Page 52 of Salute, To Bravery

Craig

A fter weeks of healing—both physically and emotionally—I’m finally at the point where I can begin the next phase of recovery: getting fitted for prosthetics.

The scars from surgery have faded to faint pink lines, soft against the mottled surface of my skin.

The pain, though still present, comes in manageable twinges now—more like a low hum than a sharp stab.

A distant echo of everything I’ve lost. It’s strange, the way your body adjusts to absence.

Like it rewrites its own definition of normal.

I told Jane it was just another physical therapy session. Nothing special. She booked a spa day with my sister—mud masks, scalp massages, herbal tea. I told her to go. Told her I’d be fine. And I will be. I think.

Still, my palms sweat as I wheel myself into the waiting room of the prosthetics clinic, trying not to let my nerves show. I check in at the front desk and find a seat near the window, where sunlight spills across the tile in long golden strips.

The room smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee; the kind brewed too long on a burner.

A few other patients sit nearby —some chatting quietly with family, others lost in their own thoughts.

One man in the corner is missing an arm and casually flipping through a magazine with his prosthetic hand like he’s done it a thousand times.

I wonder if I’ll ever make it look that easy.

Today’s just about measurements and prep. No actual legs yet. No walking. But still—it feels monumental. A step closer to reclaiming some part of myself.

It’s strange. When I first woke up in that hospital bed, groggy from pain meds and grief, I couldn’t imagine getting here.

Back then, every day felt like climbing a mountain barefoot.

Just brushing my teeth, lifting my body into a chair, felt impossible.

But I climbed anyway. Now I’ve climbed enough to see the next peak. I’m not there yet—but I can see it.

The door opens. “Staff Sergeant Scott?” the receptionist calls.

I nod, bracing my hands on the wheels, and roll forward. I’m grateful she doesn’t offer to push me. That small dignity—doing it myself—still matters.

We move down a quiet hallway, the kind that smells faintly of vinyl and floor wax.

The receptionist is friendly but brief, her voice soft like she knows most people who come here are carrying something heavy.

She leads me into an exam room—bright overhead lights, white walls, a cabinet humming with medical tools.

A few laminated posters hang crookedly: diagrams of limb anatomy, tips for phantom limb pain, basic prosthetic care.

She runs through the standard intake: medications, allergies, any recent complications. I answer by habit now, my voice on autopilot, my thoughts already drifting ahead to what comes next.

There’s a knock at the door.

“May I come in?” a woman’s voice calls smoothly. “It’s Dr. Carter.”

She steps in, clipboard in hand, and for a moment the room feels less clinical.

Dr. Carter is small-framed, maybe late thirties, with long chestnut hair pulled back into a low ponytail.

Her blue eyes are sharp but kind. I remember her from an earlier consult, though we haven’t spoken in a while.

She’s one of the few who didn’t just talk at me.

She talks to me. Like I’m a person. Not a project.

“It’s good to see you again,” she says, extending a hand.

“You too,” I reply, shaking it. My grip is firm. Steady. It feels good to say that—to mean it.

“You’ve come a long way since the last time we talked,” she says with a smile.

“Trying,” I say, and leave it at that.

She sets the clipboard aside and kneels next to me to examine my limbs. The paper on the exam table crinkles beneath my thighs as I shift. She works with efficient gentleness, checking the scar lines, pressing lightly around the tissue, feeling for any signs of trouble.

“No inflammation. Good shape, nice taper. Your surgical team did excellent work.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Pain level?”

“Two out of ten. Sometimes a three, if I’ve pushed too hard in PT.”

She nods, then gestures toward the hallway. “Let’s head down to OT. We’ll meet the prosthetics team there. They’ll take your initial measurements and get casts for your test sockets. You ready?”

No. Yes. I don’t know.

“Yeah,” I say anyway. “Let’s do it.”

◆◆◆

The moment I enter the Fisher House Gardens, I feel a quiet breath of relief, as if the weight on my chest has lightened slightly.

These gardens have become my sanctuary, my escape from the world that always feels like it’s moving faster than I can catch up.

Nestled in the heart of the four identical houses that make up the Fisher House complex, these gardens are an unlikely haven—alive with colors and fragrances, the smells of earth and blooming flowers that bring a sense of calm I don’t often find elsewhere.

I wheel myself over the smooth stone path, breathing in the rich scent of fall’s last offerings. The first hints of autumn linger in the air—crisp, cool mornings and the distant promise of change. The flowers cling to their final bursts of color—deep reds, soft purples, and sun-faded oranges.

It’s a sharp contrast to the chaos inside my head.

The physical and emotional exhaustion from the prosthetic evaluation earlier today still weighs on me, heavier than I want to admit.

It was more than I thought it would be—more than just a fitting, more than just the technical details.

It was a confrontation with the reality of what I’ve lost, and it shook me more than I expected.

It’s too much to process all at once. So I find myself here, in the garden, just to exist in the present moment.

When I was a kid, we didn’t stay in one place for long.

My dad’s career meant constant moves, constant uprooting.

It was never easy, and I often found myself alone, with nothing but my thoughts.

But we always came back to Minnesota—Mom’s family, Grandpa’s farm, the dense forests that surrounded his property.

I remember the way the soil felt in my hands, cool and dark, rich with the promise of new life.

I’d spend hours with him, tilling the ground, planting seedlings, getting my hands dirty in the earth, while the trees around us became my playground.

I built forts out of fallen branches and moss-covered stones.

Nature was my constant companion, steady and unwavering in its presence, in its simplicity.

I could always count on it when nothing else felt solid.

Regret for putting my own family through the same hell.

As I sit on the edge of a stone bench in the garden, the weight of the day presses down on me again. The feeling of losing myself, of almost losing everything. My thoughts spiral until I lose track of time—until I’m snapped out of it by the soft sound of footsteps behind me.

Jane sits next to me with a gentle nudge, her presence immediate, like the calm in the storm. Her eyes are rimmed red, and I know something’s wrong before she even says a word.

She takes a shaky breath and looks at me, her voice trembling. “Hey, baby. How was your day?”

Without hesitation, I ask, “What’s wrong?”

She swallows hard before speaking, taking a long breath as if to steady herself.

“Rei and I had a heart-to-heart… and it turned into a bit of an emotional breakdown. Why didn’t you tell me what happened to her?

” Her voice catches, and I can see the weight of the moment pressing down on her.

“I was sitting there, pushing her to tell me what happened because you wouldn’t tell me shit, and then I found out Brandon died protecting her.

He told her he loved her… and then he fucking died.

You almost died. I couldn’t help but think today that I am glad it was him over you.

God, I am such an asshole. I almost lost you. ”

The words hit me like a punch, and my chest tightens, the air leaving my lungs in a rush.

She’s crying now, tears falling freely as she tries to steady herself.

I reach out instinctively, brushing them away with the gentlest touch I can manage.

It feels like I’m holding the pieces of her heart in my hands, and I can’t bear to watch her break in front of me.

Her whispered, “I almost lost you,” keeps replaying in my mind, stirring up a storm of emotions. But in the silence, I’m pulled back to another memory—one that’s still vivid, still sharp, even though it feels like it happened lifetimes ago.

The battlefield flashes before me, a scene that never truly leaves me.

His face contorted in agony, his bloodied hand reaching for me as he screamed my name, pleading for me to hold on. It was chaos, loud and jarring. The crackle of gunfire. The distant whine of helicopters. And Rei’s voice—urgent, calling out for a new extraction point.

I could barely stay conscious, pain ripping through me like a storm, but he refused to let me go.

With every ounce of strength he had left, he lifted me up, his voice barely audible over the din. “She can’t lose us both… You have to make it out alive. Take care of my girl… she’ll need you.” His words were choked out, but there was clarity in them. A promise. “I’ve got you, brother.”

But he didn’t stop. He ran back, without hesitation, toward the others who were still out there, caught in the line of fire.

He dove back into the fray without a second thought, determined to cover everyone else.

He kept moving, pulling Rei to safety, shielding her with his body, even as the rounds tore into him.

He got her into the helicopter, but it was already too late. He had taken too many hits.

I could see it, even as he neared the chopper, his dark eyes catching mine one last time, a faint smile on his face that didn’t match the agony. It was the kind of smile that said everything without words. The kind of smile that said goodbye.

With a slight nod, he surrendered to death, leaving behind nothing but a lifeless husk and a shattered promise I would carry with me forever. Brandon’s death wasn’t just the loss of a brother, but the loss of a future we never got to live. A life that could’ve been.

I snap out of the memory, blinking against the burn of tears threatening to spill.

But I won’t let them fall. Not yet. Not in front of Jane.

Not when she needs me to be strong for both of us.

I push the flashback down deep inside, forcing the flood of emotions back into the locked box where they stay—until they can’t be contained any longer.

I exhale slowly, the ache in my chest gnawing at me as I look at Jane, her face full of fear and concern. Her hand still rests gently against my face, but she doesn’t know what I’m holding inside, what I’ve been carrying all this time.

I let the silence stretch between us before I finally speak, my voice quiet but steady, despite the storm that still rages inside me.

“Brandon didn’t hesitate. He knew what he was doing.

He knew he wasn’t going to make it out.” I say it, but it’s like admitting it out loud makes it real in a way that it never was before.

Jane’s breath catches in her throat, and for a moment, she doesn’t speak. I can see the weight of it all in her eyes, the realization of the sacrifice, of the depth of loss.

Her fingers brush the side of my face again, her touch soft, as if afraid I’ll disappear under her fingertips.

“I just want you here with me. I can’t lose you, Craig.

Take however long you need, but know I am here to help you carry the burden.

” Her voice breaks on the last word, and the dam that’s been holding back the flood of emotions bursts wide open.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself feel it. All the grief, all the guilt, all the pain of everything we’ve been through. Of almost losing each other.

And when the tears finally come, they’re not just for the life I almost lost on that battlefield. They’re for all of us—Rei, Brandon, and the pieces of us that have been broken and lost along the way.

“I’m here, Jane,” I whisper back, my voice hoarse as I pull her close.

“I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. It hurts, I have no idea who I even am now.

The appointment today was for a prosthetics fitting, and I couldn’t bear to have you there and be disappointed by all the things we will never be able to do again.

How could you even love me after everything? ”

Her arms tighten around me, and I feel her soft breath on my neck as she clings to me.

There’s a moment of silence between us, the kind that feels like a fragile bridge stretching between the past and what comes next.

It’s the weight of everything we’ve lost and everything we’re trying to rebuild, all tangled up in each breath we take together.

“You are the only man I have ever loved, the only man who saw me when no one else ever has. You are my everything.”

But in that quiet, I know one thing for certain—I’m not alone. Not anymore.