The axe came down on the back of my head like I was a log. No warning. No shout. One second we were sitting in the village of Shinkay, helmets off, weapons laid down, trying to have a council meeting with village elders.
The next, this insurgent had walked up behind me, pulled an axe from under his robe, and sunk it into my skull. My brothers on my left fired two rounds into him before he could strike again. I blacked out for a second. It should have killed me.
The blade went three inches into the back of my skull. My platoon brothers thought I was dead. The medic bandaged me up, saved my life, and an American Black Hawk flew me out. They talk about the golden hour.
From first injury to reaching the operating room, you want it under an hour. Every minute outside that hour, your chances of survival drop. My job had been to stabilize people, treat life-threatening injuries, make sure they wouldn’t deteriorate during the fifteen-minute helicopter ride back to the operating rooms at Kandahar airfield. Package them up, make sure they’re still breathing and not bleeding, then off they go.
The helicopters fly low and fast, making hard turns to avoid being locked on or shot at. You’re trying to treat a patient, the heat is crushing, the blades are thumping, your adrenaline is pumping, and you’ve sweated out a couple liters of fluid under your body armor. And the whole time, you’re thinking, are we there yet? I was injured in 2006 in a suicide bombing.
There were two weeks left of our tour. As we drove in through the city gates, my co-driver called out, “Car right! ” In that exact moment, I swerved as hard as I could left. He detonated on the axle and lifted our vehicle up through the air, tumbling it.
I popped out. My left leg was ripped off instantly. My right leg was destroyed. My hands and face were on fire.
Back at base, we heard a very large explosion and felt the building move. We knew immediately it was one of our patrols, and it was bad. I remember flying through the air, then smacking against a wall. As a medic, I looked down and knew I was in deep, deep trouble.
I saw my leg five feet away. I reached for my tourniquet, but it was in the leg that was five feet away. I couldn’t get at it. As soon as I was injured, I knew I had to make it home for my wife and son.
I even thought, worst case scenario, I’m in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Rick Hansen went around the world in a wheelchair, so if he could do that, I could go shopping in one. It’s not a big deal. Did I really think of Rick Hansen in that moment?
I did. Paul came in first, bleeding significantly, missing a leg. They cared for him immediately. Then someone handed me a black garbage bag.
That was his leg. When you’re treating someone you know well, it changes things. You think about their family. You think, I have to send him home.
My husband, Bryce, was with 1 PPCLI. He was slated for the seven-month deployment that followed mine. I came back the second week of February 2006, and he flew out eight days later. Those eight days were good.
But I came back thinking, why did I ever say you could go there? Military families listen to the news all the time. You check headlines constantly. You get home and the news goes on the TV and stays on the TV.
I was in Landstuhl, Germany, and my wife was there. Three days later, the doctor came up to her and said, “We have the leg. ” She said, “What do you want me to do with it? ” They said some people have a service, some throw it in the incinerator.
She just said, “Get rid of it. ”
The funny part is, the leg they sent to Landstuhl initially wasn’t even my leg. My real leg came from Kandahar to Dubai and then to Landstuhl. You imagine the poor pilots flying around with these legs.
When they were finally doing my final surgery on my right leg, the doctor said, “If we cut above the knee, your chances of walking are pretty much slim to none. We want to wait and talk to you about your future plans. ”
I said, “No. If you see something in there like infection, get rid of it.
Cut it off. ”
They said, “Well, you realize what the outcome will be? ”
I said, “Yes. It’s the same outcome I knew from the beginning.
I’m going to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. ”
I’ve known Debbie since 2001, just before the World Trade Center bombings. She was living in Germany. When I was injured, they flew her and my parents over to say goodbye.
That’s how bad it was. I was in an induced coma for a couple of weeks. My first memory was bagpipes. I was being transferred to Edmonton for rehab, and my regiment came in as an honor guard.
My platoon, the platoon I’d commanded overseas. My greatest moment was when my son walked into the room. I was battered and beaten, not looking good. He looked at me and said, “Can you still play video games?
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I said, “Yeah. ”
He said, “Okay, don’t worry about that. ”
I laughed. I knew I couldn’t play soccer or skateboard or ride a bike anymore, but for whatever reason, he chose to ask that silly question, and it just made me smile.
I’ve smiled ever since because of that. What was my prognosis? Probably death. But if I survived, they said I’d be a vegetable for the rest of my life.
I didn’t know that. Debbie did. But she didn’t give up on me. Most women would have run away.
Some of them did. I understand. I left for work one day and heard on the radio that they’d released the name of one of my friends who died earlier in the day. Corporal Chris Reed.
I knew it was bad at that moment, because that was my husband’s driver. If Chris was dead, what about the people who were with him? They said four were injured and four were dead. I called my friend Amy, who had deployed with me.
She said, “Just get to work. Just get to work. ”
I was actually notified of Bryce’s death at work. I can’t imagine how bad that was.
I hope you never have to know. I don’t want anyone’s family to have to know that. I became the national repatriation officer for the Canadian Forces in 2008, towards the end of the mission. In one sentence, the job was making sure everything went right from the moment of death to internment, and sometimes after.
I was proud of what the Canadian Forces did. We heard a lot in the news about how the Americans and British brought their fallen home at night. I was proud to be part of a process that brought them home with poise and dignity, involving the families. Two Canadian medics were killed on my rotation.
Corporal Mike Starker and Corporal Wilmot. I escorted Mike’s casket all the way back to Calgary. All the fears, the emotion, what am I going to say to his wife? You’ve lost your friend, and you’re trying to grieve through that.
I had to go down the Highway of Heroes in the front of the hearse, seeing the fifty bridges draped with flags. I broke down right then in the car and cried for the next little bit. Every bridge, and there are fifty of them between Trenton and Toronto. Every highway, ambulances, fire trucks, and nothing on the 401.
The police had it all blocked off. To those Canadians who came out to the bridges and lined the 401, you’ll never know the solace you brought to the loved ones, to know that the nation shared our grief. Nobody organized this. Generally, the protocol is for families to stay with their loved one until Toronto, then fly home and wait for the remains to be released.
I refused to leave. I wanted to bring him home myself. As we came into Calgary, the pilot announced that we might see two military people on the flight, and explained what we were there for, that we had the honor of carrying a fallen Canadian soldier home. The whole plane went dead quiet on landing.
People were crying. They were clapping when we got up. You could see the sorrow, like every Canadian felt the loss of this soldier. This pride people showed, you’re not used to it.
November 11th is the day for the fallen. But the rest of the year, think about the wounded. Injured Canadian soldiers are well treated within the Department of National Defence. For three years, they cover you.
It’s brilliant, world’s best. But as soon as they leave the Department of National Defence, they fall under Veterans Affairs, and everything falls apart. The soldiers of World War II and Korea were treated with security and dignity because of their monthly pensions. Unfortunately, since June 2006, we have two standards of veterans.
The haves and the have-nots. We already have homeless veterans. Veterans Affairs asked me to prove that I have no legs, so I could get nursing benefits, shopping benefits, and housecleaning help. Within that, I have to prove I have difficulty doing housekeeping.
And I have to prove it every single year. I have to prove I have no legs every year. Eventually, they stepped up and said, “Okay, he doesn’t have to prove it every year. He only has to prove it every three years.
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It should simply say, “Are you permanently disabled? Yes or no. ”
I had bad PTSD episodes in Edmonton. Memories, flashbacks, everything.
I couldn’t read a book about Afghanistan or watch anything on TV. And I was terrified of uniforms. Of course, my friends all visited me in uniform to make me feel good. But I was just screaming at Abby.
Foul things. She would hide her daughter, Grace, away in the basement. I remember thinking, this is what it’s like to be insane. I could feel it coming on, and I was powerless to resist it.
At Halloween, the fireworks sounded like RPGs and triggered my PTSD. But I came home and put my son Noah to bed. That calmed me down. I got out of the hospital the day after spring break ended.
Simon was walking to school. I said, “I’m going to walk you to school and maybe do show and tell. ” It was very difficult. Only half a kilometer, but man, it was hard.
My son was looking down at the ground, looking for cracks in the sidewalk, making sure I didn’t trip. I married Debbie in 2010. I was not going to be married standing in a wheelchair. So, I practiced standing up long enough to say my vows.
It was like practicing for the first dance. We practiced for our first stand. And that was our dance. People ask, “Was the Afghan mission worth it?
” I would suggest the only ones who can truly answer that are the loved ones of the fallen. I have regrets, of a personal nature. But that’s what my husband and I wanted to do. We wanted to be soldiers, and soldiers deploy.
I don’t see our time there as wasted. We brought them back with poise and dignity, involved the families, and in the end, the nation involved itself. Maybe the Highway of Heroes will stand as a lesson for Canadians, particularly for Canadian politicians, as they cheer.
Because there is no good outcome to war.
