by Izzy Ezagui
Yes. I hear you. I need to go easier on myself, I know. I need to talk to Izzy nicely, to say, “Hey, buddy, you're doing OK. Stop beating yourself up all the time.” If a friend talked to me the way I talk to myself most of the time, I'd feed him to my ever-present Phantom. Yet, for some unaccountable reason, I constantly put myself down, and this habit is harder to curb than pasting that patch on my back for sweet relief. It's the part of me maybe most responsible for my recovery, for accomplishing my mission. But it's a two-headed monster that can just as easily dissuade me from getting out of bed.
There's hope. One day of late I woke up, Punch licking my ear, and I felt as though I were emerging from a longtime foggy haze. As if I never experienced a clear thought until now, not once in my entire life before this moment. And when this mist lifted, I saw that there are no superheroes in the universe. Those are just fictional, aspirational figures, extensions of our wish to conquer the demons of our lives. My father isn't Spider-Man. He's a real man, and real men are fallible. Someday they die. True heroism is being a great father every day. I'm not Superman. But I am Izzy, and that's got to be good enough. There are days I almost believe that's true.
Sure, I'd still love to look out my window one day and see a billboard, a giant advertisement for the soon-to-be-released action flick, Single-Handed a (CGI-) one-armed Joseph Gordon-Levitt with a machine gun and a steely look, each of his eyes the size of a Smart Car. The cheesy tagline: “You don't need two hands to grab your destiny by the balls.” Is that going to happen? Who knows. Stranger and more amazing things have happened in my life.
In the meantime, it's enough to run the streets of Brooklyn with my quadruped partner. It's enough to let myself be happily used to raise millions of dollars for charities, and still eat ramen some weeks. It's enough to speak in front of other amputees, and simply listen to their troubles. To walk silently through a Laotian museum dedicated to the thousands of children who've lost limbs from unexploded ordnance, many the exact same mortar that fell on top of me, holding a little boy's only hand. It's enough to return regularly for my reserve duty in the little land where I left my arm, and where I keep my heart.
It's dusk as I sit alone on this beach in Miami, between speaking engagements. So close to my past life. And I'm wondering…Am I a better man for all that I've gone through? For my sacrifice? Why do I feel like that drowning girl? Ready to give up and sink, my only hope of survival that someone will see my hair undulating like waterweeds, dive in, and descend to my depth. Am I good, honorable, just? Or am I still what Amir used to call me during training? Was it just a random accident of chance that saved me that day on the border of Gaza? Or did some benevolent overseer save me for a reason? Will I ever be truly happy?
The lifeguard, just a kid, comes up. Ray-Bans. Peeling nose. “You can't be here, bud. Beach is off-limits after sundown.”
That's me, front right, with fellow reservists. All smiles, despite days on end without a shower.
Accepting the Award of Excellence from President Shimon Peres. Can't believe I nearly got arrested minutes before.
First hug from little sis Shoshi, days after injury. How am I already standing?
Hanging out with Chief of Staff Benny Gantz. Drinks at your place.
Command School, navigation training. It's a miracle I passed.
I'm not a badass, but I play one in the field.
Izzy Company attains combat status after a sixty-two-kilometer hike. Proud of my guys.
Minutes before boarding the “Shimshon” C-130 transport plane. You'd think I'd have enough miles to upgrade.
During a weeklong drill. Fun fact, I'd have killed for a Pepsi.
Tending bar in Laos as a one-armed pirate. No acting required.
Tanks for reading.
Out of respect for their privacy, I have used pseudonyms for some individuals. I have also quoted from a few published works:
Applegate, K. A. Animorphs: The Invasion. New York: Scholastic, 1996.
Francis, Alan. Everything Men Know about Women: 25th Anniversary Edition. Kansas City, MO: Andrews McMeel Publishing, 1995.
Frost, Robert. “Out, Out—” Mountain Interval. New York: Henry Holt, 1916.
Leshem, Ron. Beaufort. New York: Delta Trade Paperbacks, 2009. Originally published in Hebrew as Im Yesh Gan Eden in 2005.
Steinbeck, John. East of Eden. London: Penguin, 2017. Originally published 1952.
Vonnegut, Kurt. Mother Night. London: Vintage Books, 2015. Originally published 1961.
White, E. B. Charlotte's Web. Classic ed. New York: Harper, 2017. Originally published 1952.
Williams, Margery. The Velveteen Rabbit. London: Egmont UK, 2017. Originally published 1922.
Even a memoir requires the effort of a crack squad. First and foremost, I want to thank Erica Meyer Rauzin for sticking with me from “Tzeh” to the finish line, for your unwavering support on and off the page, for being far kinder to me than I'll ever be to myself.
I owe thanks to Ian Blake Newhem for clobbering me in the teeth until the right words came tumbling out my behemoth ears, for trekking to Southeast Asia just to meet up for drinks. Crazy bastard. Without you, this book wouldn't be.
To all the men and women I served with and commanded in Kfir and Givati. What can I say, I'd still die for you if I had to.
To Leon, Simon, and Jerome for assuring me that life would work out OK, and for showing me what to strive for in a family and its values.
To the Michael and Andrea Leven Family Foundation for arming the disarmed with the necessary tools to publish this book.
To Ian Ash for “rushin’” headlong into stripping me of all angst after the injury, and promptly returning that angst in the form of Russian strippers.
To Aaron Brik for teaching a young, awkward Izzy how to interact with normal human boys. I continue to fool most of them, beep boop.
To General Yoav Galant, of late Israeli Minister of Construction, for believing in me, and for your laudable leadership, which honored thousands of soldiers, including the parts of this soldier that remain.
To the Dans: Shachar for pouncing on me in rehab; David for patiently panning through my muddy mind until uncovering the shiny scraps; and Ido, simply for being who you are. Stay safe, achi.
Thanks to everyone at Prometheus Books, and Maryann Karinch at the Rudy Agency. Also, to Jason Schwartz and Eva Synalovski, to Kira and Francesca at the Bean.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my sisters, Jaz, Shoshi, and Emu, for loving their older brother despite his innumerable imperfections. I appreciate your choosing to see the subtle strands of good in me. And to Ma for inspiring faith in all you touch, for sticking by me despite our conflicting views on the Omnipresent. And Ta for showing me, firsthand, what it means to sacrifice for others, for keeping your chin up when the chips were down, and for still giving, even though it continues to pain you. You are my hero and always will be.
Punch, for being my left arm, for never letting your size be a minus when it comes to fighting bullies, and for licking my face even when it's not covered in peanut butter.
Thank you to my left arm for those two straight decades of handling my antics. You may have split, but I don't hold it against you.
Drunk Wizard in the Sky, I acknowledge You for creating Heaven and Earth. Also beer and doughnuts.
Girl on the Beach for reminding me of my own value. Our love was like a winged turtle: purely mythic, fun to imagine, not at all aerodynamic.
To the girl of my dreams: I must believe you exist somewhere. I don't enjoy this game, not hide nor seek. Neither of us is getting any younger, dear.
Finally, I have to thank Phantom. I know now that we're brothers, come what may, for life, and I recognize the vital role you play. It's OK that you're an asshole; I can understand why, and I forgive you.