even asked my parents if he’s doing okay living with them. I guess tomorrow I also need to reach out and officially quit my job. How are we going to move out of our apartment? I can’t leave here to go do that. What about our car? It’s just sitting in front of our apartment building like we are still there… I hope. Ugh, I don’t have time to think about this right now. If Josh is ready to close his eyes, I need to close mine.

  I was trying to get comfortable on my cot (also known as the “surfboard bed,” a chair that folded out into a bed that was only about eighteen inches wide and less than six feet long) when Josh began jerking and moaning in his sleep. He started talking, but I couldn’t understand him. Suddenly his head and limbs began convulsing in panic, even overpowering the epidural in his back. I sat up to help him but paused when I realized I didn’t know how to wake him up without scaring him. Then, out of nowhere, Josh woke everyone else on our floor with a high-pitched scream: “INCOMIIIIIIIIING!!!!!!!”

  It was his first undeniable nightmare. Not a hallucination from drugs or a stint of confusion. It was unconscious terror from all the things I had read about in that journal. I grabbed him by the shoulders and demanded he wake up, and said, “The next time that psychologist comes in here, you tell him you need to talk!”

  PART TWO

  WHERE NO ONE WANTS TO BE

  CHAPTER SIX

  VANTAGE POINT

  How long, LORD? Will you forget me forever?

  How long will you hide your face from me?

  How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?

  How long will my enemy triumph over me?

  —Psalm 13:1–2

  PAIGE

  We had just been given permission to leave Walter Reed for a dinner out—at a real restaurant, nonetheless. Prepackaged commissary food and Subway were about to kill me. Cathi and I were really excited about food that didn’t have enough preservatives to outlast our time at the hospital. We got Josh cleaned, dressed, and ready for a nurse to move him from the bed to a wheelchair. Cathi suggested an Italian place. Perfect. Pasta, a glass of wine, gelato… My mind wandered as I was getting ready. Just sitting at a table and not cross-legged on the end of a hospital chair would be amazing.

  Our first taste of “normal” came in the form of red sauce, Parmesan, and basil. Josh was able to feed himself, and I felt like I was the one trying to act normal. I could barely contain myself and not eat at a racer’s pace. Cathi seemed to savor every bite. When we
got in the car to go back to the hospital, I felt like I had just gotten home from a Carnival cruise: refreshed, relaxed, and definitely a pound or two heavier than when we left. Josh, however, was in the back seat staring out the window with that wild, panicked look. Please don’t let it be the Ninja Turtles again, I thought. “Honey, you okay?

  “I don’t have my military ID on me,” Josh said.

  Cathi said, “Josh, they saw us drive out with you, and I also don’t have a military ID, and they let me in.”

  “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 my feelings. As Paige was desperately trying to help me help myself by calling a therapist, she asked how I planned to stop the nightmares, random crying, and crippling worry… and I had no clue. I’m everyone’s hype man. How can I hype people up when it feels like I can’t even control what goes through my mind?

  My mom and Paige made it clear that they didn’t understand. They laughed at how panicked I was about not being able to get back on post after we went out to eat, and in hindsight I can see how that was something I should not have worried about. But in that moment, nothing would have calmed me down. Incidents like this were really starting to make me feel isolated. Paige knew I was having a hard time with memories from my deployment, but as my wife and mom worked every day for some peace and normalcy, I knew there was a lot about my condition they didn’t understand.

  I didn’t really have a plan for fixing it. I am not good with words, and I was hurting my case every time I had a freak-out. The panic I felt during times like this was comparable to my painful flare-ups in my legs, so my mom and Paige just defaulted to what they did when I was hurting: They defused it as fast as possible and got me away from everyone. I knew this wasn’t going to work long term—emotionally, mentally, or physically.

  After a particularly bad day in PT, I was lying in bed just wishing I could trash the rest of the day. I heard a knock at the door and seriously considered just yelling “Go away!” But when I looked to see who it was, oddly enough it was a sight I had not seen at Walter Reed in the six weeks I had been there. In rolled double amputee and fellow Alabamian Aaron Causey and his wife, Kat. I knew I was in an amputee hospital, but I had no idea that I would feel so relieved and mesmerized by seeing someone like me. Not only did they want to check on me, but they did everything short of stripping Aaron’s clothes off so I could see what his amputations looked like. Aaron was coming up on the one-year anniversary of his injury, his “Alive Day,” and I was amazed at what year-old amputations looked like. Aaron and I also talked about my ongoing deployment. I think he could sense that I was trying to be strong and tough for my platoon, but it probably wasn’t in the right ways. Aaron gave me a valuable piece of advice. He said, “Look, man, now is not the time to be a hero. Don’t wait until you’re hurting to deal with pain. The only way this stuff works is to stay on top of it.” I knew to some degree that I had been told this before, but hearing it from him made it truth. I couldn’t let myself be in a lot of pain to look tough. Sure, there were highly trained doctors and speciali
sts for people like me, but there was nothing like talking to someone almost a year past where I was.

  PAIGE

  The most important form of therapy for me was meeting new people. Within six weeks at Walter Reed we had met celebrities, professional athletes, and government officials between the hourly run-ins with doctors and nurses. But none made us perk up like seeing another amputee. Aaron and Kat Causey did more than just educate us on injuries and wheelchairs; they set the tone for amputee etiquette at Walter Reed. From that point on, it was okay to ask anyone about anything. As a wife, I needed this. I needed someone to ask questions of who was not a doctor or nurse. I realized I needed other wives. I needed people who wouldn’t expect me to be a model American military spouse and accept me as I was when I was exhausted, frustrated, and over it. We both needed friends in our corner who wouldn’t let our rough day get too rough, even though they might be having a rough day themselves. On surgery days, veterans with missing legs, arms, eyes, and even parts of their skull would roll past our room, followed by a parent or a spouse who looked like me to some degree—flip-flops, sweats, messy ponytail, no makeup—and was probably thinking about that nap they were going to take once they got their husband or son into surgery. People who once looked like grouchy neighbors now seemed like the people who would help me get through this.