The heavy wood door creeped open and in rolled four wheels and a young girl following behind with an American flag by the handles. My heart sank. He looked like a kid, so very young, and his twenty-two year old wife didn’t look a day older.
The restaurant I work at is less then a mile away from Walter Reed Army Medical Center,
which is where most of the wounded soldiers are taken to.
He steered his motorized wheel chair over to one of my tables, and jumped up in the booth. As Lauren, another server, took the wheel chair to park it in the back, he smiled and said “careful, if you put it into 4th gear, you’ll pop a wheely.” He was so upbeat and high-spirited for being “blown up” May 1st, less then two months ago.
He told us about how he had just looked at pictures of himself right after his accident and almost threw up. His long brown eye-lashes had completely grown back in, and the scars and burns on his face were barely noticeable. His left hand was blown away and had to be completely rebuilt with metal rods, and skin graphed from his tattooed arm.
BUT…he is alive. He’s alive to see his wife, and his three kids back home in Hawaii.
It was the proverbial slap in the face for me. He was fighting for our country, got blown away, and his complaints are his severe nerve pain and not being able to walk. I am over here complaining about not having enough time, or things. It put things into perspective for me, making me realize that I have two arms, legs, eyes, and can walk on my own two feet.
I need to be thankful for the things I have, when others are less fortunate.
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