Page 3 of Loving London

As I stare at the spot where my leg should be, Sergeant Hannigan pulls up the gown a few inches to reveal the bandaged up stump of my left leg. There’s really nothing to see, except a gauzed up nub, the pathetic remnant of a leg.

Letting out a sigh, I lean my head back against the pillow. The sergeant fixes my bedding back around me.

I close my eyes and think about my legs, and the crazy thing is, I can still feel the left one. I can actually feel it. I move my foot around in a circle, taking in the way my ankle cracks with the motion. Yet, when I open my eyes and peer down, there’s no left foot to move. I simply stare at the spot where it should be.

“Are you okay, Lieutenant?” Hannigan asks.

“I’m fine,” I lie. How can I be okay? I’m banged up as hell, in a hospital in Germany, without a fucking leg. No, I’m not fine.

“I know this is a lot to take in. We have doctors you can talk to. It helps.”

“No, I’m okay, really.” I turn my head to the side and notice the window for the first time. Unfortunately, my view is of brown bricks, more than likely the exterior from another part of the hospital.

“All right, well, I’m going to finish up your chart. Private Taylor will be here soon, and she’ll order some soft foods for you, so your body can get used to eating solids again. Nothing says dinner like Jell-O, right?” Hannigan’s question is rhetorical, so I ignore it. “The doctor will be here sometime within the next hour to go over everything with you as well. I paged him when you started to wake up. Can I get you anything before I go?”

“No,” I answer quietly.

“Okay, if you need anything, just press this call light right here.” He shows me the red button on the railing. “I just pushed some pain meds through your IV right before you woke up, but if the pain becomes too much, we can give you some more.”

“Oh, Sergeant Hannigan?” I say before he leaves.

He turns to look at me. “Yeah?”

“How long have I been here?”

“About two weeks.”

“How long do you think I’ll stay here?” I ask.

“You can talk to the doctor when he gets in, but I’m guessing you’ll be here for another two weeks before you’re well enough to fly to Walter Reed, the big military hospital in Washington DC. There, you’ll probably have intense PT for about a month before they clear you to go home and get the rest of your treatment at the nearest VA hospital to you. So, that will put you home sometime in May. Things can vary, of course, but given an injury like yours, that’s my guess,” he says cheerfully.

“Thanks.” I nod.

He smiles warmly and exits the room.

Feeling tired, I close my eyes. I can figure this all out later—reconstruct the pieces of my life, regain my memories, discover how to do all the things I love with one leg. Right now though, I just need to sleep.

Whether from the pain meds or the sheer exhaustion of my battered body, sleep takes me almost instantly. I’m on the precipice of blissful deep slumber—in that moment right before the entire world fades away but where I’m still subconsciously aware of where my physical body lies—when it happens.

I seehim.

I watch in a panic as he jumps, throwing his body over the grenade.

I try to stop him, but I can’t. I can’t reach him in time.

I stare in horror as his body explodes. Pieces of his body hit me as they fly through the air, and I scream out in pain—an unrelenting, intense agony so deep that it burns clear through to my soul.

The utter horror of it all comes back in agonizing clarity.

Cooper’s gone.

He’s gone.

I bolt up in bed, immune to the screeching protests of my body, and I yell, a wild cry from the worst pain I’ve ever known.

I can’t stop screaming. The heartache is killing me. It’s so tangible that it manifests as physical pain, ripping through me, breaking my mind, body, and soul into thousands of empty pieces.

I vaguely register the presence of others. Somewhere in the distance, I hear my name being called, but I can’t get back there.

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