(5 of 9)
My own moods fluctuated between anger and joy, frustration and triumph. But a feeling of melancholy prevailed as I came face to face with the larger tragedy beyond my own: stolen youth. Specialist Hilario Bermanis, 21, had been built like a fullback when he left his home in Micronesia to join the Army. Now he was hunched in a wheelchair, a thick neck and broad shoulders the only reminder of his once muscular body. He had lost his left hand and both legs above the knee to a rocket-propelled grenade in Baghdad.
Specialist James Fair, 22, had the cruelest of all fates; not only had he lost his sight, he had no hands for Braille or a cane. Still recovering from a brain injury in late December, he was wheeled into OT for sensory perception tests. He rolled his head back and forth, unresponsive to the therapists.
Three weeks of hospital life had taken a toll. I was 20 lbs. lighter, stooped, and as pale as a death-row inmate. Lacking a hand and 3 in. of forearm, my right limb hung almost a foot shorter than my left, the length of a child's arm attached to an adult's body. In a light-green hospital gown, I wasn't groomed for the runway or my date of Jan. 2. My girlfriend, Rebekah Edminster, had flown in from California for a 10-day stint.
A professional singer who lived in the artists' colony of Ojai, Rebekah, with whom I'd been romantically involved for a year, had kept her distance from Washington to avoid potential rivalry over my care. My sister had come for the first few days, and Judith, to whom I had been married for a decade, had been a continuous presence.
Rebekah arrived and kissed me as if nothing had changed. After a couple of hours, however, I sensed a little tension. I knew what was coming: a Washington Post story covering the Iraq incident had identified Judith as my wife. We were legally separated, but I apparently had left Rebekah with the idea that I had been divorced. She felt misled, telling a friend, "The grenade didn't kill him, but I'm going to."
I broached the subject, setting off a debate on the definition of marriage. I became angry and defensive. The room got close. I insisted I had never intentionally deceived her and said I needed support now, not doubt. "Listen, are we not friends?" Rebekah asked, locking her eyes on mine. I nodded yes."Then we'll get through this," she said.
On Jan. 8, 2004, I was released from the hospital and returned to my Washington home. My kids resumed their half-time life with me. Victor Vorobyev, a Russian émigré hired by TIME as my driver, chauffeured them to and from school. I overcame my nightmare of not being able to produce peanut butter sandwiches, with the help of technology from Captain Katie's OT kitchen. A sheet of sticky, rubbery material held the jar in place while I twisted off the top with my good hand and scooped.
Skyler and Olivia had no adult notions of loss or judgments about helping me. Not long ago I had tied their shoes. Now they were tying mine. I had patched up their cuts and scrapes; now they were changing my dressings. Their sweetness permeated the house. Before Iraq, I had thought of parenting as another job--a lot of work with little payoff. Now it was a love affair. Skyler and I picked up our running chess game. Olivia helped me cook dinners--"one-handed spaghetti" was our specialty.