Alternate Reality

I spent two months feeling like I'd accidentally flipped to the wrong page in a choose your own adventure. It seemed like at some point we would get back on track, like this was all some sort of weird twisted dream or maybe we had some sort of 1-up that could take us back to a previous save point.

Obviously modern invention does nothing to help a person through the first stage of grief. (Denial).

Grief.

What a strange experience to be so fucking full of gratitude that you're about to explode and to be overwhelmed with grief at the same time. Sometimes it is hard to remember to grieve when we are grateful for so much. He almost died. Really. He almost took his last breath over there on that godforsaken shit-infested desert soil. Fuck. That.

Before he left, I was careful to go over his whole body and memorize it, love it, grant it whatever safety I could and tell it goodbye. It's not like we didn't see this as a possible outcome of a wartime infantry career. And really, in the course of history, this is the best time for an amputation.

Really? Is this my life?

Yes. This is my life. This is my reality. Our reality.

My husband lost his foot. No, actually, he ripped his foot off after being blown up by sick religious fucks in an endless war across the ocean. Damn, I guess I fell out of Denial and straight into Anger. Yay for grieving progress.

I walked into the bedroom a few minutes ago where he is sleeping, and once again I was completely surprised to see Stumpalufagus. It's weird, because I know on the surface that his left foot is gone, but when he is laying in different positions or I get caught up in some sort of normal task and stumble onto him the breath gets knocked out of me again. Whoa. This is not a choose your own adventure and there is no save point and we don't get a mulligan. This is life. His foot is gone. Forever. Retrieved and cleaned up by a friend.

Stumpalufagus (or his "residual limb", a word used by all the medical personnel that weirds me out), or "Stumpy", is actually very cute. I love him. At first, before I saw Soldier Boy, I was afraid that I was going to be freaked out and that his stump would be scary. I fell immediately in love with Stumpy and more in love with my husband for enduring such hardship and coming out with such humor. I love him so much and I am so fucking grateful that he is alive.

And yet. This grief. The things we have lost, the ease of our previous life (imagine, we used to hop in and out of the car at will! and give each other foot massages on the couch. and he could drive. and put on underwear by himself.), our future plans--his school to become a physician's assistant now depends on his recovery and passing a med-board and the school holding his slot long enough for all that to happen and for the army to waive any requirements that he will no longer be able to meet.......

We have gained a lot too and that is what I try to focus on in my daily life but holy fucking shit this hurts. Like, deep in the gut in a way I can't describe hurts.

I feel stupid sometimes, though, because in the facility where he does all of his physical therapy, triple amputees abound. Like Kenny, our first roommate, who is 22 and a triple amp and his girlfriend died while he was in the hospital and nobody told him for several weeks so he thought she was ditching him because of his injuries, but no, she was dead instead. What!?? Kenny is awesome and full of life, smiles and humor.

We are so fortunate. I never want to lost sight of that.

But damn.

Damn.

Damn.

There are things I have to think about and feel and let go of and accept. I can't ignore them or pretend that I am better than I am or that because I am grateful I have nothing to mourn. I know, deeply, that it could have been much, much worse. This place is incredible for perspective. I also know that this is a bump in our road in the long run, and that his injuries are really not going to preclude him from most of the activities he wants to do in life. I know that our current arrangement is temporary--I am not going to be the only driver forever, I am not going to be slinging his wheelchair forever, I am not going to be the only sober adult in our house forever. He is not going to be on such heavy doses of narcotics forever. He is not going to be in so much pain forever.

I know these things. I am trying to appreciate the things we DO have now--being back together, finally being able to cook for us again (two months of restaurants make you never want to eat out again), having slow time to heal and come together as a family. These are good things and quite honestly I am more at peace with some things now than I ever have been. I enjoy sitting on the porch with him drinking coffee, taking naps, having nothing better to do than sit quietly and enjoy one another. These are great things. The multiple appointments per day are a little overwhelming, but it is calming down. It's nice.

But holy fuck, I just walked in my room and there was my husband, laying on the bed, missing a foot. And don't even get me started on the contraption on his other one--the frame is supported by 6 screws and about 12 pins going into his bones (including one through each toe.) We refer to that one as FrankenFoot.

I want to throw myself around him and protect him from the whole world, to siphon some of his pain to give him some relief, to bear his burden so those worry lines leave his forehead. He never had those before. He never had a frown before, either. He still laughs and jokes--don't get me wrong. They just don't flow as easily as they did before we flipped the wrong page and slipped down the rabbit hole.