Page 39 of Loving London

I welcome it all, despite the acute pain it brings. I need it to remember what it’s like to feel again.

The only thing worse than experiencing this amount of anguish is not feeling anything at all. The black hole of emptiness is worse than all the emotions put together. I’ve been so empty, a mere shell of myself, barely a man. I was fading into oblivion, and I didn’t care, not one bit.

Every thought, face, and memory tears through my brain, spreading hope and a burning ache in my chest. But maybe that’s the way it goes. I have to hold on to my greatest memories to give me strength to live again even though they all—every last one—bring an enormous amount of agony.

I think of my parents and grandparents and how very much I loved them and how much they loved me. Even now, almost twenty years later, their love is saving me when I need it the most.

I think of Cooper, my best friend, my brother. He loved me when I was unlovable. He saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. He didn’t give up until I let him in. He was my family since the moment we’d become friends. He protected me more times in my adult life than I can count—or even recognize, for that matter. Let’s face it; without Cooper, who knows where I’d be? He came into my life when I needed the support of another person more than anything. He was saving me up until the very end.

He saved me.

Finally, I think of London, the enigma that she is—as feisty as she is beautiful. She wiggled her way into my heart with the tenacity of a lion, and she loved me fiercely. The time I spent with London was the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life.

I feel a lot of things, but what I feel that I never thought I’d feel again is hope.

My sobs continue as months—no, make thatyearsof pain escape. I cry for all those I have lost, and most importantly, I finally cry for myself. I realize that the only way to heal is to acknowledge the grief. I will never be able to move on if I don’t allow my pain to surface. I need to feel it, accept it, own it, and then I need to let it go.

Can I?

Am I brave enough?

Hell yes. I’m a fighter.

I always have been, and I always will be. But I know I can’t do it on my own.

Sarah rushes into my room, her hair a tangled mess and her face tired from sleep. “Loïc!” she shrieks, worry etched into her features. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She rushes to my bed and sits beside me. Wrapping her arms around me, she holds me tight. I rest my face against her shoulder as a few errant tears continue to fall.

“Shh…” She runs her fingers through my hair. “It’s okay. Everything will be fine. Whatever it is, we can figure it out. I love you, Loïc. You’re going to be okay.” She continues to repeat soothing words as she absentmindedly rocks me against her, like a mother would her child.

I hold her tight, allowing her presence to calm me. I’m suddenly hit by an immense feeling of gratitude for Lieutenant Dixon for insisting that I allow one person in because, right now, I’m so grateful to have her.

“I need help, Sarah,” I choke out.

“Okay, tell me what to do,” she says reassuringly.

“I need professional help. I can’t do it on my own. There’s too much darkness,” I admit out loud.

It’s now that I realize that the helplessness, gloom, and despair that have been plaguing my daily thoughts are more than grief. I’m being dragged down by demons that I can’t even pretend to know how to fight.

“Absolutely. Let’s get dressed and go to the VA. We’ll get you help. It’s going to be okay. I love you, Loïc.” She kisses me on the forehead and stands.

“But it’s early,” I say.

“It’s fine. We’ll stop and eat a good breakfast beforehand. Plus, the ER area is open twenty-four hours a day.” She gives me a warm smile.

“How do you know they have an ER area?”

“I’ve done some research. I’ve actually been there to make sure I knew where all the departments were and what the procedures would be for when you wanted to go,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Really?” I ask in disbelief.

“Of course. I’m your person, Loïc. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you’re okay. I knew you’d be ready to go in on your own time.”

“Oh.” I swing my leg over the side of the bed. “Should we call to make an appointment or something?” I reach for my prosthetic.

“Nope. We just show up. They have a policy that they won’t turn away any veteran. You will be seen today. They will talk to you, look at your records, and develop your treatment plan, including medications and therapy sessions. If you feel like you’re a danger to yourself or others, they’ll admit you.”

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