by Paige Wetzel
Nothing had changed about the ICU room since we left two and a half months earlier. I was expected to stay and help Josh but had nothing but a chair in the corner of the room to rest in. I wadded myself up in that chair the best I could but spent most of the next three hours waking up mid-fall onto the floor. I woke up around 7:00 a.m. to the plastic surgery team changing Josh’s wound vac again and saying they thought the donor site looked fine. I did not have enough sleep to put up with a comment like that. I quickly refuted: “Of course you think it looks fine! You weren’t here this morning when it was covered in pus!” (I could go on for days about egos in a hospital.) The surgeons, one of whom was a lieutenant colonel, backed down and apologized, and we had a long talk about what could have happened if I had been as casual about this as they had been. Regardless of how the infection started, I was worried about what was going to happen next. Hardly anyone gets out of inpatient without an infection, but not everyone was as fortunate as we were that night. Many infection stories began similarly to ours but end with an emergency surgery where doctors had to amputate more. Only time would tell.
About every three hours Josh’s fever would spike, and he would have to be given more Tylenol. This infection was taking so much out of him. He could hardly stay awake and felt awful. He would sleep five or six hours, wake up for an hour, then fall back to sleep. Every time he woke up, he would look around the room and get angry that he was back in the ICU. When he felt like talking, all he would say was that we were going to lose our spot at Building 62. I didn’t care about that now, of course. But for Josh, no time had actually passed—the last thing he knew we were wheeling away from Building 62 to calm his worried wife and get his vitals checked. In Josh’s mind, he was “fine” the entire time. I was not up for arguing with him, but I would just look at him during these rants and think, Buddy, you almost didn’t make it from the fourth floor to the first floor that night. What on earth would I have done when you were in cardiac arrest on the other side of this campus at four in the morning?
We stayed in the ICU a total of three days and then moved back up to our old room on the fourth floor. His fevers were getting shorter and less severe, but it didn’t change the fact that the once hairline incision donor site had now become this gaping hole in Josh’s back that would need a wound vac for who knew how long. Josh and I talked about what the next move should be on his back. Doctor egos were still getting in the way of figuring out the problem, so we went in circles on what to do to close the wound. I believed Josh needed a skin graft on his back, which would be very tricky because he was running out of donor sites for skin grafts. However, a skin graft meant returning to surgery and daily wound maintenance for several weeks. Josh wanted no part of that. After talking to the plastic surgery team, they assured us that they could graft the wound and Josh would have a wound vac for only about a week. The alternative was to keep a wound vac on it for six weeks. I was not signing up for more wound vac malfunctions, so we both agreed to the skin graft. Back to surgery we went.
PART THREE
REDEMPTION
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SECOND FIRST TIME
For we walk by faith, not by sight.
—2 Corinthians 5:7 ESV
PAIGE
The day after my twenty-fourth birthday, we were invited to the White House, not because Josh had received some kind of military award but to see a picture of us praying with President Obama unveiled in the West Wing. In the photo, I have my back to the camera and I’m holding Josh’s hand on my left and holding our president’s hand on my right. The president is holding Cathi’s hand, and the circle continues to Kristie and then Patrick, who’s holding Josh’s left hand on the other side of the bed. There were so many people in the room we didn’t even notice Pete Souza, who took this shot, because our family of four plus the president plus his security person plus a photographer packed us in the room like sardines. By this point, the photo had gone viral and was popping up everywhere. When I saw it on social media or in news articles, my heart skipped a beat. It was so cool to be part of something like that! As we moved on with our tour, a small group behind us got a glimpse of our photo and I heard someone say, “Hey, I think the guy in the wheelchair up there is the one in this picture.”
We toured the rest of the White House, another experience that showed the dichotomy of presidential life. We walked among the artifacts of the birth of our nation in the building’s original architecture, colonial pieces of furniture, and the famous painting Washington Crossing the Delaware. Each room told a story of significance to where we are today. We saw the Brady Briefing Room, which serves as a backdrop to many presidential addresses; the Oval Office, where the preceding president announced the War on Terror; and the Situation Room, where President Obama’s security team watched the successful elimination of Osama bin Laden just one year before Josh’s injury. As soon as we felt like we were walking through a monument, we were interrupted by security: “Folks, we are going to have to ask you to walk this way. Sasha and Malia want to play in the Rose Garden.” I appreciated another reminder that moments are the monuments and presidents are people.
At almost four months after his injury, Josh and I had developed a sort of routine. With surgeries down to every other week, our daily routine was wake up on the fourth floor, eat breakfast, shower, go to at least two doctor’s appointments, PT, wound care, lunch, rest in our room, occupational therapy, and sometimes PT again. Josh experienced weekly setbacks—some minor, some major. One day he was really struggling in PT and tapped out before he had completed his workout. I was afraid he was getting sick again; instead he needed a blood transfusion! Another day, he would have a really sore spot on his arm, and it would be a piece of shrapnel working its way out. We would then wheel over to the wound care station, dig it out with some tweezers, and then roll back with nothing more than a Band-Aid. After overcoming hallucinations, infections, and phantom pain, these issues were usually treated at his bedside, and we kept going. As Josh’s caregiver, I had gotten used to these hurdles, and my mind was always thinking about what we needed to do next. If I saw blood, I assessed it, called up the appropriate nurse, and we got it fixed as soon as possible. If Josh felt sick, I took his vitals myself, updated a nurse, and asked for a certain medication by name. We worked hard for our routine every day by finding ways around the issues.
I felt like keeping the routine was my personal responsibility. Josh was not going to fall back because I wasn’t getting him to appointments or making sure he attended PT every day. As long as Josh was in good health and we weren’t missing appointments, we got invited to more events outside of the hospital, even though Josh couldn’t walk yet. We went to dinners at the US Capitol building and professional sporting events on a regular basis. It may sound weird, but I felt a great sense of accomplishment by maintaining a daily expectation. As his caregiver, I felt like Josh’s opportunities were made possible because of the small things I was doing. I was always looking ahead for chances to show everyone something else that Josh had conquered.
Finally, in August, Josh’s doctors gave him the nod to get fitted for prosthetic legs. I was so thankful to hear that. It will be so much easier to get places when we don’t have to bring a wheelchair. Josh has worked so hard, and he deserves this level of independence. That wheelchair is just holding him back. He is so ready for this. I did what I always do and replied, “Awesome! What do we have to do?” The next day we went to the prosthetics wing of the hospital and had Josh’s legs cast to make plastic sockets. We were there for a few hours during this process and got to watch other guys practicing walking between the parallel bars. I was taking notes on what they were asking their prosthetists and noticing all the different models of legs they were trying on in case we needed any of them.
The next day, the plastic socket for Josh’s leg was ready. I was so excited for him. I wanted to make sure his socket fit and that he got the type of knee the other amputees had suggested for him. Josh was sho
wn how to slip on the socket by first putting on a liner and then the socket to make sure it fit. Then the prosthetist went over the functions of the legs that he was trying on so Josh would know what to expect from the knee, ankles, and sockets. I listened and took copious notes. I wrote, He’s going to need to get some shoes that fit these feet they put on his legs… If he has a robotic knee, we are going to need extra chargers for it… I probably need to buy an extra suitcase for his legs when we travel… I need to make sure we have ice packs before we go back in case he’s sore after this… I need to make sure I keep an Allen wrench in my purse to adjust the joints of his prostheses.
Josh wheeled up to the parallel bars as I jotted my last notes. “Paige, could you grab my wound vac?” “Oh… yep!” I put my notes down and hopped up to grab the wound vac that he still had for his back and made sure the path was cleared for him to walk.
He stood.
JOSH
I glanced at Paige watching me as I sat white-knuckling the bars and preparing to stand. After a minute or two, my legs and body adjusted. Then my prosthetist said, “All right, Josh, stand up.” I felt chills at that invitation and gripped the bars for take-off. In my head, I counted 1-2-3! and launched myself onto my stumps and stood straight on the prostheses. It felt like I had jumped off the high dive, and one wrong move could mean the difference between a clean dive and a belly flop.
Weight bearing somewhere between my knee and my old shin was both strange and awkward. My only remaining knee, on my right leg, had not stabilized me since the morning of my last patrol. The added skin flap wobbled at the bottom of my right shin fragment, and I felt the sweat rolling as I tried to maintain my balance. Logically, I knew that the pounds of metal attached to my legs were unnatural, the sockets weren’t comfortable, and my muscles were weak. But standing up, straightening my back, and seeing the world two feet higher than my wheelchair made me feel the best I had felt in months. The tallest mountain in Washington state couldn’t compare with this view.
I was already tired after the first sixty seconds in my prostheses, but my newfound dignity charged my adrenaline. Let’s get these things moving. I looked down and my right “foot,” nervous about what these foreign body parts would do. Taking a deep breath, I moved to take my step. The shoe skidded across the ground but landed solidly a few inches in front of my other foot. Whew, okay, that wasn’t too bad. Exhaling, I shifted my weight and went to try the same motion again with my left “foot,” except this side was working with my first robotic knee, a knee that would never have the natural connection to my brain that my former knee had. That relationship could only be built on trust, which starts between these parallel bars.
With maximum effort from my left hip, I swung the computerized leg in front of me with a motion like spreading a blanket on the ground: casting it far so it would hopefully land flat. The steps were heavy, but surprisingly, I felt in control of the legs. It wasn’t as weird as I thought it would be. When I imagined wearing prostheses, I could only think about balancing on a part of my body that had never held all my weight. I thought it would be like trying to feed yourself by taping a fork to your elbow—doable but weird. But it wasn’t. Even though these prostheses weren’t part of me, they made my legs feel like they were doing what they were meant to do. Even with half of what I walked with before, my legs wanted this movement. I was mesmerized every time a foot touched the ground, thinking, I did that. I made that happen. Now just do it again.
After five or six steps, the sweat was rolling off my nose. I was tiring fast. With tunnel vision on the weird sneakers that didn’t belong to me, I pushed desperately to make my body synchronize to the bionics that were holding me up. The success of my old walking motions felt a little like beginner’s luck. I needed muscle memory to truly feel control over these things, and even though the pressure on my stumps was rising, I didn’t want to stop. I had been through some grueling training exercises, but nothing compared to the amount of work I was doing just to stay upright. It was painful, but it was freedom.
Whenever I wanted to stop, I would just look up. For months, I had lived at the height of light switches, doorknobs, and belly buttons. It made me feel vulnerable and powerless, which is torture to any soldier. It was the reason I was aggressive to the point of injuring myself in physical therapy. I longed for motion that wasn’t sitting and looking up at people who towered over me. God, I don’t care how much this hurts. I will do anything to not be stuck in that chair all day.
As my hands gripped the bars under locked elbows to create some relief for my lower body, I fired my left hip for another successful step with the robotic knee. Each step was shakier than the last. I looked up from my feet again to take in the view that was getting me through the exhaustion, and I noticed Paige walking next to me. One hand was carrying my wound vac, and the other was clamped over her mouth as tears poured from her eyes, which were locked on my newfound freedom. Those tears were a long time coming for Paige. Her life had become an around-the-clock mission to clear the runway for my success, but no matter how hard she worked, I was the only one who could make me stand again. I just gave her a confident smile that said, Pretty cool, huh? And then I moved another six inches down the walkway.
I turned around between the bars and started the grueling twelve-step journey back to my chair. The sockets painfully squeezed my quads and hamstrings, and I was drenched in sweat, but the prostheses were doing what I meant for them to do. In my training I had done pull-ups, push-ups, lunges, and sprints until my limbs felt like Jell-O, and I just kept telling myself that this was no different. I just had to remember how I took the last step.
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 eve
ry 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.