Somedays, I wished I'd been born a cripple. I wish I'd never known what "normal" felt like. I envied people with disabilities born with their ailments, as they never had to compare their past lives to their current ones. The deaf never had to adapt to a soundless world, and the blind a sightless one. A world absent of senses was their standard. Before the war, I had a beautiful pair of legs and a hand equipped with every digit. Now, I have two nubs where my limbs used to be, one more disfigured than the other, and a hand missing two fingers.
I was unlucky in 1969, getting drafted to fight in Vietnam. I spent two years in the jungles, driving a jeep, shuttling soldiers from one war zone to another. I never felt camaraderie with the other soldiers, thinking it useless to build connections with men I'd likely never meet again. I wish I had. I didn't know that home would feel so foreign once I returned. If I had, I would have tried harder to make friends.
I remember very little from the accident. One second, I was driving; the next, I was flying, deafened by an explosion and blinded by a bright flash. Then I was lying on the dirt road, surrounded by shrapnel and blood, though I was unsure whether it was mine or one of my passengers. I looked down at my legs or leg. One of my members was missing, and the other would have been better off gone. My exposed bones and hanging flesh are burned into my hippocampus. When I reached down to grab my wound, I realized my pinky and ring finger were severed by the mine's wrath.
Everything that happened after is muddled behind a fog of pain and suppression. All I know is that two days later, I woke up on a combat medic's uncomfortable tent bed, wrapped in gauze and doped up on morphine. The following morning, I was on a plane back to San Francisco, wrapped like and as lively as a mummy.
A year passed as I worked through my trauma and self-regulated physical therapy, adapting to life without legs. I was gifted wooden limbs, courtesy of Uncle Sam, but I hardly used them unless I left the house. I learned to crawl and walk on my stumps, navigating the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom—all the essentials. Though I lived with my dad, who offered to help, I needed to be independent. I couldn't burden my father, who had already cared for me for eighteen years. My job was to help him when he became incapable, not vice versa. I started studying, throwing myself into books, and taking advantage of the military's GI Bill. At some point, I became a lawyer, but that's irrelevant to the story I want to tell.
The day my life changed was October 15th, 1972. I woke up early, flipping the covers off my torso and lowering myself off the ledge of the bed. I stumbled to the bathroom, cracking the door open and lumbering up the steps to the sink. I brushed my teeth, propping the toothbrush between my thumb and middle finger and pressing my pointer finger down on the head to apply pressure.
After brushing my teeth, I sat on the toilet, attempting to find my body's equilibrium on the seat. I was embarrassed. I couldn't even shit by myself. How was I supposed to wipe if I couldn't even sit properly? Eventually, I was able to finish, but not without an accident. I fell, bumping my head and dirtying my hands in the process. I decided to shower.
Naked, I was subjected to my body's degraded state in full glory—the pink, tender skin lining the scar from my amputated leg, the mutilated meat hanging from my other nub. I couldn't ever show my body to anyone. No woman would ever love a figure like mine. Hell, I'm practically a living corpse; I can't even say a walking corpse. I was a husk of a man.
I reached for a towel and dried myself off after the shower. I wrapped the fabric around my waist and shuffled back to my bedroom, leaving a water trail behind me. I quickly dressed myself, hiding my deformed limbs behind a veil of cloth. I threw on a T-shirt and a hoodie to cover my torso and a long pair of pants tied at the knees to conceal my scars from the prying eye. Lastly, I put on a pair of leather gloves with two of the finger sleeves swaying limply, exposing their empty nature.
Smelling eggs and toast and hearing the cracking of bacon grease against a pan, I waddled to the kitchen to have breakfast with my dad.
"Good morning," my dad greeted with his attention towards the stove.
"Good morning," I responded politely. "How'd you sleep last night?"
"Not great, to be honest," He answered.
"Why's that?" I prodded.
"I'm worried about you, son."
"Cause I don't have legs?" I asked, slightly angry.
"No. It's because you haven't left the house in months," He shouted. "Look at yourself! When was the last time you shaved?
My hand hovered over my chin, getting scratched by a scraggly beard. I dejectedly whispered, "...I see."
"I'm not gonna lie and tell you I understand what you've been through because I can't…" Dad started before continuing, "...but wasting away your life throwing a pity party for yourself isn't how you die happy."
"So? What do you want me to do?" I chided sarcastically.
"See that grocery list?" He pointed to the corner of the counter.
"No, I can't. It's too high."
"God damn it, Jack, how many times have I told you to wear those legs?" Dad chastised me. "You'll never be able to walk again if you don't practice with those stilts."
"Hundreds, Dad. You're beating a dead horse. What about the grocery list."
"Right. I want you to buy everything I put on that paper."
"How am I supposed to get to the store? Are you driving me?
"Gods, no, you need to figure it out. Take a bus, get a taxi, or get some practice in with those expensive military pegs. Just be back before dinner."
"Fine, anything else, sir?" I responded sarcastically.
"No, I don't even know if you're capable of the first task, so get that done. Whatever money you don't spend, use it on yourself. Same with your leftover time. Find a girl or read a comic. I don't care, as long as it's out of the house."
"Asshole."
"Freeloader."
We looked at each other and laughed for the first time since my military discharge. Unknowingly, Dad had become my silent supporter, covering my bills and insurance and communicating with my military officers, trying to receive benefits for my sacrifice. I appreciate everything he did for me, even if he didn't want acknowledgment. He'd probably say something along the lines of, "It was my job as your father."
I undid the knots tied around my knees, connecting my prosthetic legs to my scarred, sensitive residual limb. Using my bedframe as a crutch, I started to balance on top of my newly acquired bottom half. They were stiff and painful—nothing like real legs. But they were mine, and I had to live with them.
I stumbled from my bed to the living room, saying goodbye to my dad. I was afraid of losing my footing, so as a safety measure, I brought a cane. Slowly, I opened the front door, allowing the sun to kiss my skin for the first time in weeks. Then, I took my first step outside and then the next.
Steadily, I walked to the nearest bus stop, approximately half a mile away. Occasionally, I had to lean on my cane to correct my posture to an upright position. However, in the end, I made it. I sat on the aluminum seats, my aching back finding respite in the uncomfortable chair. Eventually, a blue bus pulled to the side of the road and allowed me to board.
When I stepped into the vehicle, I surveyed the occupants, searching for the best chair available. My gaze landed on the front row, the seats branded with the image of a stick figure sitting in a wheelchair. I shook my head, making my way past the handicap rows toward the middle of the automobile. Finally, I found a space near a window. Once seated, the bus started moving toward the next stop.
During the ride, we drove by a college brimming with students my age, chanting muffled war cries. They were living the life I wish I had—the life the government robbed from me. They viciously thrust their signs upward as if trying to skew an enemy with a spear. When I read the words painted on their posters, my heart dropped. 'Make love, not war' and 'Use your head, not your draft card' were just a few, but each felt like a personal attack, stabbing pain coursing through my scars. Gradually, the students' shouts became legible.
"Peace Now! Peace Now!" The college kids yelled.
"Stop it," I mumbled.
"Hell no, we won't go!" They continued.
"Stop," I murmured.
"Freedom for Vietnam!" The chorus of anti-war sentiment echoed.
"Shut up," I sputtered, plugging my ears and finding solace in the childish action's silence.
For the rest of my trip, I sat with my fingers in my ear canals, blocking my senses from resonating with the youths' mournful cries. I knew many of them were fighting on my behalf, but deep down, it felt like they were invalidating my suffering. Like the loss of my legs was for nothing but bureaucracy and arrogance. Those notions have been all but confirmed, but still, each of their rhythmic slogans was a dagger to my soul.
Systematically, I would raise my head and peek out the window to gauge the distance from the grocery store. I arrived at my stop after about 25 minutes of riding public transportation. I rigidly alighted the vehicle, speedily limping toward the retail shop. I wanted to finish my task as soon as possible. My outing had left me exhausted, not just physically, but mentally as well. I was ready to go home.
I quickly grabbed my shopping cart and started shooting through the aisles. On wheels, stabilizing myself was exponentially easier. For the first time since my injury, I could move normally. The experience was freeing. I picked up the eggs, milk, sugar, and apple juice listed on the paper. Rather swiftly, I had acquired each item Dad needed.
As suggested, I treated myself, adding a couple of chocolate bars to my dad's tab. I always forgot that I was still a kid. War changes you. Unfortunately, I matured more in those two years than I have since the day of my discharge. After grabbing candy, I found myself in line for checkout.
The employee at the register checked my chosen products, adding the prices together to give me the balance due. My total came out to fifty dollars and twenty-three cents. I'll never forget that number, not until the day I'm buried six feet under.
Shuffling through my wallet, I picked out two twenties and a ten. Rummaging through my coins is where things became difficult. On top of the balancing act I was pulling off, grabbing thin coins through my thick gloves was nigh impossible. As a result, I peeled my gauntlet from my right hand, revealing three thin yet rugged fingers accompanied by two raw clumps of flesh. I felt everyone silently gawk at my disgusting appendage, but one child was braver than the others.
"Excuse me, sir, what's wrong with your hand?" The boy inquired curiously.
"My fingers? I lost them at war," I answered hesitantly.
"In Europe?" the boy asked, his face innocent.
"Do I look that old?" I chuckled, rubbing my face and checking for wrinkles.
"Not too old, mister."
"Thanks, I guess."
"Did you get hurt anywhere else?"
"I did," I affirmed, pulling up my pant leg and showing a faux support system.
"My dad says that soldiers like you are heroes—men among men." The boy stated cheerfully as if his dad's words were undeniable facts.
"I appreciate it," I smiled tearfully.
"Your dad wasn't talking about men like him, sweetie," the boy's mother intervened.
"Why not?" the child questioned.
"Because soldiers like him…" the woman pointed at my face before shouting, "...are cold-blooded murderers."
My body tensed, and my limbs grew heavy. I wanted to cry. I felt recognized as if my battle scars symbolized honor rather than ignorance. But the woman had stripped away my comfort.
"What do you know about me?" I interrogated in an accusatory tone.
"Enough," the mother responded smugly.
"You don't know anything. Do you think I wanted to be drafted? To risk my life for an unjust cause? No, I didn't. I was a driver. I've never even held a gun outside of training. I didn't shoot anybody, soldier or civilian! Do you know what I got in return for patriotism? A body missing pieces like a jigsaw puzzle and an unwelcome return to my homeland!" I rambled, progressively growing louder and louder.
At some point, the mother grabbed her child and ran away. Still, losing myself in overwhelming emotion was liberating. Everyone was looking, but I didn't care anymore. Nobody understood me the way I understood myself. I was comfortable in my skin and couldn't let strangers dictate my feelings. My tribulations shaped my person, and nobody could detract from that.
"Excuse me, sir, may I please have the money?" The cashier begged, his head jerking around, nervous because of my meltdown.
"Ah…yes, sorry about that. Nothing like that will happen again."
"Don't worry about it, but please don't repeat anything like that."
"I won't, I swear."
"Then we're all good. Also, thank you for your service."
"No problem. Thank you for your understanding." I grinned before waving and heading toward the exit.
I sauntered outside, making my way to the curb. I sat down and dug through the store's plastic bag, pulling out a Hershey bar. I peeled the wrapping from the sweet and sank my teeth into one of the squares. Then, I let out a melodic laugh accompanied by tears. Life had given me another chance.