To Hell and Back
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 9: Selection
Walter Reed National Military Medical Center - Interview Day
Kirstie woke at 0500, two hours before she needed to, her body reverting to military time despite months of hospital routine. She couldn’t sleep anyway—too much anxiety, too much riding on today.
The interview. The medical evaluation. The chance at something more than just existing.
She performed her morning routine carefully, aware that every movement was being evaluated even before the formal evaluation began. Transferring from bed to wheelchair—smooth, controlled, no hesitation. Washing her face—her scarred, reconstructed face that still didn’t quite feel like her own. Dressing in her uniform—the Marines had authorized her to wear it for the interview despite her pending medical retirement.
Staff Sergeant Kirstie Roberts. The promotion had come through two weeks ago, a small acknowledgment of her service before they discharged her. She wore the chevrons with pride and sorrow—proud of what they represented, heartbroken that she’d never truly serve as a Staff Sergeant.
Her parents arrived at 0630 with coffee and encouragement. Sam had flown back to Iowa to manage the farm, but he’d called last night with his own brand of tough love: “Go in there and show them who you are. Not who you were, not who you wish you were. Who you are right now. That’s enough.”
She hoped he was right.
The Advanced Prosthetic Research Program had taken over an entire wing of Walter Reed for the day.hirty-seven applicants, all combat-injured amputees, all competing for eight remaining slots in the program.
Kirstie wheeled herself into the medical evaluation room, where a team of doctors, prosthetists, and physical therapists waited with clipboards and assessment forms.
“Staff Sergeant Roberts,” the lead physician—a Navy captain—greeted her. “I’m Captain Anderson. We’re going to conduct a comprehensive medical evaluation to assess your suitability for the program. This will include examination of your residual limb, assessment of your overall health, evaluation of your other injuries, and discussion of your medical history. Questions?”
“No, sir. Ready when you are.”
The examination was thorough and invasive. They measured her residual limb—length, circumference, muscle tone, skin condition. They assessed her range of motion, her core strength, her balance. They examined her shoulder, her spine, her facial reconstruction.
They asked about pain levels, medication usage, sleep quality, mental health status.
Kirstie answered honestly. About the phantom limb pain that still tormented her daily. About the antidepressants she’d been prescribed. About the nightmares that woke her most nights. About the suicide attempt six weeks ago.
She saw some of the team exchange glances at that last admission, and her heart sank. Had she just disqualified herself by being honest?
But Captain Anderson’s expression remained neutral. “Thank you for your honesty, Staff Sergeant. That kind of transparency is exactly what we need in this program.” He made a note on his chart. “Your residual limb is well-healed, appropriate length for above-knee prosthetic fitting, good muscle tone despite extended bed rest. Your other injuries are stable and shouldn’t interfere with prosthetic use. From a purely medical standpoint, you’re an excellent candidate.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The question is whether you’re psychologically ready for the demands of this program. That’s what the next evaluation will determine.”
1000 Hours - Psychological Assessment
Dr. Sarah Chen—no relation to Kirstie’s psychiatrist—was a clinical psychologist specializing in trauma and amputation adjustment. She sat across from Kirstie in a comfortable office that felt more like a living room than a medical facility.
“Staff Sergeant Roberts, I’ve reviewed your medical file, including your recent psychiatric hospitalization. I want to start by acknowledging how difficult this must be—sharing your darkest moments with a stranger who’s evaluating your fitness for a program you desperately want.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s not comfortable.”
“I appreciate the honesty. Let’s talk about that night—the suicide attempt. What were you feeling?”
Kirstie took a breath. This was it. Make or break. She could lie, could minimize, could try to present herself as more stable than she was. Or she could tell the truth and trust that honesty mattered more than perfection.
She chose truth.
“I felt like I had died in that crash and nobody had noticed. Like the person I was—the Marine, the door gunner, the warrior—was gone, and what was left wasn’t worth keeping. I looked at my future and saw nothing but pain and limitation and loss. And I thought ... I thought everyone would be better off if I just stopped fighting.”
“What changed? Why are you here today instead of having gone through with it?”
“My brother saved me. Showed up before I could finish what I’d started. Made me see that giving up wasn’t just my choice—it would destroy the people who loved me.” Kirstie paused. “And then I got the letter about this program. And for the first time since the crash, I had something to work toward. A goal. A mission.”
“Do you still have suicidal thoughts?”
“Sometimes. Usually late at night, when the phantom pain is bad and I can’t sleep. But I have coping strategies now. I call someone. I do breathing exercises. I take my medication. I don’t act on the thoughts anymore.”
“What does success look like for you, if you’re accepted into this program?”
Kirstie thought about it carefully. “Walking again. Really walking, not just hobbling. Being mobile enough to live independently. Finding a new purpose now that I can’t serve as a Marine. Proving that losing a leg doesn’t mean losing everything.”
“And if you’re not accepted?”
The question hit hard. Kirstie hadn’t let herself think about that possibility.
“Then I keep doing the work. Keep going to therapy. Keep learning to live with this. But...” She met Dr. Chen’s eyes. “But this program feels like hope. Like maybe I can be more than just a survivor. And I really need that right now.”
Dr. Chen made notes, her expression unreadable. After several more questions about coping mechanisms, support systems, and long-term goals, she finally set down her pen.
“Staff Sergeant, I’m going to be honest with you. Six weeks ago, I would have recommended against your acceptance. You were in crisis, actively suicidal, not stable enough for the demands of this program.” She paused. “But the work you’ve done in those six weeks is remarkable. You’ve engaged in treatment, developed coping strategies, and most importantly, you’ve been honest about your struggles. That honesty is crucial. We need participants who will tell us when they’re having a hard time, not ones who pretend everything is fine until they break.”
“So ... I’m still in consideration?”
“Yes. From a psychological standpoint, you’re cleared for the program. With the understanding that you’ll continue your psychiatric care and be monitored closely for any signs of crisis.”
Relief flooded through Kirstie so intensely she felt dizzy. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You still have the panel interview.”
1300 Hours - Panel Interview
The panel consisted of five people: Colonel Martinez (program director), two prosthetists from Ottobock and Össur, a physical therapist, and a veteran advocate who was himself a bilateral above-knee amputee.
They sat behind a long table, Kirstie facing them in her wheelchair, feeling like she was on trial. In a way, she was.
Colonel Martinez opened. “Staff Sergeant Roberts, thank you for your patience today. We’ve reviewed your medical and psychological evaluations. Now we’d like to hear from you directly. Why do you want to be part of this program?”
Kirstie had rehearsed this answer, but now, facing them, the rehearsed words felt wrong. She spoke from her heart instead.
“Because I need to prove to myself that I’m more than what I lost. I was a door gunner. I protected aircraft and Marines. I had purpose. And when I lost my leg, I lost all of that. My identity, my career, my future—all gone.” She paused. “This program isn’t just about getting a prosthetic. It’s about getting my life back. About being mobile, independent, functional. About contributing to something bigger than myself again. That’s what I need.”
One of the prosthetists—a German man representing Ottobock—leaned forward. “The Genium X3 microprocessor knee we’ll be fitting you with is extremely advanced technology. But it requires dedication to learn. Hours of training, constant adjustments, frustration when things don’t work perfectly. Are you prepared for that?”
“Sir, I spent thirteen weeks in Marine Corps boot camp being broken down and rebuilt. I spent six months learning to be an aviation mechanic. I spent months learning to be a door gunner. I know how to work hard. I know how to push through frustration. And I know how to commit to something until I master it.”
The Össur representative spoke next. “The powered ankle system—the Empower ankle we’ll pair with the knee—is revolutionary but complex. It requires daily charging, software updates, regular maintenance. And it will malfunction. Technology fails. How will you handle that?”
“Ma’am, I was a helicopter mechanic before I was a door gunner. I understand mechanical systems. I understand that technology requires maintenance. And I understand that nothing works perfectly all the time. I’ll adapt.”
The physical therapist asked about her commitment to therapy, her willingness to push through pain, her ability to follow protocols. Kirstie answered each question honestly, drawing on her military experience, her training, her determination.
Finally, the veteran advocate spoke. He was older, probably late forties, with the weathered look of someone who’d fought through hell and come out the other side.
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