By Nick Garland
In early 2008, as a young officer, I was set to deploy to Afghanistan. It was the culmination of a year and a half of intense training and I was primed to go.
For my family and friends, it was a stressful period of limbo as they waited for me to fly and were reminded of where I was going by the almost daily casualty reports. For me it was a long-awaited adventure. Ten weeks into the tour my adventure became my family’s nightmare when I was seriously injured by a rocket-propelled grenade.
My injuries were life-threatening and I was not well, but kept unconscious in an induced coma, I was not suffering. For my family and those close to me, however, their suffering had just begun. It started with a knock on the door – a moment that is never forgotten – by two soldiers charged with the thankless task of informing my family that their life had changed irreversibly.
When telling my story, I always mention the victims. The people that were there, that I shared my blood with...
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