The Triumph Book: Heroes

By Melanie Davis

The Triumph Book: HEROES is a compilation of 24 amazing first-person stories from veterans representing World War II up through our recent conflicts. These are epic stories which have never been told before, such as the unknown hero of Khe Sanh who changed the course of history by succeeding in an impossible mission, protecting all the Marines surrounded on that infamous hill from being bombed. The stories in this book are fascinating and inspiring to everyone, military and civilian.

The Triumph Book: HEROES launches a national campaign, Love Your Veterans, and proceeds from the sale of the book will go towards veteran support programs and organizations. HEROES is the second book in The Triumph Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Davis
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463045794

Book preview

Why HEROES

I began writing HEROES immediately after publishing The Triumph Book, a collection of stories from people who endured severe tragedies and found purpose and joy in life because of their adversities. Those closest to me questioned the wisdom in doing this and wondered if there is even a market for yet another book of war stories … as there seems to be so many already. To answer the latter concern, I would say that every person’s experience is unique and each story important. I don’t believe there can ever be too many stories which preserve the legacy of our nation or the struggles and triumphs of the human spirit which are reflected in such stories. War accounts are some of the finest because war characterizes the worst and best that is possible. This dichotomy and the experiences that arise from them are always profound!

I started collecting stories for this book without delay because I simply felt compelled to do it. I knew that many of the stories I could preserve would not be around much longer. World War II veterans are dying quickly and Vietnam veterans have a much shorter life-span due to Agent Orange, perpetual undiagnosed and untreated Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and other emotional and physical burdens they have carried which reduces life expectancy. Vietnam veterans may be gone just as soon as those of World War II. There are stories in this book which would not exist (and which are highly valuable) had I not started writing immediately, as some of the veterans have since passed away.

My purpose in writing HEROES was initially to preserve the important legacies of our nation through the first-person accounts of those who have participated in our wars and increase patriotism in the process. Veterans have the greatest love for our country, because they have sacrificed the most for it. While not everyone will have the opportunity or challenges they have had to serve, we can all develop a greater appreciation for our freedom vicariously through their storytelling.

As I interviewed veterans, I began to see another vital reason to write this book, and do it now. Many of our Iraq and Afghanistan heroes are returning with serious, largely untreated and unrecognized, health issues. After standing in front of the men, women and children of our country, protecting us from personally experiencing the horrors of war and evil, they have literally become a shield, soaking up the worst, so that we may live our best. As a result, these heroes often carry with them unseen scars and wounds, especially in the form of post traumatic stress disorder or PTSD. PTSD leads to depression, divorce, drug abuse and alcoholism, homelessness and even suicide. By interviewing many of the veterans who represent more than a decade of perpetual war, I quickly learned that they are suffering unimaginable challenges to everyday life, and there seems to be very little help available to them. Only a lucky few find solutions, such as Matthew Brown, a featured author in this book. Matthew is a Marine who was shot during Operation Phantom Fury, the Invasion of Fallujah, leaving him suffering not only disability but terrible PTSD. Our youngest veterans are alone, feeling the burden of helping each other through the maze of emotional confusion as they witness one after another of their comrades self-medicating and even committing suicide. As I talked with them, these veterans expressed exasperation that there is so little being done; and worse, that the American population seems to be largely apathetic to their struggles.

During the process of writing this book and working closely with veterans, I sought access to many of the channels for obtaining intelligence about the military. By being proactive and seeking information, I was able to know when our service men and women were facing particularly daunting missions and when they were sustaining serious casualties or injuries. With this knowledge, I was able to pray for them, as I believe in the power of prayer, yet as I would talk about the battles raging at that very moment to others around me, no one else was even aware that such fighting and danger to our military was happening. Our real heroes, those putting their lives on the line to protect our country, are doing so without the spiritual backing or even passing thoughts of their nation. During one particular week, when five of our brave young men gave their lives, our media only focused air-time on a drug addicted, whore mongering celebrity.

Personally, I have great faith in the people of our country; after all, our noble and selfless military personnel come from every day American families. I believe the problem isn’t that our nation doesn’t care, but that our people are just entirely uninformed. I have faith in our citizens, but am deeply concerned about our culture! There is little-to-no mention in the large media outlets of the war which has been raging for ten years. It is as if we are tired, or those who would provide us the information think we are tired, of such ongoing news, and they believe we will find celebrity break-ups or the infidelities of our sports and movie star heroes much more intriguing.

There is, of course, the ever-present political debate about whether or not we should be in the wars we fight, which results in caring less about those actually in the battles than how powerfully one’s position on the subject is presented. However, having the opinion that we should not be in war is not a justifiable basis for neglecting our warriors. Without our exceptional military, we would experience many more 9/11’s or could potentially be completely overrun by our enemies who would love to see us destroyed. The very existence of our military protects us

In the process of writing this book, I was able to witness many special occasions honoring veterans. I attended an event at the Majestic Theatre in Dallas, TX, sponsored by the newly formed organization, Daughters of World War II, commemorating the sixty-sixth anniversary of the Marines storming the beaches of Iwo Jima. A gold seal panel of fourteen surviving Marines and Sailors recounted their experiences fighting for their lives and for their buddies, many of whom died in their arms or right alongside them. It was a profound and historic moment as I listened to each one share something significant about their experience and to realize that such an event will not be possible much longer. As I sat there in the audience, I looked across the aisle at Captain Allen Clark, a Vietnam veteran featured in this book, who lost both his legs and has gone on to do great things to help his fellow veterans with what he learned through his losses. Captain Clark sat in the front row, where his prosthetic legs would best fit, and I couldn’t help but think about him and all the Vietnam veterans who will likely never have such an honor paid to them.

The veterans of Vietnam were sent by our country to fight a war intended to preserve democracy and freedom. They were almost all young boys, full of love for their country and each other, fighting in a war that would take the lives of 58,220, according to the National Archives, and injure far more. But the injuries went beyond the battlefield. Those who returned home were spit on and treated as the enemy because of the political unrest surrounding the conflict. This black spot on our history is well known, but the injury and injustice has never been made right. I frequently talk with Vietnam veterans who are still fighting for acknowledgment of what Agent Orange has done to them (the herbicide sprayed widely from the air across the countryside which would immediately kill all foliage) and continually struggle to receive help with the ailments that have resulted. They have yet to be treated like heroes. The response to this injustice by our culture has been to sweep it under the proverbial rug and move on.

As I interviewed the Vietnam veterans in this book, they expressed deep appreciation to me for caring, taking the time to listen and wanting to share their stories. Here are true heroes, whose sacrifices and difficulties are no less important than any other veteran of any other war, who literally put their lives on the line and still do to this day because of all they continue to suffer in the aftermath, and they are treating me like a hero just for caring! What does that say?

As I mentioned earlier, I have faith in the goodness and ability for our people to appreciate and support their veterans. I don’t believe it is happening currently on any acceptable level, but I believe it is out of ignorance, not conscious apathy. So while I began this book to preserve legacy and increase patriotism, I now see it as an important document towards enlightening our country about just who our veterans are, what they have done, and why we should support them.

To truly understand or appreciate a difficult human condition, such as our veterans face, it requires much more than numbers and statistics to awaken the kind of compassion, sympathy and dedication it takes to make a difference. It takes stories: putting a face, a name and a life to the challenge or tragedy. It is by storytelling that we truly relate to each other and that is why I have compiled The Triumph Book: HEROES. As you read, you will fall in love with each of these veterans. You can’t help it; after all, they have literally been willing to give their lives for you and many still suffer for it today.

The stories in this book are tremendous. They show the power of the human spirit to face hell while striving to build heaven: a condition in which people live in freedom and peace. These stories are funny, sad, frightening and enlightening. Each story is simply titled by the name of the veteran with their military branch, highest rank achieved, theater in which they fought and years served listed beneath. At the end of each story is a Behind the Story section where I share how I came to find the veteran, what he or she may be doing now or other interesting and pertinent information. I also highlight some of the organizations which exist to support veterans in hopes that they may receive greater awareness and assistance to accomplish their missions effectively, reaching many more veterans in need. I hope that you will read this book in its entirety and then recommend it, or pass it along, so that others may have their awareness, appreciation and support of our veterans increased.

Author’s Note: I originally released this book on 11/11/11, a significant date for Veterans Day, and began sharing it widely within the military and veteran community. It was only then that I learned how effective The Triumph Book: HEROES can be as a resource for veterans as they gain wisdom and are able to recognize the triumph in their own lives. Reading the examples of others overcoming similar challenges provides a path helping veterans believe it is possible to surmount their personal adversity. Such hope can make the difference between choosing life or death. One Vietnam veteran told me, "I keep returning to HEROES for daily use. Because so many of the stories parallel my PTSD issues, the book serves me as a daily inspiration." - Rusty Norman Echo 2/9 USMC 1966-69

Travis Greene

Corporal (E-4), United States Marine Corps

Iraq, 2002-2007

The Night I Was Injured

Well … there went my legs, I calmly thought to myself as I sat back, waiting for the debris to settle after the concussive explosion. I laugh inside now when I recall how my brain processed that shocking new reality. As the dust began to clear, still dazed, I looked down to see that below the knees were only bloody stumps with my feet nowhere in sight.

It was the 64th anniversary of Pearl Harbor Day and I was three months into my third deployment to Iraq. The night before, we had dropped off another platoon’s squad at an observation post within a mile of our base. In three months, we had driven through, around, and next to that location more times than I could count. Now we were on a routine extraction to pick them up. Their time in the post had been uneventful until we arrived.

I was the commander of the rear vehicle and had picked up the rank of Corporal a month prior, combat meritoriously. Before my vehicle rounded the last corner, coming onto the extraction street, we heard an IED (improvised explosive device) explode ahead of us. We had just pulled into the intersection and it was unclear who had been hit or if there was even any damage. Chatter between personal radios within the vehicles indicated those involved were okay. The only vehicle without a radio was a seven-ton transport occupied by a motor-t driver (a Marine truck driver with mechanical skills) and an infantryman riding along as an assistant driver. After sitting in my HMMWV (high mobility multi-wheeled vehicle or Humvee to civilians) for a moment, determining the severity of the situation, I instructed my Marines to handle the rear security while I evaluated at the impact site.

After walking 75 meters to reach the downed seven-ton, I saw our Corpsman inside the truck assessing the health of the assistant driver, who was complaining of severe back pain from the blast he had literally sat above moments earlier. The Corpsman stripped him down, looking for any external wounds, before recommending we move him onto a stretcher to be med-evac’d. My arrival was perfectly timed, seeing how they needed able-bodies to move this Marine into our casualty evacuation vehicle, which travels with us everywhere.

Standing there with my weapon slung behind my back, I had no idea life was about to change forever. What I didn’t know was that after the seven-ton was hit by the first IED, it continued to roll before stopping next to another IED, this one much bigger. At the moment the second explosion went off, there were numerous Marines standing around the explosion site. Luckily, we were all on the opposite side of the truck when the bomb went off so it shielded most of the shrapnel from turning us into chunks that our fellow Marines would have been picking up for hours. I don’t remember hearing the blast, but I felt the concussion. It was so intense; I dropped instantly to the ground. I had been standing with the Corpsman and two other vehicle commanders, holding the stretcher, as shrapnel passed underneath the vehicle. It struck everyone holding the wounded Marine in the legs, the motor-t Marine who was preparing the vehicle to be towed, and another Marine who had taken a knee, providing security. The Marine on the stretcher was above the blast and didn’t receive any shrapnel, but he received minor burns from a fireball formed from the blast, and the gas tank explosion.

The rest of my memories that night are scattered, due either to losing consciousness, or never being in a state of mind that would allow me to remember the details. What I do remember is being in the back of a Humvee with the cold air racing across my face, causing me to shiver. The last time I had this kind of experience was in college at a St. Patrick’s Day party and out of respect for my roommate’s truck, I opted to lie in the back to avoid puking green vomit in his vehicle. This time the trip in the back of a truck was at a much faster speed and I don’t remember getting out. My last memory of being in Iraq was rolling out on a stretcher to the Black Hawk helicopter with someone shouting my name through the din of the rotors, encouraging me that I was going to be OK.

Winter Recruits

Two weeks into Marine Corps boot camp, one of the drill instructors told us he hated the winter recruits. He described us as the guys who had nothing else to do but join the military as our last option. He claimed that the best recruits came during the summer, because they were typically the kids who just graduated high school and couldn’t wait to leave home and enlist.

There was some truth behind that I realize as I ponder what led me to join the military. I walked into the recruiter’s office in April of 2002, towards the end of my sixth semester in college at Boise State University. About five months earlier, just before Thanksgiving, I had quit the track team at BSU. I loved running track and had a blast competing my freshman year, but our head coach was forced to resign. Boise State hired a coach who completely sucked the fun out of the sport I had grown to love. I could say it was like being in the military, but there were a lot of fun moments in the military. Our new coach didn’t recruit any of the athletes on his track team and wanted to clean house, which he did by cutting more than half the team’s scholarships by fifty percent following his first year as head coach.

When I finished my last semester of school, I had to wait until the middle of December before the Marines were able to send me to boot camp in San Diego, along with all the other so- called misfits. During that time, I moved back home to Twin Falls, Idaho to live and work with my parents at my dad’s heating and air conditioning business. My parents weren’t exactly ecstatic about my joining the Marines, especially with 9/11 so fresh in everyone’s mind. Needless to say, this led to some heated conversations on the subject, but no one was changing my mind.

Travis running hurdles for BSU

So there I was, a 21 year-old college drop-out thinking this drill instructor had us pegged. One of the biggest actual differences between going to boot camp in winter vs. summer was that the number of recruits was cut in half during winter. Summer-time platoons can have up to a hundred recruits at the start of boot camp, and graduate around 80. My platoon started with 55, and graduated 38. I never would have suspected being in a smaller platoon would be that big a deal, but it had its consequences. The drill instructors learned to match names with faces faster, and that is never a good thing. Another result of the lower population is that each platoon has four recruits who take one-hour shifts during the night to stand fire-watch, so with less recruits, you were lucky to get a night off.

The key to graduating from boot camp was not becoming too sick or being injured so badly that you miss three days of training, getting you dropped to the next class, and graduating later than planned. The problem is that everyone gets sick in boot camp; you have people coming from all over the country bringing their local fare of illness and disease. Granted, it is usually just the common cold, but when you aren’t allowed to spit and have to continue swallowing the same phlegm that keeps getting stuck in your throat, it makes being sick that much worse.

In winter, pneumonia is fairly common and I knew a couple recruits from my platoon who were dropped after catching it. Some guys were immediately kicked out of the Marines because of a failed drug test, including my own rack-mate, just two weeks in. Another recruit, who still makes me laugh when I think of him, was aspiring to get ejected from boot camp for being incompetent. This guy was always trying to mess up something. Luckily, the drill instructors were expecting his antics and didn’t use the hand grenade effect on us. This happens when a single recruit messes up, anyone inside the kill radius of a hand grenade (5 meters), also gets thrashed (a series of different exercises designed break you mentally and physically). I’m sure you can easily find a good video of this on the internet.

The purpose of boot camp is to take an undisciplined civilian and transform him into a Marine who, when given an order, obeys without question. The first month, drill instructors strip you of your identity. You are no longer an individual, just another body making up the platoon. From the moment you wake until you go to bed you are occupied physically and mentally. You learn to speak in the third person. A simple request like, Can I go to the bathroom? is transformed into Senior Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Bender, this recruit requests permission to make a sit-down head call. Anything you said had to be planned out in advance. Boot camp was the first time I forgot how to laugh; unfortunately, it was not the last.

I graduated on time in early March, three days before the initial push into Iraq began. Every Marine receives a ten-day leave after graduation from boot camp so I went home. While there, I didn’t concern myself with the war. I was excited to see friends and family. After leave, I was sent to School of Infantry (SOI) to do an eight-week basic infantry course before being sent to a unit.

School of Infantry was still tightly regulated, but we had weekends off and could carry a conversation with another Marine without getting thrashed for it. Waking up in the morning no longer included yelling. A light switch came on and we were expected to get ready on our own. I finally felt like I was earning a paycheck for the job description I actually signed up for; I was firing grenade launchers, fully automatic machine guns, throwing hand grenades, and performing fire-and-maneuver drills with up to thirty other Marines all firing live ammunition during the day and night. This wasn’t an easy job, but it definitely had some amazing moments. I sat through long hours of classes and slept under the stars, on some occasions only getting four hours of sleep before waking to start all over again. During this time, I met many of the Marine Corps friends that I am still in contact with today.

Days before we graduated, we were assigned units. When I graduated from SOI, May 30, 2003, the major push through Iraq was over and we were in the early days of rebuilding. The local police force was all but shut down, so combat units who had just taken over the country were now performing humanitarian efforts and patrolling the streets. Electric power was sporadic and local governments were slow to fix every day issues. People weren’t afraid to show their approval of the U.S. kicking out the Saddam regime, and the most common phrase you heard from the average Iraqi civilian was Good Bush! This was still early in the war, and we had yet to overstay our welcome.

Those of us who graduated met up with our units in Iraq. At one point, the military ordered a stop-loss, which meant the military could freeze anyone from leaving the Armed Forces because it was considered a time-of-war. As I was graduating, the stop-loss ended. Units already deployed were the first to be refilled. I joined the 3rd Battalion, 7th Marine Corps Division and was assigned to Lima Company, 3rd Platoon. Six days after I graduated SOI, I was sleeping inside a soccer stadium in a country eleven time zones away from where I grew up. It was the first week of June and the temperature was already insanely hot.

My unit had been sitting in Kuwait since January and was anxious to go home while the fresh Marines wanted to know what the war was like. To be honest, I felt safe when I got to my unit and knew I was surrounded by experienced infantrymen who had just toppled a country in less than two months with deadly precision … why wouldn’t I feel safe?

I was only in Iraq for three months, but it was nine for all the guys who had taken us under their wings. There wasn’t much happening in Karbala, which our battalion had taken over, except a few mortar attacks and about the same for small arms aggression. In comparison to my other deployments, it was almost like being on vacation. We even had a day of sightseeing in Babylon with a local historian where we saw the ancient walls that stood the test of time. We saw the throne room, where Persian Kings and Alexander the Great had once sat. I remember thinking that when things finally settle down, this would be a great place to visit with its deep historic ties to the ancient world. The only death during my first deployment was a Navy Corpsman who was fooling around with his pistol and accidentally shot himself. Looking back, I classify my first deployment as a nice practice session before the enemy positioned themselves to fight.

A Quick Return

I finished my first tour and soon returned for a second deployment to Iraq. The first couple of months are some of the most dangerous. When a new unit arrives, the insurgency tests their capabilities. Depending on how they react, it can be either hell or calm. We were almost pulled into the Fallujah Battle, but because so many insurgents were fleeing to our area, we had to stay put. One day, right at the start, we lost six Marines in an ambush on the other side of town. They walked into a courtyard where a machine gun took them out.

Simultaneous to the battles in Fallujah, we were attacking the city of Husaybah. It was eerily vacant. The villagers were warned ahead of time to stay inside or get out of town. Any males in the streets were considered insurgents. A squad from each platoon was assigned to clear a street on the return route to the base. We received phone calls from locals telling us that there was going to be an ambush on our way back to the base; so we sat on the other side of town for an hour or two, planning our return trip, anticipating the ambushes. It would normally take about 15 or 20 minutes, but because of the threats, it took two hours to get back to the base. In the end we shot down three hundred insurgents and didn’t lose one Marine. The insurgents would fire from the hip or shoot around a corner, spraying bullets down the alley. They were poor fighters when it came to small arms conflict and face-to-face fighting. Their best attack was with IEDs.

After that, we were on edge and high alert. There were IEDs or mortars being fired at us, but for the most part, it took them a while to reorganize after we had taken out so much of their force. When things started to calm down, the heat was the biggest threat.

During my second deployment, the first Medal of Honor recipient since the Vietnam War, Jason Dunham, earned his award around the town where this major battle happened. He jumped on a grenade to save all the Marines in the room. We heard about this event the day it happened. We didn’t know the specifics of it, only that there was a Marine who jumped on a grenade. I heard the full story later when I returned home; a ship recently named after him.

Second deployment, waiting to go out on foot patrol (Travis is on the far left)

Third Time Wasn’t the Charm

We were sent back for a full year the third time in early September when it was starting to cool down in Iraq. On this tour, the training was much better … we knew where we were going and what our mission would be. I felt better about it and had a higher leadership position. The longer you’ve been doing something, the more secure you feel. Even though Iraq was still very dangerous, I felt more comfortable with our goals and what we were trying to accomplish within the city. On this deployment, we were sent to Ramadi.

During September 2005, Iraq was bad and getting worse. Marines injured in Ramadi who came home just as we were training to deploy. They informed us of the current situation, how they were getting hit pretty hard; even the rocket and mortar attacks were becoming more accurate. One of the guys talking to us was hit by a mortar while smoking a cigarette outside his barracks. His neck was damaged so he talked with a very raspy voice. It was surreal because I remembered his story when I was sent to the exact same base and the exact same building … I even saw the shrapnel damage that hit near the door where he was standing.

I was switched to weapons platoon. We were a mobile unit and one of our tasks was QRF (Quick Reaction Force), being ready to help with medical needs, casualties, bringing in extra firepower for a situation, or whatever assistance was needed in an emergency. We also fulfilled duties such as escorting infantry units to set up observation posts and running our own missions of vehicle checks. Depending on what was going on, we could be sitting around the base all day with nothing happening or be called out for fifteen minutes to a few hours depending on what was going on. We had four Humvees in our unit, and I went from being one of the guys walking around on the ground to a vehicle commander.

Mobile units are easy prey. They are big and noisy and have to use roads, so they are typically targeted the most. Most of the casualties came from the driving units that would roll over IEDs. I had known this for a while, but the new guys didn’t. In response, the Humvees were becoming better armored. In my first deployment, we drove around with the doors off and pop cans rolling around because of the heat. Now we didn’t dare drive with the window down, even though it was hot. We were only a month in before we started losing guys. We had one Humvee that was hit and the driver killed. Where I would have been sitting, in the front passenger seat, a Lieutenant had shrapnel go through his hip. Behind the driver was our Corpsman who lost his leg, and the gunner in the turret had multiple bones broken when it flipped upside down. In the back right was our Executive, who walked away from the accident and was back in operations the next day. I think the bomb exploded directly under the driver.

Travis patrolling on third deployment

The hardest part was that, initially, I had been in that very vehicle when we started our missions. Because I was the second in charge of the section, the Lieutenant and I decided to switch positions. I went to the rear vehicle and he was in the lead. The explosion was less than a week after we switched spaces. It was tough because you want the best people in the lead and, since I had hand-picked those in that vehicle, it felt as if I had chosen them to be blown up. However, I came to an awareness that even though I picked the guys to be in the vehicle, I didn’t plant or detonate the explosive. The company commander talked to me after the ceremony and helped my mind reach that conclusion. I made sure I didn’t accept it being my fault. I was injured only two months later.

The Start of a Long Road to Recovery

My next memory, after my legs were blown off, was seven days later, coming out of a medically induced coma. I knew I was injured and in a hospital setting, but other than that, I was uncertain about my condition. Soon the doctor came in and began the process of pulling the ventilator from my throat. Most of the information I was given about what happened was shared with me then.

It took a week in the ICU before I began actually remembering what happened. Others who were standing around me that day were injured also. My parents informed me that one Marine bled to death when his bloodline fell out in the helicopter during the night as they flew. Five others were injured; four of us were double amputees above the knee and another lost one leg above the knee. We were together at Bethesda for our initial surgeries and were eventually transferred to Walter Reed Hospital. We saw each other on a daily basis. It was good to have others who understood what I was going through. One of the injured was a Navy Corpsman who was on his first deployment; I came to know him much better at the hospital. The Marine who lost one leg had been on three deployments with me.

Travis at Walter Reed with comrades who were injured beside him

I was in the ICU for 53 days, which was just one day away from tying the record for the longest stay in the ICU at the time. I had multiple medical issues. My heart stopped on four different occasions: twice somewhere in the fields of Iraq, another time when we landed in the States, driving from the airport to the hospital, and then in the ICU.

When I woke, I checked to see that my legs were still missing … that I was not dreaming and it was real. I was so drugged up that I was actually calm and accepting; my main concern was more about the pain than the loss of my legs. The whole missing- my-legs status did not affect me until I came off the heavy medications and out of ICU.

Lying in ICU

During the first five days, many visitors stopped by and I was repeatedly asked about my future plans. My goals were still firmly in place—I told people I still intended to do the same things … teach high school and coach track.

It was my plan before I was injured, and for a while, I stuck with it. I really didn’t think about what I would have to do to survive in the civilian world. I was ignorant and had no idea what to expect.

I was initially injured with long stumps close to knee length, but that was quickly amputated because of all the muscle tissue dying. My right leg was cut quite short. This upset my dad because the longer your legs are, the easier it is to use prosthetics and walk. My right leg is four inches long and the left leg (they tried to keep as long as they could) is six inches. The doctors tried to preserve the length while keeping me alive at the same time. My left leg was the one holding me in the ICU for so long simply because of how much they were trying to leave intact.

I really didn’t know what to think of my condition at first. I was upset at my left leg for being such a nuisance and keeping me in the hospital. Eventually the doctors had to change how they were treating it. Originally,