Full of Heart: My Story of Survival, Strength, and Spirit

by J. R. Martinez

  In both the ICU and 4E, I received visitors other than my mom. My godmother, Alejandra, came, bringing her daughters Katrina and Lisa. Claudia, a former girlfriend from Hope, came several times on the Greyhound bus. That was great, because I felt like I got points with the nurses for having pretty girls in my room.

  And in mid-May I had a few extra-special visitors: Lieutenant General Robert T. Clark and his aides came to my room to award me the Purple Heart, a combat decoration for those who’ve been wounded while serving in the military.

  It’s an honor to receive this decoration, but in my own heart I didn’t believe I’d really earned it. The Purple Heart is presented to people who’ve done badass stuff. Prior to enlisting I’d spoken to a couple of Vietnam vets whose bravery and courage truly seemed to justify receiving it. They’d been in firefights, seen their friends pass away, killed enemy combatants. I’d done none of this. I’d just been driving along and had happened to hit a bomb.

  I spent my twentieth birthday on June 14 with my mom and Celestino, who’d driven in from Dalton to join us. It was the first time I was permitted to leave the grounds of Fort Sam Houston and take a look at the city of San Antonio. I was excited to see what the place was all about.

  A few days earlier my mom and I had gone on a shopping spree to the base exchange. The Army had allotted me some money to buy clothing so that I could have something to wear outside the hospital. I bought two pairs of basketball shorts—white and blue—that would slide over my hips, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of shoes, and underwear. Athletic shorts were the easiest for me, as I couldn’t handle buttons and they’re easy to pull on and off.

  My mom helped me dress for our outing. She pulled a shirt over my head, being careful not to rub my ears with the fabric. She tugged on my white shorts with the red piping, a red baseball cap, and my shoes.

  I could hardly contain myself as we walked down the halls of 4E to the elevator. Celestino was waiting out front in my Maxima. My mom climbed into the back, I settled into the passenger seat, and we were off. The 25 mph speed limit on the base felt like we were crawling by inches.

  A Mexican restaurant on the River Walk was our first stop for an early dinner. The River Walk is a five-mile public park along the banks of the San Antonio River in the city’s downtown. Lined with shops and restaurants and museums and theaters, it’s touted as the “biggest tourist attraction in Texas.”

  Though I was happy to be outside the gates of the base, the afternoon’s late heat weighed me down. I wore compression garments underneath my clothing. Applying constant pressure to my skin, the garments help prevent hard, irregular scar tissue from forming and ease the ever-present itch of the burned areas. I had to wear these garments twenty-three hours a day. Under the Texas sun, they felt like armor.

  As we waited outside for our table, I got the first taste of being an object of fascination. It wasn’t just my wrinkled bright red skin. The doctors had sewn a yellow bolster into my eyelid to help remold it; the effect was especially jarring.

  We were seated at a table and ordered off the menu. My mom summoned mariachis to play for my birthday, which was embarrassing.

  After we finished eating, we strolled along the River Walk. I willed myself to get used to the stares. The adults tried to be sly about it—most were not unkind—and I couldn’t blame little kids for gawking.

  Those few hours out showed me what the road ahead might look like for me. I could see it was going to be difficult. I’d figured that people would stare at me, and they certainly did. Knowing I looked different was hard enough. Now the reaction of other people would remind me every time I stepped out into the world. The worst was back at the restaurant when I’d noticed a couple of cute girls look at me and quickly turn away. I wondered how the girls back home in Dalton would treat me.

  Home. I’d been thinking about it practically since I’d woken up in San Antonio. And now it was time. My care team decided that I was well enough to enjoy a month of convalescent leave in Dalton.

  My mom asked me if I wanted her to invite people over to say hello when I got back, or if I wanted to take it easy for a few days after my return and then gradually see my friends. I thought this was going to be the true test of how people were going to accept me. I certainly wasn’t shy about seeing my friends. My mom said that she would have to go back a few days earlier than me so she could get everything ready at the house. My mind interpreted that as “surprise party!” and I envisioned people gathering at my house, eating good food, and visiting with old friends, nothing else. I didn’t let on to my mom that I suspected a thing.

  While we were talking, my social worker came to my room. She also asked me if I was open to people seeing me as soon as I got home. I said yes. She mentioned that Dalton’s local media had expressed interest to the hospital about my return to Georgia, and she wondered whether it would be too much for me at once. Nope, I told her, I can do it. I want to do it.

  Just then Norma Guerra passed by. Norma was the chief of public affairs for BAMC. The social worker motioned her over and told her that we were discussing the best course for me on leave. Norma reiterated that media had found out that I would be going home. My doctors had mentioned to her that it might be best for me to stay on the down-low because too much attention could be overwhelming.

  “I don’t suggest you go there and on the first day have parades and stuff,” Norma said. “You need to be convalescing. How about you wait a week or so and we can schedule a press conference for you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I told her. “I don’t care if there are a lot of people there at the beginning.”

  I knew how much everyone’s prayers and good wishes meant to my recovery and rather than being overwhelmed, I was excited to be surrounded by my supporters in person, to feel their energy and love. Given my physical state, Norma and my social worker arranged for an escort to help me on the flight from San Antonio to Chattanooga, with a plane change in Chicago. My hands were still pretty useless—my fingers were fused together by scar tissue that had formed at the second knuckle. I could barely close my hands enough to grip my boarding pass. I couldn’t reach into my pocket to pull out money, either. I definitely needed help. The escort would assist me with everything from carrying my luggage to paying cashiers for my food and drinks to dealing with my tickets.

  We were scheduled to arrive in Chattanooga at around four in the afternoon, but in Chicago we got word that our connecting flight would be delayed, pushing our arrival time back to 10 p.m. Damn, I thought. I won’t be able to see anyone until tomorrow. Honestly, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing anyone in particular. I just wanted to be home.

  I was especially eager to see how I’d be received.

  A man sitting next to me at the airport asked if my name was J. R. Martinez. “I’m Coach McClurg’s son,” he said, remembering me from the football team. I hadn’t expected anyone from Dalton, Georgia, to be sitting next to me in the Chicago airport. We spent a couple of hours talking, mostly about my injury but also about Coach McClurg and Catamount football. The unexpected distraction was a godsend. By the time we boarded, I had an extra spring to my step.

  I dozed during the short flight, and when the plane landed my escort and I stayed seated while everyone else deplaned. Many of my wounds were still open, and I was embarrassed to see that I had bled slightly on the seatback cover. Once the other passengers were gone, my escort led me off the plane.

  I was surprised to see all my plane mates lining each side of the jetway. As I walked through, they clapped for me.

  “How do they know?” I asked my escort. It felt so good.

  Coach McClurg was the first person I saw when I peered past security. I walked right into his arms and didn’t hold back my tears.

  “You’re home, J.R.,” he said into my ear.

  A couple of local news crews shone their lights on my face to highlight the open wounds and scars. They shot my reaction as I craned my neck to look for my mom and embraced the dozen friend
s who had been waiting for me. No one seemed to care that they were hugging this charred body. When my mom appeared, we greeted each other as if it had been years instead of a few days. I jumped into the passenger seat of Gabriel’s car, which was outfitted with bells and whistles. I had trouble buckling my seat belt, another reminder of my new disabilities. Gabriel noticed I was struggling and leaned over to help me click in the buckle. We merged onto I-75 with the engine roaring and the bass thumping my favorite songs—hip-hop, Spanish rap, reggaeton. A couple of friends in the backseat asked me about my time in Iraq, and I had to shout over the noise.

  At exit 333, Walnut Avenue in Dalton, Gabriel stopped for a red light.

  “Get out here,” he told me.

  “Why, man?” We weren’t anywhere near my mom’s apartment. We were on the off-ramp. My door was yanked open from the outside.

  “Come on, boy.” It was my friend Aaron, a big jokester. “Get out of the car.”

  This was obviously one of his pranks, I thought, climbing out.

  And then a police car pulled up beside me, lights flashing. Oh my God, I thought. Here I survived a bomb blast in Iraq and now I get arrested the minute I get back home, all because of my bonehead friends.

  A black convertible rolled up behind the flashing lights. It was a replica of a 1932 Mercedes-Benz, a sweet piece of machinery. My jaw dropped when the driver stuck out his head.

  “Well, hey, J.R. Why don’t you hop in the backseat and let’s go for a ride?” It was the husband of Dalton High’s principal back when I was a senior.

  I looked at Aaron. “Get in,” he urged. He helped me into the car and settled me on the top of the rear seat. He sat next to me, one arm around my waist to keep me in place. “Hold on, boy,” he said, “we’re gonna take you for a ride.”

  The driver hit the gas, turning onto Walnut Avenue, the police car leading the way. My mouth fell open in shock.

  As we approached the McDonald’s on the right-hand side, I saw people standing on the shoulder of the road. They waved at me, yelling, “We love you!” As we slowly drove down Walnut, we passed the Applebee’s restaurant. I read the marquee: “Welcome Home J.R. You Are Our Hero and We Love You.”

  I looked at Aaron. “This is crazy, man!” I told him.

  “The best is yet to come,” he replied, pointing over to my left at the Kmart.

  Our Mercedes pulled into the parking lot, where a huge crowd waited next to a trailer stage. I saw Coach McClurg, my former teammates, high school friends, and old girlfriends—as well as people I didn’t even know. Aaron helped me out of the car and onto the stage. I’d never felt such surprise and shock. I was especially amazed that all these people had come together for me at this hour of the night.

  My former teammates took turns speaking, and then my coach spoke. They talked about how strong I was, what an asset I’d been to the team. Coach McClurg told the now familiar story about how I’d moved to Dalton and gotten myself a place on the football team.

  As he presented me with the key to the city—a gold-plated old key with teeth—camera flashes sparkled in the darkness. Someone asked me to speak. I don’t recall what I said, how I sounded, or how long I talked, but I remember looking out into the audience and making eye contact with all these people I knew. I felt enveloped in love and acceptance. Once I was finished I carefully got down from the stage and made my way through the crowd, saying hello and hugging people.

  My disfigurements had ceased to exist from the first moment I’d hopped into Gabriel’s car. The love I felt from these people erased the pain, worries, and thoughts of my scarred existence.

  I worked my way to a friend’s car, and he took me to my mom’s place, which was all decorated in red, white, and blue. People spilled out the front door. I felt like their hero.

  Is this the way it’s going to be from here on out? I wondered. Would there always be this many people to support me?

  It was summer already and those friends who’d gone to college had arrived back in Dalton. Those who hadn’t left had moved on to jobs in town. During that month back home I felt like I’d never left. My friends would come over to the apartment, we’d go cruising, and we would walk through the mall looking in store windows, hanging out, checking out the girls. Sure, people stared at me, but my friends said, “Forget those people. They don’t know you.”

  I felt as if I were doing everything a twenty-year-old should be doing, and my life was going to be just fine. One of my friends had a cookout, inviting all the seniors from the football team as well as a few girls. It took me back to when I was in high school and made me feel normal.

  That is, until the burgers were served.

  My injury made it impossible for me to eat normally. One side of my mouth was burned, and the scar tissue prevented me from opening it more than a little bit. I sat in this group of my friends, staring down at my plate, stymied by the challenge a simple hamburger presented.

  I picked it up awkwardly with both hands and put it to my mouth, but I was only able to take a small bite out of the burger. The rest fell out of my clawed hands onto the plate. I didn’t know who saw me, but I was totally embarrassed.

  Aaron came to my rescue. He reached over and said, as only Aaron could, “You crazy Mexican. You can’t eat a burger? I’ll help you out, buddy,” and he cut my burger into pieces small enough to fit into my mouth.

  I was incredibly grateful that he took something that was excruciating for me and made it a matter we could laugh about. I’ve never forgotten this. And yet it was just one of the many, many demonstrations of love I experienced during my month at home.

  As the time neared for my trip back to San Antonio, I started to get nervous. I wasn’t going to have anyone with me to help this time. My mother was anxious about my solo flight as well. I repeatedly assured her that I’d be fine, although I didn’t really feel that way. I’d had thirty days to prepare, though, and I did the best I could by stretching. But my fingers were still stiff and stuck in a position as if I were grabbing something. It was difficult to grasp things inside my pockets, feed myself, hold a drink, use the bathroom, and button my pants up—and almost everything else we use our hands for.

  When the day arrived, my mom and I drove to the airport. She helped me get my boarding pass, but once I was in the security line the help was gone. However, my mother and I had planned for this and were very strategic when it came to choosing my wardrobe for this flight: I wore clothing and shoes that were easy to get in and out of, which was important in this post-shoe-bomber world that required all footwear to go through the scanner.

  Once I was through security, I picked up my belongings and turned around to wave at my mother, who was standing along the security wall. She smiled and waved back.

  As I headed off toward my departure gate, I felt a great sense of accomplishment. But just to be safe, I kept my boarding pass in my hand until it was time to give it to the gate agent.

  Between flights in Chicago, I got thirsty. I can do this, I thought. I went into a store, grabbed a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator, and walked over to the cashier. There were a few people in front of me in line. I tried to look casual, but I was dreading the moment when I would have to pull money from my pocket and pay. How would I look trying to get it out? If I dropped change on the floor, would I be able to pick it up? Would people laugh at me?

  Finally, it was my turn at the register. The cashier stared at my open wounds and disfigurement before correcting herself and looking down at her machine. She rang up my drink and told me the total. I took a breath and nodded my head to her. With one hand I clasped the outside of my pocket and pulled it open enough so my other hand could reach in and grab the money. I slid the bills along the lining of my pants. As they got to the top of the pocket, I pulled them out and gave them to her. I was ecstatic.

  And then, to my horror, I realized the cashier was trying to give me change! What was I supposed to do? I figured my options were: walk away to avoid humiliation, or face my fear and gi
ve it a try. I knew she would put the coins in my hand. The problem was I couldn’t make a fist or grasp things. I also couldn’t turn my palms upward—what the rehab docs called supinate. At this point in my recovery, I couldn’t lift flat objects off any flat surface, either. To top it off, my hands were weak and numb.

  I’ve come to believe that when you overthink something, you’re ultimately inviting it to happen. This can be good or bad. In this case, bad: I kept visualizing myself dropping the change and sure enough I did. “Damn!” I said. A man behind me stepped in to help, picking up the coins and dropping them into my hand. I met his eyes and thanked him.

  I boarded my flight as soon as my zone was called so I wouldn’t hold up anyone who was getting on behind me, but I couldn’t avoid the stares of the passengers waiting in the aisle for me to get to my seat.

  A soldier who worked at BAMC met me at the airport in San Antonio. He helped me with my luggage and drove me back to the base.

  I was assigned a room in the guesthouse, the inn across the street from the hospital where my mother had stayed. The following day I had to report to my doctor to go over the plans for the upcoming months. He told me that my job for the foreseeable future was to focus on my recovery and nothing else.

  For the remainder of the summer I spent hours in therapy, meeting with plastic surgeons to discuss the next steps in my reconstruction, and watching daytime television. In August, although I was tentative about this procedure, surgeons implanted a tissue expander into my chest to stimulate my body to grow additional skin to use on my burned areas. The expander is a water-filled balloon that is placed under the skin and gradually inflated. As the balloon increases in size, the skin covering accommodates it by growing new cells.

  About a month later, in September, I started to feel feverish, with pain in the chest area around the expander. The doctors removed it immediately. I should have been relieved, but it meant I’d have to start the uncomfortable process all over again.