Page 98 of Salute, To Bravery
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 talkatme. She talkstome. 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 constantcompanion, 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.
