The Bigger Picture

Six months…six months is all I had to live my dream again.

To say that I am not completely shattered would be a lie; my entire world has been thrown in a tumble. I remember the day when the doctor came into the room when he had to come to tell me that they could not save my leg.

It was as if my worst nightmare came true.

It was not so much a shock that I was half of myself; it was a shock that I could not be a Marine anymore. I knew then that I would get used to being the way I became, so it truly never brought me down as much as I thought it should. Yes, I felt somewhat ashamed of my leg, but as time passed by, I accepted the fact that I will be different. And it was that which made me fight so hard; I wanted to be different but seen as normal.

How do I even begin now?

Yes, I am grateful that I still have my leg, even though it will take its time to heal, but taking away even more from what has already been taken away from me, that is worse than driving a knife through my chest.

You have to learn to walk again? What the fuck does that even mean?

Yes, I know that it will take time for my bones to heal, but as for having to learn something that comes so naturally? It just goes beyond me. I can walk, I can get out this bed, and I can show him that I can walk, well hop around, but give me my prosthetic leg, and I can show him how I can walk.

He cannot take away more than a half a man that I already am. So what does it make me now? Half of a half? Fuck that. No doctor, no man will tell me that I cannot walk. He cannot make me not normal again.

I have a child on the way; how can I be a father if I cannot walk?

Let us just backtrack for one damn second here, "What do you mean I have to learn to walk again?"

The doctor looks at me, and I can see the hesitation in his eyes. That is something that you do not wish to see from your doctor. He needs to be sure so that I can feel sure. Right now, he is throwing me off into a deep end, and it is black; it is a black hole with a neverending end. When I hit the bottom, then I am going to hit it hard. This makes no sense.

So, "What do you mean, can you just answer me?"

"Well, you are not going to be able to walk on your left leg for a while; you need for the bone to heal."

I immediately interrupt him, "Are you not putting me in a cast?"

"Yes, of course, and I will be putting a rod to secure the bone while it heals," he waits for a brief moment as he tries his best to reassure me, "But I don't want you on that leg for at least four months."

"Four months?" I cannot help but to burst out at him. "In three months, my child is born. So I am going to be useless when my child is born? Why can I just fucking walk now?"

He drops his head, then he looks up at me again, "You need to heal that leg, Clayton, and..." he goes silent for several seconds, "You have to learn to walk on another prosthetic."

I sigh in defeat, and I know that, yes, everything he is saying is true. But that is not what I want to hear. My reality is not to be a broken man. I have, yes, and Isabella where she is standing there crying the loudest I have ever heard her cry, but as she is standing there, I want more; there is more I need in life.

This is not it!

So after the doctor has explained what will happen now, he leaves the room with the same heavy heart that he is leaving me.

What happened to Lieutenant Clayton Jackson, the hero that everybody made me out to be. Here I am in a hospital bed again with legs that are not going to work. Right now, I am at odds with the universe. I can still not understand it.

Is fate such a true word?

With the doctor leaving, I have Isabella moving closer. I can see her eyes are full of confusion; I can see that she does not know what to say. She knows that sorry will not mean a single thing to a man that is losing it all. So she does what she can only do what is best at the moment and remain quiet. She knows that I do not want to talk, and she is so right; I do not want to talk about it. I do not want people to feel pity for me.

Look at poor Clayton; they have taken a casualty again.

How am I going to tell my mother, yet even my father? I am so waiting for that 'I told you so' coming from him. My mom, all she is going to say is the words that I do not want to hear, 'I am sorry.' Sorry for what, exactly what is it that any of them have done that I find myself here. Sorry is not sorry. Not when you have been dealt a raw deal.

Maybe I am the one to say that I am sorry. Is this my fault for not listening to everyone when they told me that I should not go? Should those forty-three men say sorry that they decided to go? Who needs to say sorry? The one that caused it all?

So as I am lost in my own mind here, and before I drift off again, I turn my face to Isabella, "I am sorry, boo."

Ya, and that is me. That waterfall that was waiting to burst open has now reached the corners of my eyes. I truly feel that I have messed up. Yet, "I am really sorry, boo."

I watch as she only shakes her head as her own tears are streaming down, "Don't say sorry, soldier. It is not your fault."

With only but a stutter, I take her soft, delicate hand into mine, "Please do not call me that anymore."

She looks at me rather confused, "What? What must I not call you anymore?"

"Soldier," I softly whisper. "A broken man is not a soldier."

And then I turn my face away from her. Nobody will ever see the pain in them again. Yes, I have dreams, and I want to dream big, but right now, this very moment, they all seem to be out of reach…again.

There are so many what-ifs. What if I stayed at camp like I was supposed to be. What if I was in a different Humvee. What if I stood in another place. What-if.

It is not going to get me anywhere.

For four months, I am going to be a nothing. How am I going to be a father? How can a father hold his child when he cannot even walk straight. I am going to be such a goddamn burden not being able to do much for myself.

Well, this is where I am wrong. I am going to prove this damn doctor wrong. I am going to show him that no matter how hard he is going to knock me down, I am going to get up again. And that day when I stay up, that is the day that I will come laugh in his face.

I will prove to Isabella that she does not need to look after me; she does not feel like I am in the way. Yet, I am going to be a buff Marine with a damn thing on his leg and a prosthetic that is going to take time to get used to again.

When Isabella is having an ultrasound, I am having fucking physio. What a nice life I have created for myself. But there I go again; I feel sorry for myself. If I do not want people to feel sorry for me, then I should try and stop feeling sorry for myself.

This is only but a hurdle, a little stone that has been thrown in my path. I can overcome this, I have done it before, and I can do it once again. I need to keep reminding myself what is the bigger picture. I must remember what the prize is at the end. There is that dream; it is what I am always striving for. A better version of myself.

Yes, right now, I do not want to be called a soldier, but once I have been through this hurdle, I have a dream.

I want to become a Raider.