Beautifully Broken

by Paige Wetzel

  I was personally working on realizing that Josh and I never intended to hurt each other, but when life had become too much, which seemed all the time, we withdrew into ourselves, assuming the other just wouldn’t understand. I learned that sin easily crept in by making us believe that we didn’t “get” each other. I had often believed that Josh just didn’t want the responsibility of taking care of me emotionally, because I can be complicated sometimes. Instead of opening the door to lies and assumptions, I should have used those opportunities to teach him what I needed. By default, I laid a lot of stuff on my friends, which actually drove a wedge between us. On our wedding day, we committed to “for better or for worse.” It’s easy to view “worse” as the day that Josh got blown up—this romantic idea of this unwavering wife running to be by her husband’s side at his worst moment. But I learned every day in counseling that transformation is bigger than a moment, that “worse” is not the event itself but the aftershocks and journey to follow. A moment can be catalytic for change, but it cannot erase the person you have been, nor can it create the person you want to be. A moment may open your eyes, but it doesn’t give you skills and wisdom to deal with a new reality, and your old ways of thinking aren’t sufficient for the journey ahead. The less we were in front of people, the more we became like our old selves—eye rolling, mumbles under our breath, hanging out in separate rooms. Bringing that up in therapy helped us develop new habits to start becoming the version of ourselves that everyone thought we were. Every day we moved closer toward who we wanted to be. Becoming our better selves was not going to be a blast of supernatural healing but rather a newfound commitment to honoring our marriage one small choice at a time.

  Despite every step Josh was literally taking and the ones we were figuratively taking in mending our marriage, something else would come up that would put us four steps back. As winter approached, we began going through the disability rating assessment process, which would take months and months of assessing the veteran’s mental, emotional, and physical state and ultimately result in a disability rating. This rating would determine the amount of retirement pay, what jobs Josh could qualify for if he decided to stay in the military, and what our benefits would cover. Surgeries and procedures had dwindled to wound maintenance, and that sometimes happened at the bedside. Once major surgeries were over, we were ready to begin the assessment process. We had to book appointments for what seemed to be every body part. Some appointments showed really positive results of Josh’s recovery. His bone density and muscle density were better than what he would need to walk even if he still had his legs. Other appointments were not so good. We visited the urologist to check on the trauma to Josh’s reproductive organs.

  This appointment will forever be filed under “really bad days at Walter Reed.” One of the long-term issues was that Josh would have spikes and plummets in his testosterone levels. I could always tell when he was plummeting because he could hardly get out of bed. He had no energy and would take several naps a day. The significant inconsistencies in his testosterone levels meant there was a very slim chance of us having children. “If you can have children,” the doctor explained, “you’re probably going to need to think about alternative conception methods and allowing a doctor to save and culture as much sperm as possible during the next surgery.” I was not prepared for the blow to Josh’s ego that followed. We had never even entertained the idea of having children at that point; we had not even been married two years, and we were being told to make decisions about something that would have been seven to ten years down the line for us had we been living a “normal” life. While I was having trouble processing such a drastic decision about our future as husband and wife, and possibly as Mom and Dad, Josh sat there completely crushed.

  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 relieved they were finally leaving, certain that they looked l
ike the haunted faces of the men who so eagerly helped us off the helicopter our first day in Afghanistan. These men had become some of my best friends on the planet. I considered all of them to be my brothers. I missed being with them. I also knew that they needed to see me. Every bit of rehab I had done was to show them that bomb had only set me back for a little while. I know they worried about how I was doing, and this would be the day they could stop worrying. I could hardly sleep on our way to the West Coast.

  Due to the flight time and several time zone changes, the group was not set to land at JBLM until around midnight. There was a camera with a live feed on the runway that captured the moment the aircraft landed. Now they just had about a twenty-minute bus ride to the gym, to their homecoming. We were asked to clear the gym floor so the troops could file in and be released. As always, the Army must follow protocol when releasing soldiers. As we clapped and cheered for them, they marched onto the gym floor in an orderly fashion and waited for instructions from the battalion commander. We were asked to stand for the presentation of the colors. I stood at attention facing my men, just like I had promised myself.

  PAIGE

  Admittedly, there are very few memories that are burned into my brain. I don’t really remember the look on Josh’s face when he asked me to marry him or the atmosphere of my college graduation, but I will never forget the image of Josh in a gymnasium looking at his battle buddies while standing on two legs he wasn’t born with—but standing nonetheless. Maybe I remember this image because I was looking for a reaction. I wanted to see their faces when they saw him. This was the part of Army life that I never got to experience: the wife running to her husband, kissing and embracing him after long months of living on her own. I had seen a couple of those homecomings at our various duty stations, but I never once thought about the fact that the wounded who came home early were possibly in the crowd that welcomed the rest of their platoon. I sat behind Josh just beyond the commander’s podium. When we stood for the presentation of the colors, I could see the eyes of the soldiers in formation, some we knew, some we did not, fixate on Josh standing on prostheses. Josh stood so tall, as if to say, “I didn’t stop fighting when I came home.” The ceremony was brief, the commander went over general rules and asked them to be safe, and then, he released the hounds. It was such a sight! Wives running and jumping on their husbands; children telling their dads about losing teeth or getting their green belt in karate. When I looked at my own soldier, he was surrounded by a dozen other soldiers. It was funny to see them marvel at each other. Josh said, “I can’t believe you guys are back and this deployment is over,” while I could see on their faces their thoughts: I can’t believe you are already walking. I, on the other hand, asked, “Are your wives here? They’re going to be livid when they realize y’all didn’t go looking for them first.” One of Josh’s guys responded quickly with “She knows I am wherever Wetzel is.”

  We spent as much time hanging out with Josh’s platoon as possible for the next three days. It was such a relief to have them back. Just seeing them proved that they still existed, and it was the end result of Josh’s training so far. The two sides of this deployment were standing face-to-face, looking at the person they were fighting for. It was such beautiful closure.

  JOSH

  Paige and I were proving to the powers that be that we were ready for even more control over our lives. Prior to our trip to and from Washington, we’d already successfully navigated traveling across the country. We had been doing well living in Building 62, and it was time to consider taking convalescent leave (also known as “con leave”) from the Army. Convalescent is a sort of recovery leave for soldiers coming off of major surgeries or life events, often up to thirty days. Obviously, the critically wounded aren’t granted the full leave right away, but once certain milestones are hit in physical therapy, they can take advantage of a long leave time. Paige and I decided that thirty days away from Walter Reed was too long, but we did want to take about seven days to go back to my hometown in Alabama in October. The entire week was a blur, because there was literally zero downtime.

  Everyone in North Alabama knew Josh Wetzel was “coming home.” We were greeted with news teams the minute we stepped off the plane in Birmingham. After a quick interview, we headed north to Glencoe. The route there would be full of surprises. About ten miles outside of Glencoe, we stopped to meet up with a motorcade, then about five miles away, we met the police escort and climbed into a brand-new convertible Camaro. We drove slowly into the city, and the crowd could be seen from a mile away. Balloons, posters, and American flags were being held by people in the medians and on either side of the road. Everyone in the county was there. Glencoe schools allowed a half day off for their students so they could see me come through town.

  As we rode through my hometown, I thought about how I didn’t even know that this many people knew me! I certainly didn’t know this many people. The kids who were out of school had signs with my name on them. People were yelling and crying, “We love you!” And I’m pretty sure I was doing the same back at them! Our ride ended in front of city hall, where I was led to a podium. I wished I had prepared something, but all I could say was “Thank you, Glencoe!” through the sobs. Then the mayor named October 22 Josh Wetzel Day in my hometown.

  PAIGE

  As crazy as the week already was, we decided to try to go to the Auburn vs. Texas A&M football game for our last event. I had never been to an Auburn game before, but I had easily become a huge fan after the response of the university when our photo with the president went viral. People from the alumni association, athletics, and student veterans offices were constantly inviting us to special events on campus. At the time of their requests, I couldn’t even imagine Josh putting pants on, let alone traveling on an airplane to visit Auburn University. As time went on, however, more and more requests came in. We received letters in the mail about Josh finishing his bachelor’s degree. HA! I thought. Once they see the GPA he’s bringing in, they will retract that offer in a heartbeat. Ignoring my discouraging attitude, they kept pursuing Josh as a student.

  When we confirmed that we would be able to go to the football game, Auburn University made an event of it. As Josh would say, they treated us like five-star recruits. Rick Nold, my former volleyball coach at Jacksonville State, had been newly hired as Auburn volleyball’s head coach. He and Eysha Ambler, his assistant coach, began the day giving us a campus tour. Then we met up with Kate Larkin in the alumni association, who had deployed several of her friends in Washington, DC, to check on us and make sure we had plenty of Auburn stuff while we were in the hospital. She introduced us to pretty much anyone at Auburn who could help us with moving, enrolling in classes, or finding a parking spot! I loved Kate from the moment I met her, but I also thought she was crazy for thinking Josh was going to sign up for more school once we got out of the hospital. We then met up with the head football coach, Gene Chizik, who not only showed us great hospitality but shared a wonderful story about his father, who was a Bronze Star recipient.

  Our tour moved on to the lobby of Cater Hall, where we chatted with our tour group and rested up for the game. At some point the question came up: “So, Josh, what do you plan to do with your life after you get out of the military?” It was all I could do to not roll my eyes at them. I just thought, Look, this guy tried college and it didn’t go well. He never went to school and hated sitting in a classroom taking notes. That’s why he joined the Army—no note taking. He is not going back to school. Josh gave some kind of response that alluded to not really having a plan. The group looked at each other as if they were hoping he would say that. We were then presented with literature on scholarships and veteran benefits at Auburn University. We talked through his GPA, the number of credit hours he would need for a degree, and the classes he could possibly skip. There had already been a few Auburn graduates who had taken advantage of funding outside of the GI Bill to get school paid for. According to their research, we weren’t going to have to
pay a dime. We sat there a little shell-shocked with all this information. Those people smiled and stared like they had just told us we had won a free trip to Hawaii. I finally took a deep breath and said, “Would you excuse us a minute, please?” Josh and I went out into the foyer. I asked him, “What did you gather from all that?”

  Josh said, “Uh, sounds like I’m going to Auburn when we are done with Walter Reed!” with an implied duh at the end.

  For the first time, we had a post–Walter Reed destination. We didn’t know when, but we were headed to the Loveliest Village on the Plains. War Eagle to that!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A THOUGHT

  What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived—the things God has prepared for those who love him.

  —1 Corinthians 2:9

  JOSH

  By the end of November, we had successfully traveled to Boston, Alabama, and Washington, braving planes, subways, trains, taxis, and even a Boston duck boat. We proved our competency with managing meds and traveling with a wheelchair and canes, and we had zero mishaps. It might not seem like a big deal, but a lot of soldiers would leave for trips like these and then come back practically on house arrest. After their time at home, they would return to square one with physical therapy because they stayed in their wheelchairs the whole time. Or, they would go back to their units for redeployment or a military ball, and something bad would happen on a hard night of partying. Our command and our therapists had noticed that we were handling our independence well, so they recommended an adaptive sports trip to ski in Breckenridge, Colorado. “Like a fun trip?” Paige asked. Not that the others weren’t fun, but there was a mission behind the trip home: We went to see and encourage people. Now, this trip was going to be just for pure enjoyment and to learn something new. Neither of us had done any real skiing, so we signed up to ski Breckenridge in the December snow.