The Long Road Home

by Cheyenne Meadows

  Striding over, Logan chose one of the chairs, plopped down, and watched the middle-aged man with only mild interest. Honestly, he had never felt comfortable talking to the psychiatrist, not the one in Germany, and certainly not Dr Field. Sure, they were there to help, but he always felt on edge, as if they were writing notes on him that were less than flattering. The visit wouldn't be nearly as important except that headquarters looked at psych recommendations seriously, thus these visits could prove life altering.

  As opposed to what? Losing a leg? Logan snorted to himself.

  "Thank you for coming today, Logan." Dr Field chose to sit on the couch facing him, sinking into the leather sofa with familiarity. A pen and legal pad soon rested on his lap as he studied Logan.

  Logan nodded slightly, barely resisting the urge to tap his fingers. He'd never suffered from nervousness, not in battle, not in life, but this office proved to be different.

  "First of all, I wanted to let you know this is just a routine visit. Every veteran is scheduled to see a psychiatrist during their rehab. Standard procedure." He clicked his pen and crossed his legs. "How are you doing?"

  "Good as can be expected, I guess."

  "What would you expect?"

  Logan wanted to groan with the first questions. Instead, he blew out a breath and went for honesty. "I guess I expected flashbacks, nightmares, and a lack of understanding."

  "Has that been the case?" Dr Field looked up at him.

  "No flashbacks. A few nightmares." Oddly, none since he had moved in with Gwen, but it'd only been a few days. "So far, people at Walter Reed have been courteous and easy to get along with. No complaints there."

  "Tell me about your nightmares."

  As much as he hated to relive the terror, Logan refused to shrink away. "It's about the event where I lost my leg." The psychiatrist started writing. Taking that for a cue to continue, Logan rambled on. "My unit was assigned to clear a stretch of a commonly used road in Afghanistan. There was a single large hill with a building on top. We were told it used to be a school, but now harbored Al Qaeda. Orders were to claim the hill and thus prevent more ambushes and loss of life." He looked down at the floor and pictured the scene. "We came under heavy fire. I was the gunner in the third vehicle back. I shot so many rounds the heat off the gun would have melted steel. Yet they kept coming. Hours went by. Still they kept coming from all sides. We were pinned down with only our vehicles for protection. A sniper started firing from one direction, groups of tangos from another. First sergeant called in air support as we were short on ammo. By the time the choppers arrived, we were down to dust and totally defenseless. They saved our asses, found out we weren't dealing with one hundred tangos as originally thought, but more like one thousand."

  He rested his head in his hands. "The next day was a repeat of the first. A chopper dropped off more ammo, but we were still in the thick of things. I can't remember how many rounds we went through, but I can still feel the heat coming off the gun and see the tangos dropping only to be replaced by others. Endless numbers of tangos. They never stopped coming. Then bullets started incoming from the east, leaving us surrounded on three sides, bullets falling like rain and pelting our armored vehicles like heavy hail. First sergeant called for us to change positions, in order to provide better cover. My driver backed up. I remember seeing a movement in the rocks ahead. A man, barely recognizable in the shelter of the rocks. No gun, just a tango cradling something in his hand. Just as I aimed for him, an explosion rocked the vehicle."

  Logan paused to scrub his face, sweat breaking out on his lower back, as he felt the familiar racing heartbeat and escalated breathing as if he were back in battle.

  "What happened then?"

  "I don't remember much. The guys were yelling at me, pulled me from the vehicle. I recall they were working on my leg. My head rang so badly from the explosion, I couldn't hear, but I could read the concern on their faces. Within minutes, a chopper arrived. They hauled me off, straight to the field hospital."

  "When did you realize the extent of your injury?" Dr Field asked quietly.

  "I guess at the regular medical base. The surgeon spoke to me about my leg, explained the lower section was gone. I remember being too stunned and overwhelmed to really say much at the time." He sighed. "They shipped me to Germany pretty quickly. There, I spent hours looking at the stump, cussing my bad luck, and thinking my life was virtually over."

  "Do you still think that?"

  "No. I think my career is over, but there's something else I can do for a job. I just don't know what yet." Logan glanced up, found the doctor staring at him and waiting. Secretly, Logan hoped the session would be finished already. After reliving the whole battle, he didn't really care to disclose much more.

  "Okay. Let's go back a step."

  Oh, hell. Logan took in a deep breath and waited.

  "How do you feel about your stump now?"

  Logan shrugged. "It's there."

  Dr Field looked at him steadily for a long moment, then started writing again.

  "Are you still angry at your injury and resulting limitations?"

  Angry? No shit, Sherlock. "Yeah." Raw emotion welled up and spewed forth, breaking through the cap he kept in place.

  "About what?"

  "Some idiot terrorist cost me my career, one that I loved. I don't know what I'll do for the rest of my life as I had no backup plan. I'm in rehab and finding that I can't do half of what I used to do. The nightmares suck. And just when I thought I might have found a girl I want to spend my life with, I'm stuck with a disability and don't know if I can actually perform sexually anymore."

  There. I said it. Logan chewed his lip and clasped his hands, waiting impatiently for the doctor to make his assessment and call him all kinds of unstable.

  Dr Field scribbled some more, then looked up to meet Logan's gaze. "I can see why you'd be angry."

  "Yeah. I'm sure that labels me as unbalanced." He spit out the words curtly, still seething from the adrenaline rush of reliving his worst day ever.

  A small smile crossed Dr Field's lips. "Actually, no."

  The answer surprised Logan. He'd had psychology classes in college. Didn't remember a whole lot, but knew that hating his new body would be looked upon as ineffective coping. Like he could do anything more right now.

  "It's not? I thought in order to be considered healthy and normal, a person had to accept their issues."

  The psychiatrist shook his head. "Let me explain something to you. First of all, you've had a traumatic experience and an unwanted outcome that has changed your career and life. Anger is healthy and expected. In fact, I'd be worried if you told me you'd accepted it all and had moved on. That would be a red flag." He set his pad and pen aside. "The nightmares are part of the process, as is anger. With time, most people move along to acceptance. Some make it, others don't. It just depends. There's no set time or set path through the grieving process. We all go through it, but at different speeds and routes."

  "Grieving. I'm not grieving, Doc. I'm pissed."

  "You're grieving the loss of your job. The loss of your limb. Even the loss of the perfect life you envisioned for yourself."

  The words sank in and established a foothold. He recalled another incident. "I tripped on the carpet yesterday. Fell flat on my face. I wanted to tear something apart with my bare hands, snap the man's neck responsible for this mess. Commit murder if it would bring my leg back." Anger had consumed him. Until Gwen cautiously defused him. "I felt like such a fool, a tottery idiot right in front of my girlfriend."

  "What was her reaction?"

  A ghost of a grin covered Logan's lips. "She rolled me over, sat down on me, and kissed me senseless to point out the advantage of my position on the floor."

  Dr Field smiled. "Sounds like a smart woman."

  "She is." Logan ran his hand through his hair. "I want to be so much more for her. To give her a wonderful life. To pay her back for sticking by my side through all this." Anxiety carried in
his tone.

  "You have doubts based upon your injury?"

  Logan nodded. "What kind of job can I do? Hell, I can't even figure out how I'm going to have sex with or without a prosthesis. I'd for sure be a bumbling fool trying."

  Dr Field tapped his lip. "As far as I can see it, you can do any job you wish. The sex question, you should pose to Tyler."

  "That'd be embarrassing." He couldn't imagine just walking up to his therapist and asking how he managed to get his rocks off with a woman.

  "Trust me. Tyler's been asked before. Besides, he can tell you from personal experience. There's information online, I'm sure, but I'd trust Tyler's recommendations better."

  "Okay." Logan didn't know if he could or would broach the subject, but he'd cross that bridge down the road. Right now, he really wanted to escape the stifling office and get outside in the cool air. "Is there anything else?"

  "Yes." Dr Field scooted to the edge of the couch. "I want to see you again."

  Logan opened his mouth.

  The doctor held up his hand, stifling Logan's protests. "It's standard procedure to follow all patients through rehab." He waited a beat, then continued. "Logan, I think you need to know that you're normal, right on track, considering everything you've been through. You have doubts and anxieties. Again, to be expected. But you're working through them, moving on with life, attending rehab, and striving to look forward. That's a very healthy attitude. I commend you and encourage you to keep an open mind about things."

  Logan blinked at the man and felt a great weight relieved from his shoulders. "You're not recommending them to toss me in the brig?"

  "No. I'm recommending you stick with the current plan. And, see me again next week." He stood up.

  Logan followed suit, striding toward the door.

  Dr Field held out his hand, which Logan immediately shook with confidence.

  "Even balanced people need someone to talk to now and again." Dr Field patted him on the back, then opened the door. "Thank you for your service, soldier."

  Walking out of the office, Logan paused and turned to salute the man before heading toward the front door, his steps much lighter than they had been when he arrived.

  Chapter 24

  Gritting his teeth, he lifted the barbell one more time before gladly returning the heavy weight to the holder. Damn. If he kept up this hardnosed regimen, he'd be ready for a strongman competition or could pose as a bodybuilder. Except for his missing lower left leg. The judges would probably dock him for lack of a whole limb. He sighed heavily and sat up, feeling sore, tired, and deflated.

  His sessions were typically scheduled in the morning. Only today, they had scheduled him to arrive later than normal because he had to see one of the rehab physicians, followed by the visit with Dr Field. He truly didn't mind since Gwen worked today and wouldn't be home until closer to five anyway. Might as well get all the less desirable stuff out of the way for a while so he could focus on his workouts.

  The main doors opened, allowing in another class of physical therapy patients, around ten in number. Some walked in sporting various prostheses, either a leg, or an arm. Some had both. Toward the end of the small group, a young man gimped in on two artificial legs. Logan didn't think too much about it until he looked up to find the soldier also had a metal arm. Shit, that's rough. He couldn't help but feel for the guy.

  Each man went about their business as if they were solidly confident and capable in their exercises. The last of the group paused to hold the door open for someone else. A young lady dressed in scrubs pushed a wheelchair containing a young man. His head was thrown back, and his arms appeared contracted. The patient reminded him of a child with cerebral palsy he'd seen once in a store. The same physical characteristics, anyway.

  Right behind him, his physical therapist, Sara, pushed another wheelchair into the room. This patient looked fairly normal. All his appendages were attached, anyway. Though thin, he seemed to have all his limbs functioning. Until he spoke, a thick grunt, at which the therapist kneeled down and smiled. Sara held out a stress ball. He stared at the object but didn't make a single move. Finally, she grabbed his hand, pried open his fingers, and slipped the toy inside. Still the man stared as if trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle.

  Double damn. Head injuries had to be the worst. Depending on someone to care for you for the rest of your life as you were stuck in a mind and body that didn't work like before. Unable to take care of the most basic hygiene requirements for yourself, seeing and understanding, yet unable to communicate with simple words or gestures, even relying on others to feed you bite by bite. While alive, the state left a lot to be desired. A whole lot.

  Everywhere he looked, patients with much greater injuries and needs than his, dotted the gym.

  He kept telling himself that the loss of his lower leg was a drop in the bucket compared to some of the soldiers who came back with more severe problems, or the ones who never returned. Yet seeing them close, the realization hit home. In all reality, he had lost little compared to these people and had the most to gain from rehab. From the looks of some of them, especially those in wheelchairs who couldn't seem to really function independently anymore, they would face permanent disability and would never again be able to live alone and without the need for a caretaker around the clock.

  A wave of sympathy washed over him along with a healthy dose of guilt. He couldn't imagine the challenges they'd face. To think he felt sorry for himself, complained about his weakness and inability to zip through his exercises without struggling. He wanted to kick his own ass for such selfishness.

  The man with a single remaining arm dropped a free weight. Bending over, he tried to pick it up but had to quickly stand and grab a bar attached to the wall to regain his balance on two artificial legs.

  Logan jumped off the weight machine and walked over. He needed to help the guy but didn't want to bruise his ego, knowing exactly how it felt when someone tried to coddle him. Besides, he'd been in those same shoes not too long ago, learning how to bend over to pick items off the floor. The task was more difficult than anyone with working legs could ever imagine. He still grappled with the skill, and he still had one good leg to rely on.

  "Hey, buddy. I'll be glad to pick that up for you."

  The man's gaze found his, and a flash of relief crossed the man's face. "Thanks."

  Logan bent, retrieved the object, and handed it over. "Anytime." He grinned at the dark haired, lean patient. "I'm Logan, by the way."

  "Heath." He held out his right arm, ending in a hook with pinchers. His good hand held the weight.

  Logan didn't hesitate to shake the metal prosthesis. "What branch?"

  "The 101st Airborne, Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Second Brigade Combat Team."

  "Impressive."

  "And you?"

  "Seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment."

  Heath's eyebrows shot up. "Cool."

  For the first time in a while, Logan felt pride in his achievements. Heath certainly helped stroke his ego and confidence for the day. "You gonna be in therapy here for a while?"

  The younger man nodded. "So they tell me."

  "Good. Then I'll see you around." With a quick smile, Logan returned to the weight machines halfway across the room, found an open one, and slid into the seat.

  "That was a nice thing you did."

  Glancing up, Logan found Tyler leaning on the frame of the leg press.

  He shrugged. "No biggie."

  Tyler stared at him for a moment. "It was to Heath. He's having a hard time adjusting."

  Understandably so. He had worried before about the loss of only one leg on his future. He couldn't imagine no legs and only one arm. The reality had to be overwhelming.

  "You made a friend today," Tyler said.

  "He seems like a good guy."

  They fell into silence as Logan shoved the pin in the weight level he wanted, then began his first set.

  "You're good with people, Logan." With a quick s
mile, Tyler wandered off across the room.

  Blowing out a breath, Logan eased the weights back down and paused to catch his breath. Good with people? Never before had he really thought about himself in those terms. He simply did what needed to be done and held out a helping hand now and again. Far from sainthood and no more than others had done in the past.

  Maybe, just maybe, he could do something like this for the rest of his working life. He would have the personal experience, knew and understood what these men had been through, what some were still going through. Tyler seemed to love his job, judging by the smiles and laidback manner with which he ran the gym. Granted, he'd only done this for a couple of days, but the physical therapy room provided a safe haven where he fit in with the rag-tag group of veterans. With the torture machines. He chuckled to himself. Not quite torture, but definitely challenging. A necessary instrument in order to maximize his physical being and put him on the road to his future.

  With the thought brewing, he focused on the second set.

  Chapter 25

  Letting himself in, Logan absently dropped his gym bag, shut the door behind him, and looked around the room. The house remained quiet without the slightest indication Gwen had arrived home. He checked his watch. She would just be getting off work and probably step through the door before too much longer. Long enough for him to take a quick shower and change clothes since dried sweat clung to the cotton garments. His hair was mussed from wiping his forehead multiple times due to the copious amounts of perspiration, and his deodorant had probably ceased working hours ago. All in all, not something Gwen wanted to return home to and hug the stuffing out of.

  Without further ado, he headed directly for the guest shower, taking a short detour to his bedroom to gather up a clean set of clothes to wear afterward. Turning on the faucet, he removed his prosthesis, checked the water temperature, then stepped in. He grabbed onto the support bar and hopped around on his one good leg, well versed at washing himself without the artificial leg for support. Sure, he could leave it on and change to his backup sock that fit over his stump later. A dislike for doing daily laundry taught him to work with what he had, to manage on one leg and get the job done effectively at the same time.