the orderly bustle of an Army base or the modest tract homes that housed service
members with families. War, for me, had always been terrifying but also abstract,
involving landscapes I couldn’t imagine and people I didn’t know. To view it this
way, I see now, had been a luxury.
When I arrived at a hospital, I was usually met by a charge nurse, handed a
set of medical scrubs to wear, and instructed to sanitize my hands each time I
entered a room. Before opening a new door, I’d get a quick briefing on the
service member and his or her situation. Each patient, too, was asked in advance
whether he or she would like a visit from me. A few would decline, possibly
because they weren’t feeling well enough or maybe for political reasons. Either
way, I understood. The last thing I wanted to be was a burden.
My visits to each room were as short or long as the service member wanted
them to be. Every conversation was private, with no media or staff observing.
The mood was sometimes somber, sometimes light. Prompted by a team banner
or photographs on the wall, we’d talk about sports, or our home states, or our
children. Or Afghanistan and what had happened to them there. We sometimes
discussed what they needed and also what they didn’t need, which—as they’d
often tell me—was anyone’s pity.
At one point, I encountered a piece of red poster board taped to a doorway,
with a message written in black marker that seemed to say it all:
ATTENTION TO ALL THOSE WHO ENTER HERE:
If you are coming into this room with sorrow or to feel
sorry for my wounds, go elsewhere. The wounds I received,
I got in a job I love, doing it for people I love, supporting
the freedom of a country I deeply love. I am incredibly
tough and will make a full recovery.This was resilience. It was reflective of a larger spirit of self-sufficiency and
pride I’d seen in all parts of the military. I sat one day with a man who’d gone off
young and healthy to an overseas deployment, leaving behind a pregnant wife,
and had come back quadriplegic, unable to move his arms or legs. As we talked,
their baby—a tiny newborn with a pink face—lay swaddled in a blanket on his
chest. I met another service member who’d had a leg amputated and asked me a
lot of questions about the Secret Service. He explained cheerily that he’d once
hoped to become an agent after leaving the military, but that given the injury he