To Hell and Back
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 10: First Steps
Walter Reed Prosthetic Facility - Two Weeks Later
Kirstie sat in the fitting room, her heart hammering as Dr. Kim wheeled in a cart carrying what looked like the most advanced piece of technology she’d ever seen outside of a helicopter cockpit.
The prosthetic system gleamed under the fluorescent lights—carbon fiber weave in a custom pattern she’d chosen: subtle camouflage with Marine Corps scarlet and gold accents. The Genium X3 knee was sleek and mechanical, the Empower ankle below it equally sophisticated. Together, they looked like something from a science fiction movie.
“Ready to meet your new leg?” Dr. Kim asked with a smile.
“More than ready.”
Brett stood nearby, tablet in hand, ready to document everything. Over the past two weeks, Kirstie had seen him several times for pre-prosthetic training—building core strength, improving balance, working on upper body conditioning. He was professional, encouraging, and had a way of pushing her without making her feel inadequate.
She’d also noticed he was attractive, but she firmly pushed that thought aside. Professional relationship only. She was here to learn to walk, not to develop a crush on her physical therapist.
“Let’s start with the socket,” Dr. Kim said, holding up what looked like a precisely engineered cup made of carbon fiber and silicone. “This is custom-molded to your residual limb. It uses an elevated vacuum system to create suction—no pins, no straps, just physics holding it in place.”
She handed it to Kirstie, who examined it carefully. The interior was lined with soft silicone, the exterior rigid carbon fiber. It was lighter than she’d expected.
“The first fitting is always interesting,” Dr. Kim continued. “It might feel tight, or strange, or uncomfortable. We’ll make adjustments. This is a process.”
Kirstie nodded and, with Dr. Kim’s guidance, began the process of donning the liner—a silicone sleeve that went over her residual limb—and then the socket itself.
The sensation was bizarre. Pressure, containment, the feeling of something foreign attached to her body. The vacuum system activated with a soft hiss, and suddenly the socket was part of her, held in place by negative pressure.
“How does it feel?” Dr. Kim asked.
“Weird. Tight. But ... secure?”
“That’s good. The vacuum creates about fifteen pounds of suction. It’s not going anywhere.” She attached the knee unit to the socket, then the ankle to the knee, then the foot to the ankle. “Okay. You’re now officially bionic.”
Kirstie looked down at her leg—her new leg—and felt a complicated surge of emotions. Hope. Fear. Grief for what it replaced. Excitement for what it might enable.
“Let’s power it up,” Brett said, approaching with the tablet. He tapped a few commands, and Kirstie heard a soft whir as the systems initialized.
The knee and ankle came alive—subtle movements, calibrations, the microprocessors running through startup sequences. On Brett’s tablet, data streamed: sensor readings, pressure points, system diagnostics.
“Everything looks good,” he said. “Battery at one hundred percent. All systems nominal. Ready to try standing?”
Kirstie’s mouth went dry. Standing. She hadn’t stood on two legs in over six months. The physical therapists had gotten her up on parallel bars with a basic training prosthetic a few times, but this was different. This was the real thing.
“Yes. Let’s do it.”
Brett and Dr. Kim positioned themselves on either side of her, ready to catch her if she fell. The parallel bars were in front of her, solid and reassuring.
“Take your time,” Brett said. “Let the knee and ankle systems activate. They’ll feel strange at first—the microprocessors are learning your weight distribution, your balance points. Trust the technology.”
Kirstie gripped the parallel bars and pushed herself up.
The world tilted. Her balance was completely off, her brain receiving conflicting information from her intact right leg and her prosthetic left leg. The prosthetic felt heavy and foreign, the knee locking into place with a soft click as weight came onto it.
But she was standing. On two legs. For the first time since the crash.
Tears leaked from her eyes before she could stop them.
“You’re doing it,” Brett said quietly. “You’re standing.”
“I’m standing,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
They let her stand for two minutes, just getting used to the sensation, letting the prosthetic systems calibrate to her body. Then, carefully, she sat back down.
“That was outstanding,” Dr. Kim said. “First time up and you held it for two full minutes. Most people last thirty seconds before their muscles give out.”
“Marine Corps training,” Kirstie said, wiping her eyes. “We don’t quit.”
“No,” Brett agreed, meeting her eyes with something like respect. “You definitely don’t.”
Day Three - First Assisted Steps
The parallel bars became Kirstie’s world. She spent hours between them, learning to shift her weight, learning to trust the prosthetic knee, learning to feel the powered ankle as it responded to her movements.
Brett was there for every session, patient and encouraging but never condescending. He’d correct her form, remind her to engage her core, point out when she was compensating incorrectly.
“You’re hiking your hip,” he’d say. “Let the prosthetic do the work. Trust the knee.”
“The knee feels like it’s going to collapse.”
“It won’t. The microprocessor has you. But your brain doesn’t trust it yet. That’s normal.”
On the third day, he decided she was ready to try walking.
“Just one step,” he said. “Left foot forward. Let the knee bend naturally, let the ankle dorsiflex. The systems will handle it.”
Kirstie gripped the parallel bars, took a breath, and shifted her weight onto her right leg. Then, slowly, she swung her prosthetic leg forward.
The knee bent smoothly, the ankle adjusted, the foot contacted the ground. She shifted weight onto it, and the knee locked into stance phase, supporting her weight fully.
“Now bring the right leg through.”
She did. One step. One single, awkward, terrifying step.
“Again.”
Another step. Then another. By the fourth step, she was crying and grinning simultaneously, her hands white-knuckled on the parallel bars but her legs—both legs—carrying her forward.
“That’s it! You’re walking!” Brett was moving alongside her, ready to catch her if she fell. “Five more steps. You can do it.”
She made it seven steps before her muscles gave out and she had to sit down, her whole body shaking from effort and adrenaline.
“Seven steps,” Brett said, checking his tablet. “On day three. Kirstie, that’s remarkable.”
She looked up at him, at the genuine pride in his expression, and felt something shift in her chest. He believed in her. Not just professionally—she could see that he actually cared about her success.
“Thank you,” she said. “For pushing me. For not letting me quit.”
“You wouldn’t quit anyway. That’s not who you are.” He offered his hand to help her back into her wheelchair. “Rest for fifteen minutes, then we go again.”
“Again?”
“Did you think we were done for the day? We’ve got three more hours scheduled, Staff Sergeant. And you’ve got a lot more than seven steps in you.”
Kirstie groaned but couldn’t help smiling. He was right. She had more in her. She just had to find it.
Week Two - Walking Without Parallel Bars
The transition from parallel bars to walking aids was terrifying. Kirstie graduated from the bars to a walker, then to forearm crutches, each step requiring more balance, more trust in the prosthetic, more faith in her own ability.
Brett pushed her relentlessly but never beyond what she could handle. He seemed to have an instinct for knowing exactly how far to push before backing off, when to encourage and when to demand.
“You’re compensating with your right side,” he’d say. “You’re putting eighty percent of your weight on your intact leg. That’s going to destroy your hip and back. Even it out. Fifty-fifty.”
“The prosthetic doesn’t feel stable enough.”
“Because you’re not loading it properly. Commit to it. Trust the technology.”
So she learned to trust. Learned to let the microprocessor knee handle the complexities of stance and swing phase. Learned to feel the powered ankle pushing her forward with each step, providing propulsion her muscles no longer could.
The smartphone app became her constant companion. She’d check battery levels obsessively, switch between activity modes, monitor her gait symmetry. Brett taught her to interpret the data, to understand what the sensors were telling her about her walking pattern.
“Fifty-two percent right leg, forty-eight percent left. That’s much better. You’re almost even.”
“It doesn’t feel even.”
“Your brain doesn’t trust the prosthetic yet. But the data doesn’t lie. You’re walking almost symmetrically.”
By the end of week two, Kirstie could walk the length of the therapy room with just a single forearm crutch. Slow, careful, but walking. The prosthetic systems had adapted to her gait, the AI learning her movement patterns, making constant micro-adjustments she couldn’t even feel.
“I want to try without the crutch,” she said one afternoon.
Brett raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Falls are still a risk.”
“I’m sure. I can’t walk with a crutch forever. I need to know if I can do it unassisted.”
He considered, then nodded. “Okay. But I’m spotting you. And we’re doing this in the harness system.”
They moved to the overhead harness area—a safety system that would catch her if she fell. Once secured, Brett took the crutch away.
Kirstie stood alone on two legs, nothing to hold onto, nothing but her own balance and the prosthetic systems keeping her upright.
“Walk to me,” Brett said, backing up about ten feet. “Nice and slow. Let the systems work.”
She took a breath and stepped forward. The knee responded, the ankle adjusted, her body swayed but the stumble recovery function caught her. Another step. Another.
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