by Paige Wetzel
Since I was making small daily improvements, I encouraged Paige to coach her team for their national championship tournament and couldn’t wait to show her what I’d learned by the time she returned in just two days. Nothing else mattered except physical therapy and adding one more skill to the growing list that meant I was moving toward functioning like a normal adult again.
PAIGE
Walking to my team’s court, I got a text from our FRG leader saying that Josh’s platoon sergeant, SFC Edgar Barrera, had been injured by an IED. He had lost a hand and both legs. I immediately became nauseous not just for Barrera but for how Josh would react—without me there. I took a deep breath and called him to tell him what had happened to his friend. When I was confident that I had his full attention, I repeated the information I was given. He was frazzled and panicking, but he immediately began reaching out to his platoon to see if he could find out more. I knew this was going to hit Josh hard. SFC Barrera was Josh’s platoon sergeant and one of the toughest people on planet Earth. Josh appreciated his direct leadership style and felt like he would take care of the platoon after Josh’s injury. Now, their leader was a triple amputee, a reality that dropped my heart into the pit of my stomach. Until this day, we had lived our lives as if Josh would be the only amputee in his platoon. We expected the team would learn from Josh’s explosion and watch Josh get better, and no one else would get blown up. Not only had an IED claimed its next victim, but the injury was worse. This was like watching Superman go down. As much as I wanted to comfort Josh, I knew he didn’t want to talk to me. He needed to keep communication open for anyone in his platoon to update him about Edgar.
I felt like my next move should be to call Barrera’s wife, Lucia. I got as far away from the courts as I could, fully expecting crying and hysteria. However, when I got her on the phone, she was surprisingly calm. What may have sounded like my calm voice on the phone when I was telling my family about Josh’s injury was actually just me in complete shock. However, Lucia seemed to be completely aware of what was going on with her husband but was still diligently making travel plans and packing her things. I finally asked, “Lucy, are you okay? You seem like you are taking this really well.” Confident in her husband’s stubborn resiliency, Lucy said something that meant so much to me. She said she and her family had followed Josh’s recovery and had been watching him get better, and even though she was anxious, she felt like she knew what to do.
My heart skipped a beat. That’s all I’ve ever wanted out of this, I thought. Time and time again I questioned whether we were doing the right thing by allowing the online world to follow along. I wondered if I was exploiting Josh in some way. If he were cognizant enough, would he totally object to what we were doing? We lived in an ever-swaying reality: One minute we were cheering for a milestone in Josh’s recovery; the next we were holding our breath to find out who the last blackout email was about. For once, I felt like what I was doing was still helping the cause of the deployment. I knew his platoon was rattled from losing their hype man. I thought about them in the context of Josh’s life as he portrayed in his journal—balancing between being ready to fight and being ready to die. My wish for showcasing Josh’s progress was that it would take the edge off the day, maybe even lift their spirits for the next mission. Lucia and I talked about questions she needed to ask to get real information on Edgar’s situation as well as what to expect with traveling. While I hated that another soldier in Josh’s platoon had become an amputee, there was no one on earth who could rehab Superman like Superwoman, Lucia Barrera. I went to bed that night after our games thinking, Lucy has got this. Sergeant Barrera and Josh will help each other, and this will be another victory story. I thanked God that night for the kind of person Lucia is and felt good about the outcome of their situation as I fell asleep in the hotel in Ohio.
My team played the next morning, and I was constantly checking on Josh and the Barreras. I don’t remember how the tournament finished or even how we played, which had been the entire point of me going out there to see them, but I do remember being very emotional, knowing that I had probably just coached my last game of volleyball and would likely never coach with Flo again. In the grand scheme of things, stepping away from coaching is not the biggest sacrifice anyone has ever made, but it really put my life in perspective. It was crushing to fathom how I had gone from Alabama college player to Washington state transplant and aspiring college coach to a full-time caregiver for my husband in less than six months, a title that had no end in sight. Saying goodbye to my old life, I headed back to Walter Reed with my sister and parents, doing my best to remain grateful for my last day on the court. A week ago I was praying for the president of the United States, and today I was praying for another soldier’s life, another’s recovery, another’s amputee journey. Now was the time to focus on Josh’s mental health as Edgar
Barrera was flown in so we could be there for Edgar and Lucy.
JOSH
Why is no one replying back to me? I furiously typed yet another message to my group still in Afghanistan. It is already afternoon there, so why aren’t they back from patrol and seeing my messages? Paige had returned late the night before and was almost asleep on her cot. While checking her phone, she said, “It looks like the communication blackout has been lifted. What have you heard from the guys? When will he get to the States?” I didn’t know, and I was really upset about it. Eventually, I fell asleep with my iPad in hand.
The next morning, I still had nothing. I had woken up around 4:00 a.m. and could not go back to sleep, so the search continued. Why is it so hard to get in touch with anyone? I thought angrily, knowing Paige was receiving news, even though not specific news about Barrera, and I wasn’t. I began to worry that something had gone horribly wrong with Barrera. There had to be an answer somewhere. I checked my email, Skype, and social media, looking for anything that would explain why everyone was still so quiet. Then, I found it. The most horrifying words I had ever seen in print:
“RIP Juan Navarro.”
On July 7, 2012, a twenty-three-year-old soldier died more than three thousand miles from his home. This had been the kind of news Paige had actively been praying against since we arrived at Walter Reed. As she settled into her bed-chair, she would start praying for all my men still overseas—those we knew and those we didn’t. And now, not only was Edgar Barrera coming home without legs and a hand, but Juan Navarro wasn’t coming home at all. His body was, but nothing more. This was never supposed to happen. This was hell.
More messages finally trickled in, and the pieces of the puzzle of that awful day were finally starting to come together. There were two separate explosions within just a few hours of each other. SFC Barrera was injured on a dismounted patrol that had also caused injuries for some other guys. A few of them had to be medevaced due to shrapnel wounds and traumatic brain injuries—the explosion was massive. Once the injuries were assessed and taken care of, the group continued on with the mission. While they were taking a break, Navarro set his rucksack on the ground and left it there for a number of minutes. When he went to pick it up again, he discovered that it was sitting on an IED. The circuit from the IED connected as he bent over to grab the rucksack and the bomb detonated. The blast blew him over a wall, where his fellow soldiers discovered damage not only to his legs but also to his abdomen. He was dead before the helicopter arrived.
For several minutes, my mind bounced back and forth between shock and hysteria. As Paige kept looking at me expectantly to share the details, I would start with “He was the best…” But then that would feel so inadequate. She grabbed my hand, and I would try again. “He was so young…” I started to lose control. Finally I whispered, “He was such an amazing leader…” And I trailed off with my heart in my throat. With a glare, I finally stammered, “If I had been there I would have—” But Paige stopped me from finishing that sentence. I should have been there. All the earlier feelings of worthlessness couldn’t compare to how worthless I felt at that po
int. That was my soldier in my platoon. How did I get to live and he didn’t? Why am I here in this air-conditioned room with my family out of harm’s way when my friends are over in Afghanistan getting killed? How could I have let this happen? Now there is nothing I can do. I can’t even get out of this bed. I would give anything to change this.
I thought of the last time we saw each other and all of the promises we’d made one another upon our return to the States. We were going to get everyone together and have a big barbecue at someone’s house. Everyone would sit around and reminisce on their war stories as some of the scariest times in our lives, but with comedic relief because we had all made it back. We had planned the whole evening out. We would raise a toast, thanking God and each other for the opportunity to sit on someone’s back porch in the United States with the same number of men who had left for Afghanistan nine months prior. Wives and children would be almost a year older but overjoyed at their reunion with their long-absent loved ones. The kids would show their dads how they learned to throw a strike or perform their solos for the recitals that they had missed, while the younger, single guys played catch or helped toss the performers in the air. It was all so perfectly planned. Now what?
Those memories now faded into a fog of sadness and depression that had a way of making me want to close my eyes and never open them again. Remorse came in the form of nausea I felt in the pit of my stomach for days. The guilt of my survival began to morph into a self-loathing spite that threatened my opportunity to recover. I didn’t deserve it. He did. I was supposed to be the only seriously wounded guy in this platoon. Then two of the best were taken out in the same day. The nightmares and the outbursts were back and worse than ever. Juan’s death frightened me to my core. How many more would there be?
CHAPTER NINE
UNDER THE SURFACE
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
—Psalm 34:18
PAIGE
After finally taking Josh’s phone to read the full details, I turned to look at my husband. Josh had stopped talking and was staring blankly into nothing, left only with memories of his friend. I found myself thinking, God, I am not equipped for this! How can I be there for my husband? What could I possibly say to him? What if this is day one of his total demise? What if he quits after this?
In my own confusion, I tried to listen for when Josh felt like talking and then immediately pick up the cue of when to leave him alone. The hours of awkward silence, sobbing, and guarding the door from unsuspecting visitors unearthed a familiar question: When will this end? Out of total exhaustion, Josh finally fell asleep. While he slept, I tried to talk to God. I started and stopped so many prayers, but my thoughts consistently fell short. Even leaning on what I knew about God didn’t make me feel better. “God, Your Word says You are close to the brokenhearted, but I just don’t understand…” Trying again, I started, “God, please just lift the Navarro family and all these guys on this deployment, especially the ones that tried to save him…” Uncontrollable tears flowed from my eyes as I stressed about how these men would continue living. Where would even the slightest glimmer of hope come from now? Juan’s death was bad enough, but for an entire group of people to feel like it was their fault was too heavy. What could be said to change their minds? “He fought the good fight” and “It was just his time” were insulting and unwelcome comments that honestly sounded like bull crap to these guys (and to me). Wandering through the labyrinth of fear, people, the future, and the past, I surprisingly found comfort in Juan himself. Before he left for his fateful mission, God seemed to have spoken to Juan in a way similar to how He’d spoken to Josh before Josh’s incident. By the grace of God, Juan took a moment to write down his thoughts as a post on Facebook:
July 5, 2012
Going home means getting comfortable being who you are and who your soul really wants to be. There is no strain with that. The strain and tension come when we’re not being who our soul wants us to be and we’re someplace our soul doesn’t feel at home. God loves me enough to let me go through all the lessons I came here to learn, even the ones that hurt the most. His presence doesn’t deny me. It’s always there to help me see and understand what I came to this earth to learn.
I didn’t know the ins and outs of Juan Navarro’s spiritual life. Even if he was the most spiritual guy in his platoon, it’s not like they were all sitting around at the end of the day having Bible study together. However, God met Juan right where he was and gave him this comfort, just in the nick of time. It’s strange how Juan identified his perception of “home” when he was away from home. It’s strange how Juan found peace during war. It’s strange how Juan felt God’s love even though he was hated by the enemy. It’s strange how Juan thought of heaven while walking through hell. This is no accident. This is by design.
For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed to us.
—Romans 8:18 ISV
My heart still grieved, and I did not immediately feel better, but I chose to anchor myself to the hope left behind from Juan Navarro. Eventually, these waters would calm. Sooner or later, we will smile when we mention his name. One of these days, he won’t be the reason we gave up but the reason we press on.
Juan Navarro never attended seminary school or became ordained as a pastor. Yet he has taught me more about seeking God in real time than anyone on earth. As we struggled to continue, I told myself receive God like Juan did.
We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.
—2 Corinthians 4:8–12 (emphasis added)
Juan’s death introduced Josh and me to the peaks and plummets of the grieving process. On one side, we were so thankful for Juan’s final words, words that told us his soul was okay even though his body wasn’t. Then, with one swing of the pendulum, sorrow, confusion, and despair would overwhelm us. In reaction to Josh’s state of mind, I found myself often feeling the opposite of what he was feeling. When he was really down and upset, I reminded him of all the reasons we should be thankful for where Juan’s mind was in the final days of his life. When Josh seemed to be regaining his spirit, I would be reminded of how terrible Juan’s family must be feeling, how young he was, and how much more fighting was left in this deployment for everyone else still overseas. Regardless of what was on our minds, Josh was emotionally unable to hold himself together when he thought about Juan. He dreamed about him and flipped back and forth from frustration to debilitating sadness—all signs and symptoms culminating in a new form of PTSD.
Josh’s reaction was unique to me because it didn’t look like PTSD. It wasn’t like the scenario in the PTSD brochure—you know, the guy sitting at his kitchen counter surrounded by pills and alcohol, cradling his head in his hands because he is tormented by nightmares of explosions and gunfire. His post-traumatic stress came from obsessively thinking about Juan. Both good and bad thoughts brought the same agonizing torment, because Josh felt responsible. Josh would sit really still and stare at the wall, and I could tell he was thinking about Juan. It was not in a way that seemed like he might fall asleep, or even spacing out. He was going somewhere in his mind and reliving all the memories and conversations he had with Juan. Those memories would be pleasant for a little while and maybe even bring a smile to his face, and then the sickening truth of Juan’s death would come creeping back. I was watching light disappear in his eyes. Eventually, Josh would snap out of it and wipe the tears from his face. He would turn on the TV or ask me to take him somewhere in the hospital in his wheelchair.
My whole life, I have never been
able to hide my grief or my sadness. If I was going through a loss, small or large, I didn’t shy away from showing my feelings. But my feet couldn’t touch the bottom on this one. I could not suffer alongside Josh without bringing up the things we couldn’t change: how SFC Barrera was recovering, Juan’s death, and his friends who were still over there trying to complete a mission with only bits and pieces of their platoon left. As each day passed, I kept thinking, There is literally nothing I can do about this. Sergeant B still got blown up, Juan still died, and this deployment will continue until it’s time to come home. No matter how any of that turns out, Josh is still here, legless, and unable to do anything about it.
