Page 89 of Salute, To Bravery
“I know.” I respond with more edge in my voice than I intended. However, before either of us can say anything else, the doctor enters the room.
Chapter Five.
Jane
Idrop it for now, knowing that pushing him won’t help. Not today. His jaw is tight; his gaze set on a crack in the ceiling as if he’s trying to will himself somewhere else.
The soft knock and creak of the door interrupt any further awkwardness as the surgeon steps in.
An older gentleman in his late fifties, with laugh lines that don’t quite reach his eyes, he enters with a younger woman in tow. Her maroon scrubs are crisp, her dark brown braid neat, lying over one shoulder like a sash. Her skin is almost porcelain, the contrast making her eyes—hazel, maybe?—stand out.
“Hello, Staff Sergeant Scott,” the surgeon says, offering a brief nod to both of us. “This is Dr. Carter. She’ll be your occupational therapist.”
The young woman offers a warm but professional smile.
“How are you feeling today?” the surgeon asks.
“I’m well enough to be discharged, sir,” my husband replies, a little too quickly.
There’s an edge to his tone that doesn’t go unnoticed. I can feel the tension radiating off him—the kind of tension bornnot just from discomfort, but from pride rubbing raw against helplessness.
He can transfer himself from the bed to the wheelchair. That’s progress. But being trapped in this sterile hospital room has worn on him. He’s never done well with stillness—always in motion, always seeking the next horizon. That spirit, that drive, was one of the first things that drew me to him.
And now? Now he’s a week out from surgery, his body stitched back together, but the man I married feels frayed at the seams.
I miss the feel of his hand casually reaching for mine. The quiet moments—coffee on the porch, whispered jokes under the sheets, the shared silence that spoke more than words ever could. I long for those again. I long forhim.
But I also know healing doesn’t happen in a straight line. Not for him. Not for us.
Being here, surrounded by other wounded service members, has been humbling. Each of them carrying burdens—some visible, some not. The strength it takes to endure, to start over, it’s staggering.
Years of deployments, of wondering if he’d come back—or how he’d come back—have worn me thin. Secrets, silence, separation. I’ve been holding on for so long I’ve forgotten what it feels like to justbewith him.
But I’m still here. And I’m not giving up.
The surgeon turns toward Dr. Carter, who steps forward now, her voice gentle but firm. “I don’t see why you can’t be discharged to the Fisher House,” she says. “I just wanted to introduce myself before we begin next week.”
Her gaze settles on him, steady. “This road to recovery will be as much mental as physical. I’ll have the nurse bring you the paperwork, and we’ll coordinate your follow-ups. There are a few appointments she can help set up, butabsolutely noworking outuntil after our first session. Do you understand, Staff Sergeant?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies reluctantly, but with a touch of respect.
I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
We’re leaving this room. Tonight, I’ll sleep next to him again—not curled awkwardly in his hospital bed, but with enough space to hold him, to be held.
Maybe things won’t go back to the way they were. But maybe they don’t have to.
Maybe we’ll build something new—together.
It’s going to be okay.It has to be.
???
Several hours later, with the sun high overhead, the discharge papers are signed. We say polite goodbyes to the staff who have, in their own way, become part of this strange new chapter of our lives.
Despite my gentle protests, he insists on pushing the wheelchair himself during the short trip from the hospital to the Fisher House. I offer to help, more out of habit than belief that he’ll accept. He refuses each time, jaw clenched, arms straining. I know it’s not about the distance—it’s about the control. About reclaiming something.
It’s almost like he’s trying to prove—to himself and everyone watching—that he’s still capable. Still whole.
