Page 95 of Salute, To Bravery
This is the most he’s let me see of him in weeks. Not just physically—but emotionally. And I realize as I watch him work that healing isn’t just something that happens to a body. It’s something you fight for. Choose. Every single day.
When he finishes, he throws away the used bandages, rolls back toward the bed, and climbs in beside me.
He doesn’t say anything this time. He just reaches for me, pulls me in gently, and breathes me in like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to this life.
And maybe I am.
Chapter Seven.
Craig
The room is quiet, almost too quiet. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and the kind of lemony cleaner you only notice in sterile places like this. I’m sitting in a low, uncomfortable chair across from Dr. Ramirez, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and an air of practiced calm. She’s dressed casually, no white coat or clipboard — just a legal pad resting on her knee and a pen she hasn’t touched yet.
I shift in my chair, adjusting the stump supports on my wheelchair, trying to focus on something other than how exposed I feel here. I’ve faced down insurgents, breaching charges, and burning metal — but this is what gets under my skin. Sitting in a room and being expected to talk.
“So,” she says gently, “I heard it’s been a rough couple of nights.”
I don’t answer right away. I just nod.
She waits, letting the silence stretch but never letting it feel punishing. Just open. Inviting.
“I hurt my wife,” I finally say, my voice tight. “In my sleep. Nightmare. I didn’t know it was her.”
Dr. Ramirez doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a note, doesn’t even blink. She just listens.
“I woke up with my hands around her throat. If she hadn’t—” I stop, swallow. “If she hadn’t fought back, I don’t know how far it would’ve gone.”
“You weren’t fully present,” she says. “You were having a trauma response, not making a conscious choice.”
“I know that,” I snap, too fast. Then I sigh and shake my head. “No, I don’t. Not really. Not when she looked at me like she didn’t recognize me.”
Silence again. Dr. Ramirez nods slowly.
“That’s the hard part, isn’t it? Coming home, but not really beinghere.Your body made it back, but your mind… parts of it are still there.”
I stare at a crack in the paint on the wall behind her, jaw clenched.
“I’ve been where you are,” she continues, voice steady. “Not personally, but I’ve walked through it with enough soldiers to know that shame can be louder than pain. But if you bury it, it doesn’t go away. It just festers.”
I nod again, quieter this time.
“I know you’re seeing a physical therapist, starting work with your OT next week,” she adds. “But I want you to consider group therapy. We run a weekly meeting for amputees in recovery—some active-duty, some discharged. You’re not the only one who’s struggling with identity, with rage, with sleep. And I think hearing others talk about it might help you start to find your own words.”
I shift again, uncomfortable. “Group’s not really my thing.”
“I hear that a lot,” she replies. “But neither is losing your legs. Or your team. Or your sense of safety in your own bed. And yet here you are, showing up anyway.”
I look at her for the first time since I sat down.
“You don’t have to share the first time,” she says. “Or even the second. But show up. Listen. Let yourself be seen—not as broken, but as someone trying to put the pieces back together.”
I nod, slow and heavy. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I ask.”
As I wheel myself out of the office, her words linger.Let yourself be seen.I’m not sure I’m ready for that—but maybe I’m tired of hiding.
Chapter Eight.
