Page 23 of Proof Of Life

Coming home isn’t much of a homecoming.

I was never under the impression that being home would be a magic cure for either of us, and even knowing that, the melancholy and depression hits harder than I was prepared for.

I’m lost in the day-to-day routines, distracted by laundry, dishes, and doctor appointments. The silent minutes of my day are filled with echoes of their voices, the sound of their laughter, past conversations we had. Their faces haunt me. I’m drowning in the past, and I'm losing myself. Or maybe I just don’t want to find out who I am now.

I'm buried under the weight of their memory, and I can’t forget.

It’s draining me dry. I have nothing left to give, nothing left to feel. I’m just numb. Numb, and so fucking done. But I don’t have the luxury of giving up, like West. He needs me; he needs my strength, he needs my legs, and as much as I would love to give up, to crawl into bed and never wake up, I have to be strong—for him.

I won’t let him fall, and I won’t let him fail. I’m going to make sure he heals and lives the best life he can, even if it kills me.

I’m running myself ragged, burning both ends of the candle, just trying to stay afloat. Every morning I have to wake up and report to my CO. Then I hit the track and run five miles before rushing back home to start the laundry and make breakfast. I’m trying to keep West on a routine, so I wake him up, help him get washed up, dole out his meds, and deflect his rotten attitude. I’m already exhausted by this point, but there’s no rest for the weary. The rest of our day is filled with PT, doctors’ appointments, and enough paperwork to give me carpal tunnel.

But in the evenings, when the sun sets and the chaotic day grows dark, the minutes slow down to a crawl. West chooses to be solitary, and he remains in bed, usually passed out on painkillers… or maybe he’s just pretending to be asleep to avoid me. Television only holds my attention for so long, and I feel like I’m climbing the walls looking for something to keep busy. I just want someone to talk to, some place to be, anything—any distraction from my head.

Fresh from the shower, I step into clean sweatpants and head across the hall. Ducking my head into West's room, I make sure he’s settled before I head downstairs. His bed is empty.

Where in the fuck is he?

His chair, which is always parked next to his bed, is also gone. “West? Yo, West!”

He doesn’t answer, and I duck into his bathroom only to find it empty. Standing there, I wonder what the fuck is going on, wonder how a guy who can barely sit up on his own can disappear without a trace. A flash of light catches my eye and I whip my head around to the sliding glass door that leads to his balcony. The sun reflects off the metal of his chair—that’s what caught my eye. With a smile, I shake my head, amused that he got one over on me. I’m just thrilled he had the motivation to get his ass out of bed. He hasn’t sat outside in the sun since… Well, not since before his accident. And as I stand here and watch, he grabs the railing and pulls himself up out of his chair, and I’m almost too late before I realize what he’s doing.

Motherfucker!

In a panic, I take off at a dead run, vaulting over his bed, and I throw the door open. “West! Stop!”

Half his body is already dangling over the ledge, and if he had two good legs, he’d be on the ground already, a floor below. Then again, if he had two good legs, he might not be on this balcony in the first place. Desperately, I grab onto his leg, pulling him back with all my strength. I’m yelling and sobbing, a complete fucking wreck, but West doesn’t say a word. We land in a heap on the balcony floor.

“What are you doing?” He still doesn’t answer. My tears are falling so hard and fast they’re blinding me, and I’m choking on snot and the lump in my throat. “Why? Why would you do that?” But I don’t need him to answer. I already know why.

At this height, he wouldn’t even have killed himself, most likely, unless he hit his head. His fall would only have caused further injury to his body. My arms are around his waist and I squeeze him tighter, in anger and relief, and because I just need to reassure myself with the solid weight of his body that he’s still here. Still alive.

As much as he doesn’t want to be. And I can’t will him to live. How many more times am I going to have to save him? He clearly doesn’t want to be saved. But I’m not giving him a choice.

“Try that again, and I’ll kill you myself.”

“I wish you would,” he says, and I have to physically restrain myself from clawing his face with my bare hands. That's how angry I am. I want to hurt him like he’s hurting me. I want to shake him hard enough to knock sense into him. I want to make him want to live, and I don’t know how.

Even though I’m with him practically every minute of every day, I’ve never felt more alone.

While West meets with his occupational therapist, I have an appointment with my doctor. After waiting forty-five minutes past my scheduled time, a nurse finally comes in.

“I’m sorry Staff Sergeant, the doctor is running behind and won’t be seeing you today. I’m just going to check your wounds myself.”

Welcome to TRICARE. Army medicine, Army strong.

“Looks like your infection cleared up. And I see a note here in your chart about your hearing loss. Did you want me to order you a hearing aid?”

I realize how petty it is for me to balk at using a hearing aid, but it stings my pride. And I want to kick myself for being angry with West. What I feel isn’t even a fifth of what he feels.

“Nah, but thanks anyway. I’ve still got one good ear.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind. I’m going to have the doctor schedule you for a follow-up X-ray on your ribs. But other than that, you’re good to go.”

I’m pulling my shirt back on just as West wheels himself into the room. “What’d the doc say?”

I chuff a harsh breath. “What doc? The one who’s too busy to see me?”

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