by R. J. Belle
Toran paused and looked away from me for a moment. When he turned his face back toward me, I could see he had tears in his eyes. He straightened his posture, cleared his throat claiming to have something in his eye and continued his story.
“One of my junior Marine’s took shrapnel in the head from the blast and we got medevaced together. The majority of what I know about the blast was told to me by others who were there. I don’t have many of my own memories. My junior Marine said that he asked the British pilot if I was going to be okay and the pilot responded with his hands in the thumbs-up sign. He said looking at me though, he thought there was no way I would survive.
I was taken to Camp Bastion then Bagram. From there I went to Germany then Bethesda. Once at Bethesda my brother, Dominic, received my body and my grandparents arrived a day later. Dominic had to make all of the medical decisions on my behalf because I spent the first two and a half months in a coma. I had a severe infection in my right leg which resulted in five more amputations; eventually the last one took the rest of my leg and my hip. There wasn’t a choice, it was my hip and the rest of my leg or my life; my brother made the right decision. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for my family – having to make decisions that would change my life – to save my life. I remember waking up a few times. At first, I thought I had been captured; another time I thought I was still in high school and had been in a car accident. That time is hazy and I only have fragmented memories.
From Bethesda I was sent to Palo Alto to a polytrauma unit. When I arrived in Palo Alto, I was so angry at the world. I couldn’t talk; I could barely hold a pen. All I remember is that I didn’t want to be kicked out of the Marine Corps. I spent five months at Palo Alto. I did some physical therapy there, but the primary focuses were speech therapy, mental health, and vocational therapy. When I left Palo Alto, my next stop was San Diego. I still didn’t get it, you know, I was still angry when I arrived in San Diego at Balboa. I thought everyone owed me something, and I didn’t know how to communicate. I had to have a few more surgeries; the last one was to reverse my colostomy.
I was lucky enough to be matched with a great prosthetist, Randy Whiteside. He had no idea what he was going to do with me, but he just started trying different things and it worked so we ran with it. I started out on my stubbies – short legs basically to practice on. I started walking around the hospital a bit. After that last surgery, I had about a three-week gap before I could leave the hospital. I practiced a lot on my legs. I started walking on my legs, short distances; I couldn’t walk that far because I don’t have a hip, so it was hard to walk for very long and it was extremely frustrating. But having my legs made it so much easier and more comfortable to sit. It was a six-month process from my stubbies to getting around on my legs with knees. I also spent a lot of time in therapy. I have a hard time with communication and relationships. I think I will be in therapy for a long time.
Being at Balboa helped me a lot. Being around my Marines and other guys who have injuries; it just made me feel closer to the military being there. I felt like I had a purpose. I didn’t want to let any junior Marines see me struggle and that pushed me to be better or get up on my knees sooner. I wanted my independence back – I didn’t want to have to rely on anyone. I felt like I was still a leader. My amputations are not the worst of my injuries; it’s my brain injury that makes life hard. I can figure out the walking part, but not being able to remember what day it is or what medications I’m supposed to take sucks. I was always outspoken, but now I don’t know how to filter what I say and I end up hurting people’s feelings even when I don’t mean to.
The people at Balboa kept trying to push me to do other therapies like surfing. They tried really hard to get me to play wheelchair basketball, but I will never play basketball again. Never.
I started surfing, and then I did a marathon on my hand-cycle and I loved it. I also started going to CrossFit Del Mar. I have a cross-fit competition coming up soon and a series of marathons. I am getting ready to do four marathons in four weeks. Next year I’m thinking about riding across America on my hand-cycle. All of that helps me. It makes me feel like I am still doing something positive with my life. I want to inspire other people to continue to be active after injuries.
The first time I was introduced to Sandy and Warrior Foundation, she was at Balboa giving out backpacks for Christmas. I was angry about it because I didn’t understand why they were giving this stuff to us, the injured guys, instead of to the guys at Pendleton who were still serving. It took me a long time to understand that there were organizations that wanted to help us. They wanted to make things easier and better for us. I had to take a step back and look at the big picture. I’m close to a lot of the volunteers at Warrior Foundation Freedom Station; they are my family here in San Diego.
I moved to Freedom Station in 2013. Being able to move into my place at Freedom Station was a new beginning for me. I had to learn how to do things for myself, and I needed that transition time. Being in the hospital, it’s hard to learn how to do anything for yourself because people are doing almost everything for you.”
Toran became quiet for a moment. When he began speaking again, his words were measured carefully, and I could see his emotional pain in his facial expressions.
“At my retirement, I spent a lot of time reflecting on what happened and all that was lost. Getting out was hard for me not only because I wanted to stay in, but also because I had lost guys who didn’t have that choice anymore. Like Gunny Pate – I knew he would have stayed in. I felt like I should stay in, for him. I know he would want me to live my life for me, and it’s hard to explain those feelings to someone who doesn’t know what its like to lose a brother out there. Pate and the other guys I lost are always with me. I have them tattooed on my arm, and I know they would want me to live my life. The civilian population wants to honor us, the injured guys, and that’s cool, but the guys who didn’t come back and the guys who are still out there serving – that’s who we should honor – that’s who we should be thanking for their service.
I retired from the Marine Corps in February of 2014. I have done several internships and worked for Congressman Duncan Hunter. I have been able to prove to myself that I can live independently; I can drive myself where I need to go, and I enjoy the sports and physical activities I take part in. I can honestly say that the last eight years of my life have been the best eight years of my life. I’ve seen people overcome obstacles that didn’t seem possible. People have seen me overcome things that didn’t seem possible. But, at the end of the day, I regret getting out of the Marine Corps. Every day. I was a good leader, and think I could have made a career out of it. People tell me not to regret it, but I do. Getting out is my only regret.”
I was nervous when it had come time to interview Toran. I remember driving to meet him that evening like it was yesterday. When I arrived at his cottage, I was instantly aware of our connection – it was immediate, and it was powerful. This interview was much different than the others. I felt like I had known him my whole life. After a few minutes of idle chatter, I turned on my recorder, and we got started. Early into the interview he said something that will stay with me forever. It struck me like an arrow piercing my soul; it woke me up from the complacency I had adopted.
“I do this because some woman, somewhere, might pick up an article or a book and read this, and she might be at the end of her rope. Maybe she will read this and think her life isn’t so bad. Maybe she will read this and know she can go on, too.”
Maybe it was because he referenced a “woman” or maybe it was just what I needed to hear at the time. Maybe he referenced a woman because he was talking to me, and I am a woman – I don’t know. What I do know is that I left with a different mindset than when I arrived. His story is undoubtedly an amazing one, but it was more than his story that affected me that evening. It was everything about him. It was everything about us. It was an awakening for me – one that I needed and at the very moment tha
t I needed it most. It was a breath of fresh air. It was a kiss at the very core of my being. It was everything and nothing all at the same time. It was the most magical moment of my life. It changed me. He changed me. Knowing him changes me every day. And so began our journey.
The months that followed our interview are a blur. Toran and I began secretly dating. I had reservations because of the age difference, but I couldn’t deny what my heart was telling me to do. Becoming involved in a relationship with Toran opened my eyes to experiences that I would have never been able to understand fully or articulate but for being a part of them. It has been almost two years of many highs and lows. I’ve seen the physical and emotional struggle of Toran’s ‘after’ with my own eyes – I’ve been a part of it. Hearing about such struggle and being a daily witness to that struggle allow for two altogether different perspectives. Being sucked into the world full of extreme uncertainty is similar to getting the wind knocked out of you multiple times a day. Almost as painful is the unbearable truth that this is your life – for the rest of your life. There is no way to fix it, change it or ignore it. I have come to understand that there is, however, a way to normalize the insanity of living with not only life changing physical injury, but also game-changing emotional trauma.
There is a danger, however, in over-normalizing this existence. If you are successful in normalizing the situation completely, it becomes easy to minimize the harsh reality. Toran and I have both done this, specifically in 2015, and we both paid the price. Eventually, we found ourselves taken by surprise on some random day, by some regular occurrence like no available handicap parking on a rainy day when he is wearing his legs and the closest open spot is a football field away. He gets upset because he wants to go into the store with me and I get upset because I don’t want him to walk that far in the rain. It hits us like a ton of bricks and we snap back to our reality. It’s important to learn to adapt and know that improvisation has to be a part of our lives. I feel better equipped today to recognize the line that we sometimes cross, together, and that line scares me. However, to find that ‘normal’ feeling I am frequently stepping ever closer to it. I suppose this paints the picture of our dance. Like everyone else – we make mistakes, fall, get back up and start again. My biggest fear is and will continue to be the what-ifs. What if he can’t get back up next time? What if he, too, becomes a statistic? What if I fail him? I believe that is a worry for many of us – the caregivers and the wives of war. War isn’t selective of its victims, and it doesn’t mind sharing its devastation. War is far reaching, and its ripple effect can range far beyond the battlefield. It has taken almost two years for me to understand that but understanding doesn’t make it easier.
Even with all the ugliness and struggle, I wouldn’t change the journey or my eventual destination. Our house is regularly filled with laughter and smiles. Every day I see accomplishments big and small from Toran and the rest of the family from watching Toran successfully navigate an inaccessible home to my tiny little girl hefting a wheelchair in and out of the back of a pick-up truck. Hearing a little boy in an elementary school classroom inquire about Toran’s rank by asking, “What level are you?” to my daughter matter-of-factly proclaiming, “I couldn’t find your backpack so I just put the pencil in your leg.” One of the greatest times to date was watching Toran get back on the basketball court. Never say never. He returned as a youth coach and the lessons he teaches his kids significantly exceed learning the game of basketball. There are hundreds of moments that I can’t help but smile about when I replay them in my mind. A new normal, indeed.
The world can be a cruel place for someone like Toran. People stare, ask inappropriate questions and are just downright rude sometimes. They are often insensitive to the plight of daily life with severe and debilitating injuries. We have those who take out their anger over war and politics on those who served this great country, and that is something I will never understand. Some days I feel like we are at risk of becoming misanthropic, but then a kind soul will pop up out of nowhere and extend some small gesture that reminds me there is goodness all around us, and we have the wounded military community who help with healing and understanding.
A lot changed in my life following my interview with Toran, in fact, just about everything in my life changed. The more time I spend with him, the stronger our bond becomes. I knew he was my forever; I just didn’t know how we would get there. The process by which that happened – is still happening – has been enlightening, frightening and challenging. Most of all, it has shown me a strength of the human spirit that I didn’t know existed. It has shown me a side of myself that I didn’t know I had, and it has shown me what real, true, raw love looks like, and how it feels. It’s easy to be loving, happy and grateful when life is good and nothing is broken. To feel and express those emotions while daily life is a struggle – well, that is a feat that many are never able to pull off.
I consider myself unbelievably lucky to walk through his days with him. To see Toran at his best and his worst and to watch all of the in-between is a gift. For myself and those in my close circle to be able to witness what his daily life consists of and how beautifully he pulls it off is a gift that I wish more people could experience. Every day brings new experiences, and every morning I pinch myself – I can’t believe this is my life. I can’t believe I get to do this every day – I get to be in the presence of a man who shines such a bright light. It is surreal most days. I keep expecting to wake up and go through a regular day – a day of nothing particularly eventful – you know, just an average day. As far as I can tell there is no such thing as an average day with him. Every day is a crazy mix of adding to my gray hair and having my heart beat so fast and hard that I think it might burst. This is what love is supposed to be. How did I get to be the one? I ask myself this question, too. I have quit trying to answer it, though. I don’t care why or how anymore; I am just thankful to be here.
CHAPTER 13
Doc Schneider
We often overlook the emotional scars that stay with those who treat the injured on the battlefield. I believe these unsung heroes are among the most affected when they return from war. I know one such warrior, Justin Schneider – ‘Doc’ to the guys. His quick thinking, professional application, and poise under pressure saved Toran’s life. Although Doc doesn’t like to take credit for his part in Toran’s second chance at life, it is a fact that but for him Toran would not be with us today.
I am incredibly thankful that Justin is a part of Toran’s life. When I watch the two of them interact I can’t help but smile. I can’t relate to the bond they have. I don’t think many people can, but it is a beautiful interaction to witness. I am blessed to be able to see it with my own two eyes.
In Doc’s Words
“I think back on the day of the IED blast that caused Toran’s injuries. I remember the sights, the smells, and the actions everyone in the squad took to make sure we got Gaal out of there as quickly as possible. It wasn’t until we put him on the helicopter that it truly sank in. Gaal was a leader, and although sometimes the stuff he did or said got under my skin, we all respected him. Watching his recovery, accomplishing as much he has; it’s inspirational. I’ve watched him adapt and overcome his physical challenges as well the mental, even though those injuries can be the hardest to heal. Being involved in his life since his accident and talking about that day and the events that took place after has helped in my mental recovery.
Every combat veteran who makes it home unscathed thinks back to the ones who didn’t come home or the ones who came back physically different. We feel that it should have been us instead. I blamed myself for a few things and had some dark thoughts for a long time; I couldn’t even talk to the Marines I had treated for injuries. The invisible wounds are the hardest, and I know that each one of us struggle to deal with that in our own way.
The friendship Toran and I have is different than most other friendships. He often thanks me for doing what I did, what we as a squad did to b
ring him home and that’s when it all makes sense. We all had different reasons for being there doing what we were doing, but at the end of the day it was all about the guy to the left and right of you. The selflessness I witnessed during our deployment still amazes me and in some crazy way makes me wish I could go back, with the same guys, to do the same thing. Watching the gentlemen that I was with for those seven months overcome their injuries, start or add to their families, and live successful and happy lives has helped in my recovery.
I hope that all veterans know that when the days seem dark – even though you might not have remained in touch – they always have the guys that were next to them to talk to, to come to for support. Toran’s story is one I tell often. The fact that he was able to overcome it all, pick himself up and get to where he is today is always a great story. From competing in marathons to riding across the country on a hand bike, his positive attitude while doing it inspires people. It proves that our wounded warriors are still here and still capable of doing great things.”
CHAPTER 14
A Note for Caregivers
Postwar life impacts more than the service members. Unfortunately, those of us who have the great honor, and at times self-appointed obligation, to care for combat-injured veterans do not have an extensive network of resources. Just like our husbands, wives, sons, daughters, sisters or brothers we are often on our own to make it all work out somehow. I find that fact as reprehensible as I find the lack of mental and emotional help our veterans receive from the Veterans Administration.