Tough as They Come

by Travis Mills

  Sometimes when I made my rounds, I took my wheelchair because it was easier to roll longer distances than it was to walk. I’d wheel myself into a room and just tell the guy there that things were going to get better. Sometimes if a guy was new to the hospital, I’d bring other wounded veterans with me too. We formed a sort of welcoming committee. At one point we had nine guys all going around on visiting duties, trying to offer any encouragement we could.

  When Kelsey and I were staying at 62, I convinced Kelsey to go back to Texas for a few days to see her parents. This foray into independence was important for me. Her mom had been really great and had stayed with us for several months before going home. My parents too. My dad was retired, so he was able to stay a bit longer. My mom was still working, so she took a leave of absence for about three months and stayed at the hospital until I could walk again, then she went home. Kelsey’s dad, Craig Buck, had quit his job so he could help out with me, and we’d become great friends in the process. But they were gone now and it was just Kelsey and me. Kelsey didn’t want to leave me all alone at first. I pointed out to her that I’d still have all the hospital staff nearby, so it wasn’t like I was actually going to be all alone. But this was an important step of my rehabilitation. We talked about it for several days, and Kelsey was still hesitant, but I insisted.

  Right before she left, I went outside the apartment to go get some Subway sandwiches for dinner. I was in a motorized wheelchair rolling along on the sidewalk near Walter Reed, and a text came in from a buddy. I glanced down at my phone, which was on the seat between my legs. Just then the path curved a bit, and I was going too fast. One of the wheels slipped off the sidewalk, and, boom, I flipped over. (Note to self: Don't text and drive.)

  Lying on my back in the bark dust with my heavy motorized chair flipped over on one side, I thought, This isn’t good. This definitely isn’t good. But I wasn’t going to call for help after making such a big deal to Kelsey about how independent I was. Figuring out how to fix this was something I needed to do by myself.

  Fortunately just then a man walked by, stopped, and asked if I needed help. He righted the chair for me and helped me back up into the chair. I’d landed in a bunch of woodchips and had a bunch of those stuck to the back of my shirt, but I told him to not bother about brushing those off. I thanked him then proceeded the rest of the way to Subway, ordered the sandwiches, paid for them, and headed back to the apartment with the Subway bag.

  When I rolled through the doorway of our quarters at 62, Kelsey took one look at all the woodchips stuck to me and her eyes sprang open wide. She asked what happened. I came clean and told her the story. She really didn’t want to let me stay alone then. But I said, “Kelsey, look, I’m okay. I got back up.” She eventually conceded and went to Texas. While she was away, I kept going to physical therapy each day. I even went to an Orioles ballgame with some friends. Developing the confidence to be left alone and knowing I could still function okay was a big deal to me. I didn’t just want to sit around. I wanted to go out and handle things by myself.

  It’s amazing what you can accomplish once you make that all-important decision to go forward. I don’t mean to say that determination is everything when it comes to healing from an injury. But I’d say that determination is vastly underrated. Here’s how it factored in for me: I knew I could choose to go the other direction if I wanted to. I could choose to quit. If I’d wanted, people would have spoon-fed me for the rest of my life. I could have stared at the ceiling for the next sixty years and spent the rest of my life angry, frustrated, grieving, and dismayed. I was very aware I had that free choice.

  Or I could deliberately choose to go forward. I could choose to heal.

  Somewhere along the process, I decided not to be known as a “wounded warrior.” I don’t mean disrespect to anybody who goes by this title, and I still use it from time to time because it’s convenient shorthand for describing veterans who’ve been through combat-related injuries. But if you still think of yourself as “wounded,” then you’re still focusing on your injury. I wasn’t going to do that. I was healed. I had my scars, but I was the same “me” as I’d always been. I’d be a man with scars who chose to live life to the fullest and best.

  —

  What was left of my unit came home from deployment in August, and like I’d promised, I traveled to Fort Bragg to be there when they returned. It was a quick trip all in all, a thirty-six-hour turnaround before heading back to the hospital. But it was important for me to be able to do this. On the way to the base in the van, Kelsey and I were running late. When we got to the base, I showed the guard my ID, but I’d grown a beard by then and looked different from my picture. The guard said he was going to search us, and I adopted my best sergeant voice and said sternly: “Look—my guys are coming home in half an hour and I told them I’d be at Green Ramp to meet them. I was wounded in Afghanistan, and you’re going to get out of my way.”

  The guard took a closer look at me, saluted, and without another word let us through.

  We drove around the base, parked, and found the right hangar. This all took some doing and we were nearly late, but when the plane touched down, I was waiting on Green Ramp where I’d promised I’d be. I had a fresh uniform on and was standing on my tall legs. It had been a long walk from the parking area to the ramp, and my legs were hurting something fierce, but I didn’t care. When my guys started walking off that plane I stood straight and proud and saluted them the best I could. Saluting was hard, because my right arm is so short. But I brought my head down to my hook and made the gesture of honor.

  My first sergeant, Michael Parrish, had returned earlier on a different plane, and I spotted him in the hangar along with a couple of my buddies. As soon as I saw him, I started tearing up. He walked straight over to me, and I said, “I’m so sorry. I let you down.”

  He gave me a hug and said, “Sergeant Mills, you’re one of the best combat squad leaders I’ve ever seen. You never let me down.”

  Lieutenant Lewis was there. It was so good to see him again. He gave me a big hug, and I said, “Welcome home.” The remaining guys in my squad deplaned and we all said hello and gave each other hugs. Cobia Farr, the assistant gunner. Armando Plascencia, our marksman. Eric Hunter, the gunner. James Neff, my other team’s gunner. We didn’t have a lot of time, because some four hundred people were being ushered off the plane quickly and into the holding area. When I saw Daniel Bateson, our medic, I said, “Hey, there’s the guy who saved my life.” We gave each other a quick hug, looked each other in the eye, and he moved on with a grin.

  A kid from a different battalion got off the plane and he tried to hug me. I didn’t know him, but I guess he thought everybody else was hugging me, so he should too. It was an awkward moment and I said, “Hey, man, if you don’t know me, then you don’t need to hug me.” He looked startled for a minute then grinned. It made a funny story to tell afterward.

  —

  I headed back to the hospital at Walter Reed. Even though I’d come so far in my rehabilitation, I still had a long way to go. Doctors and therapists were saying I’d need to spend about another year in and out of rehabilitation. But one day while at the outpatient building at the hospital, I took my first bite of a Johnsonville jalapeño-and-cheddar bratwurst and suddenly had the strongest desire to be back home again—and this time for longer than thirty-six hours. I remembered barbecuing bratwursts in my backyard, and the feeling of wanting to be at home—my own home—nearly overwhelmed me. That’s what I’d done so many evenings before my third deployment. After work I’d come home, we’d have a good barbecue dinner, and I’d play fetch with my dog in my backyard until he tired out. That’s all I wanted again: I wanted to be with my family and my dog and have a barbecue.

  We decided to do it. We flew back to Fayetteville, North Carolina, and spent about four days in our own house again. We hadn’t rented it out while I was on deployment and the house was just sitting all that time. Even the cable TV was still turned on. It
felt so good to be back in a place that was familiar to both of us. Our house wasn’t equipped the same way as the apartments at Walter Reed were, and it was harder for me to get around and use our own bathroom and shower and stuff, but we managed.

  While in Fayetteville, we celebrated Chloe’s first birthday, a little bit early. A bunch of families from the neighborhood came over to our house, and sure enough we had that cookout with hamburgers and hot dogs and bratwursts and lemonade and soda. I called a company and had a bounce house set up in our backyard. A bunch of little kids all ran around and jumped like mad in the house. We had a smaller birthday cake made up just for Chloe, and when her cake was placed in front of her she hesitated, took one cautious lick, then plunged her face right in. During the party I was in my wheelchair with my short legs on so I could stand for short bursts if I needed to, and I looked a bit out of place in pictures I’ve seen since then—this big guy on short legs. But what was important was that I was there for my daughter’s birthday. I was happy to be alive and to be in the pictures and to celebrate this important milestone with my family. I didn’t take that simple truth for granted.

  I was there.

  —

  I wanted to do something big. I wanted to do something beyond myself, something to tell myself that the worst was behind me, something that might even inspire others. Right after Chloe’s first birthday celebration, I signed up to run a 5K race in New York City. They call it the Tunnel to Towers 5K, and it’s held in honor of Stephen Siller, a heroic firefighter commemorated after 9/11.

  On September 11, 2001, Stephen Siller was in Brooklyn when the first plane hit the first of the Twin Towers. He’d just finished the night shift at the Brooklyn firehouse and was heading home to Staten Island when he heard the news and called his wife to tell her he’d be home late. He tried to drive over to the city to help, but he couldn’t get through the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel because the traffic was already gridlocked. So he strapped his sixty pounds of firefighter gear to his back and ran from the tunnel to the Towers. It was the last run of his life. He was believed to be somewhere on the 80th floor of the South Tower when it fell. He was thirty-four.

  About 20,000 people were set to run the commemorative race in 2012. I was going to walk, not run, but I knew that even walking would pose a challenge. I hadn’t been on my legs very long. Kelsey came with me, always my amazing support person.

  When the race began, I felt swept along by a surge of adrenaline. People jostled all around me. I limped along about a quarter mile or so at a good clip and pretty soon began to hurt. My stumps chafed inside my prosthetics, but there was no way I was going to quit. The course went underneath the water and uphill out of the tunnel. When I walked out of the tunnel, I had to squint into the bright sunlight that hit my face. Along the route, the streets were lined with banners that commemorated lost firefighters and lost soldiers. People held signs up encouraging us along. Firefighters were there wearing their full gear in honor of the event. On I pushed. My right leg began to bleed. The inner thigh chafed so raw that it dripped blood into my liners. But I kept going. I passed the one-mile marker, then the two-mile marker. Only one more mile to go. Both my legs were burning. My back hurt. I told myself I was going to do it. I pushed through and reached the final marker. Everybody cheered. The race wasn’t comfortable or fun, but I was proud to have crossed that finish line.

  After the race, we headed over to the Freedom Tower to attend a memorial event being held there. The former mayor of New York, Rudy Giuliani, spoke, and Gary Sinise, the actor who’d played a disabled veteran in the movie Forrest Gump, said some good words. I’d met him once very quickly at an earlier event where he’d asked me to say the Pledge of Allegiance. He’d asked me to come up on stage at this event too. I did fine getting up onto the stage, but on my way over to where I was supposed to sit I stubbed my foot on an extension cord and toppled over. They were introducing me at the time, and I fell in front of 20,000 people. The mayor’s bodyguard picked me up and tried to right me, but he didn’t understand that my knees don’t lock in place, so I kept falling down and for a few tense moments it sort of looked like he was giving me the Heimlich. Kelsey ran up, locked my knees for me, and got things squared away. I’d gone beyond being embarrassed when things like that happened. I’d found that if I laughed it off, then other people relaxed. The program finished, and attention quickly turned to the Lt. Dan Band with Mr. Sinise on electric bass, which took the stage and cranked up the volume. It was a good day, and I was glad I did both the race and the event, but, boy, was I exhausted at the end.

  Kelsey and I went back to our apartment at the hospital and I did some more rehabilitation. Not long after, I traveled back to Vassar, Michigan, to attend the homecoming game of my high school. I outfitted Kelsey and Chloe with Vassar Vulcan T-shirts so they’d fit in for the festivities. The school and town held a parade and asked me to be in it. Thousands of people showed up—they’d been following my story in the newspaper for some time now. I rode in the back of a Jeep with two good friends from town. The parade route was lined with well-wishers, and many of them held signs that said, “Welcome home, Travis.” They were smiling and waving and yelling out encouragement to me. Seven or eight news affiliates interviewed me afterward and it was good to feel part of the community again. I knew they’d always been supporting me.

  After the parade, the school held a pep rally and bonfire. At the request of Coach Leveille, I spoke to the crowd and the football players before the game and got them pumped up. Both teams played hard, and Vassar won the game, I’m happy to report. I felt truly blessed to be back in my hometown in a role like that. I was thankful for their cheers and signs and good wishes. Thankful they always had my back and respected my service. Grateful that they’d prayed for me and rooted for me and hadn’t given up on me. Honored to be chosen again to speak to the football team.

  We spent some time with my parents, then headed back to the apartment at the hospital. At the end of October, I was able to take Chloe trick-or-treating. Kelsey dressed her up really cute as Minnie Mouse, and we went to about three houses and that was it. Chloe had a blast, even for that short of a time, and it felt good to me to be able to do some of these basic things with my daughter. Since I’d been back, she’d learned how to crawl and walk, and I’d learned how to walk again right along with her. It’s hard to fully describe that feeling of walking through a neighborhood with my daughter on Halloween—how precious it felt—this was gold. With my prosthetic, I was able to hold her hand and even feel pressure on my prosthetic when she squeezed it. The evening was another marker of us simply being together as a family again, of me still being alive and of me going forward. Regardless of my injury, I was still going to be there for my wife and my daughter.

  Later that evening, I renewed a silent vow to always be there for my family. I wanted to choose activities and hobbies that would bring us together and strengthen us all. Seeing Chloe grow up was a privilege that I’d just about lost, but now it was being handed back to me. Someday, I would teach my daughter how to ride a bike. I didn’t know how I would do that, but it would happen. And if she wanted to take ballet lessons someday, I’d find a way of doing pirouettes with her. And if she wanted to play softball, I’d get a pitching machine set up in my backyard so I could teach her how to bat and bunt. One day far into the future, when Chloe gets married, I’ll walk her down the aisle.

  —

  Right after Halloween, about seven months after the blast, I decided to stop taking all of my painkillers completely. I was sitting there in the apartment one morning and it was sort of an instant decision. I had still been taking a whole slew of medications up to that time—oxycodone, Lyrica, prescription-strength ibuprofen, a stool softener, and a bunch of other stuff. But I didn’t like how it all made me feel, so I quit cold turkey. For the next four or five days, I experienced some bad pain, but after that the pain subsided. That was it. I never took any more painkillers after that.

  Therapy continu
ed. It was amazing all the things I needed to learn how to do again. My legs eventually adjusted to my sockets, the swelling went down, and I could wear the prosthetics for almost an entire day, although it still felt good to take them off every now and then and use my wheelchair.

  Some of the hardest tasks involved using fine motor skills. You never think about how nimble and sensitive your fingertips are until you lose the use of them. My dad and I went out to get coffee once, and I picked up the coffee and closed too hard on the cup, spilled it, and burned myself. All part of the learning curve.

  Picking up a credit card from the smooth surface of a table was one of the hardest things for me to learn. A credit card is so slim, and the tips of my prosthetic fingers are so wide, that it’s nearly impossible to do. Staff helped me break the task down into steps. I learned to carefully slide the card to the edge of the table first and inch it over so the card overlapped air just a bit. Then I could clamp around the card from both the top and the bottom and pick it up, no problem.

  Doing up the zipper on my pants was another basic yet hard task to learn. A zipper is so small that it is hard to grasp with the prosthetic. We solved the problem by tying a small length of cord to each and every one of my zippers. The cord made the zipper easier to grasp. Problem solved.

  Eventually I learned how to do pretty much everything a man with two arms and legs could do. I practiced going to stores and getting a cup of coffee. I learned how to use a cell phone and to text using a stylus. I could swim using specially designed prosthetic arms with paddles where the hands would be. I figured out how to put on a shirt. How to plug my prosthetic arm into an electric socket when I was done with it for the night so it could get recharged. I could even shave my own face, although it’s easier if someone did that for me. I even learned how to light a paper match—not even a wooden match, but a smaller, thinner paper one. I figured it’s a function I’d want to learn so I could take my family camping someday. About the only thing I never figured out was how to put a ponytail in Chloe’s hair. But, hey—I don’t know a ton of dads who are good at this sort of thing anyway, even if they have two regular hands.