Page 47 of Salute, To Bravery

Jane

I drop 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 born not 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 for him.

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 just be with 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, but absolutely no working out until 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.

As we cross the threshold into the Fisher House, I see the shift immediately.

The tension that’s lived in his shoulders for days begins to melt away.

His eyes scan the warm, lived-in space—the soft lighting, the sound of distant voices, the faint aroma of something comforting baking in a kitchen nearby.

He lets out a long breath.

“You okay?”

“Yea, this is the first time I have been outside and free.” This place isn’t ours, not really. But it feels closer to home than that sterile, clinical hospital room ever could.

“Let’s get you to our makeshift home, I can introduce you to some of the other housemates.

” I guide him toward our room on the first floor.

Inside, it’s modest but beautiful. A queen-size bed dressed in crisp white linens, and a deep navy duvet sits to the left.

The walls are painted a calming shade of grey, dotted with peaceful landscapes.

A desk rests under a window, a computer neatly arranged on its surface.

The bathroom is thoughtfully designed, accessible, and unobtrusively so… dignified.

He wheels in slowly, taking it all in. When he reaches for my hand and smiles, it’s like something in me clicks into place. There, in that quiet gesture, is the man I fell in love with—still weathered, still healing, but present.

“Pizza?” he asks, a spark of mischief in his voice. “There’s gotta be good pizza somewhere in D.C. Text Rei—see what she recommends.” He rolls toward the bathroom, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Smiling, I pull out my phone and shoot off a message to Rei, hoping she’s not slammed at work. Just in case, I start browsing reviews online, scanning local options.

Her reply comes back quickly:

REI: Martha Dear has the best in your area.

I shoot her a quick thank you, then pull up the menu. The shower water starts running in the bathroom. Moving quickly, I place an order for our favorites—a classic cheese pizza and a slice of honey walnut cake. Simple. Familiar. Us.

Quickly changing out of my jeans and t-shirt into a pair of leggings and oversize shirt.

When I hear the water shut off and a short time later the bathroom door creaks open, and a moment later, Craig wheels back into the room, hair damp, wrapped in a towel, his expression softer.

His chest is muscular, with soft hair on his chest. I long to run my hands through it again.

“I ordered the pizza,” I say, maybe too eagerly. “Want to relax on the bed and watch a movie?”

He nods, easing himself onto the bed after getting dressed in a pair of boxers I had laid out for him while he showered. “That sounds wonderful.”

I let out a breath and check the pizza status while he scrolls through movie options. Eventually, he settles on The Mummy , and I don’t protest. I want him to choose tonight. I want him to feel in control again, even in the little things.

By the time the pizza arrives, we’re tucked under the duvet, stretched out, a tray balanced between us like we’ve done countless times before. It feels… normal. Like nothing’s changed, even though so much has.

We eat, we laugh at the movie, we let the world shrink to this small, cozy moment—just the two of us. No hospital walls. No doctors. Just us.

Later, I clean up, labeling the leftovers with our names and sliding the box into the shared kitchen fridge. I run through my nighttime routine on autopilot, brushing my teeth, washing off the day.

When I return to the room, he’s already under the covers. I slide in beside him, our bodies fitting together like they always have.

As we snuggle close, my fingers trace the familiar lines of his chest. The steady rise and fall of his breath anchors me, and I press my body against his, savoring the warmth and comfort of our embrace.

Then, he reaches for my hand.

His fingers wrap around mine—not urgently, not with need, but with purpose. He brings our joined hands to his chest and holds them there. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just breathes.

“I know I haven’t been easy to be around,” he says quietly, his voice low in the dark. “But right now… I don’t need to be fixed. I don’t need a plan. I just need you —here. Like this. Just knowing you are here, is everything.”

I shift slightly, eyes stinging, but I don’t let the tears fall.

“It’s all going to be okay,” he continues, squeezing my hand gently. “We’ll figure it out. Just… stay with me. At this moment, you are everything I need, baby, I need you to know that.”

I nod against his shoulder, letting the silence say the rest. No pressure, no performance, no expectations.

Just presence. Just love, simple and steady.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel him let go—of the weight, the fear, the fight—and simply be with me.

We drift off to sleep, curling my body as closely as I can with him. Needing this as much as he does.

The silence of the night shatters with a piercing scream, followed by the frantic rustling of sheets and the violent shaking of the bed.

My heart slams against my chest as I jolt awake.

“NO! Please, Brandon—please don’t!” Craig cries out, voice thick with terror.

It takes me a moment to understand—he’s dreaming. A nightmare. One of those nightmares.

I reach for him, trying to shake him awake. “Craig,” I whisper sharply. “Craig, baby please wake up—”

Before I can finish, his hands clamp around my throat.

My breath catches. The shock freezes me for a second—but only a second.

Panic takes over. I thrash beneath him, clawing at his arms, digging my nails into his skin, trying to pry his fingers away.

My lungs scream for air. His grip is iron, face contorted in fear and confusion, eyes wide but not seeing me.

He’s somewhere else. Somewhere darker.

In a desperate surge, I strike out—my palm slaps his cheek, hard. Nothing. I pull my knee up sharply and drive it into his groin. My vision and body are fighting the lack of oxygen.

His body recoils, and his grip loosens. A strangled gasp tears from my throat as I scramble free, coughing, sucking in air.

Craig falls back onto the mattress, hands splayed wide like he’s surrendering. His chest heaves. His eyes are glassy, stunned—and then they meet mine.

The wild panic in them breaks. Shame floods in behind it. “Jesus,” he breathes, barely audible. “Oh my God…”

I scramble backward until my back hits the wall. I stay there, panting, watching him with wide, trembling eyes. I don’t know what to say. I’m too stunned, too shaken. My throat aches where his hands were. My entire body is humming with fear and adrenaline.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try to explain. He just slowly rolls to the edge of the bed, slips into his chair with stiff, jerky movements, and leaves. The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

Sliding down the wall and crumpling to the floor, tears spilling freely now. My hands tremble in my lap. The adrenaline leaves me cold and empty. I curl in on myself, sobbing silently. What do I do?

How do I comfort a man who doesn’t even know he’s hurting me? A man who’s broken in places I can’t reach?

How do I love him through this… without losing myself in the process?