To Hell and Back
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 11: Progress
Walter Reed - Three Months Into Program
Kirstie stood at the edge of the outdoor track, hands on her hips, staring at the quarter-mile loop like it was an enemy position. Brett stood beside her, stopwatch in hand, that familiar expression of patient challenge on his face.
“You don’t have to run it,” he said. “Walking the full distance without breaks would be an accomplishment.”
“I was a Marine. Marines run.”
“You were a Marine with two biological legs. Now you’re a Marine with advanced prosthetic technology that, while impressive, has limitations.”
“So you’re saying I can’t do it.”
Brett smiled, recognizing the trap. “I’m saying it will be very difficult. The powered ankle will help, but running requires a completely different gait pattern. The microprocessor has to switch modes, you have to trust it not to collapse during swing phase, and your residual limb is going to take a beating in the socket.”
“All I’m hearing is that it’s possible.”
“Stubborn as hell, you know that?”
“It’s been mentioned.” Kirstie stretched her right leg, then checked her prosthetic—battery at 87%, all systems green. “What’s the record for first run after above-knee amputation?”
“For someone three months post-fitting? There is no record, because most people aren’t crazy enough to try.”
“Then I guess I’m setting the record.” She lined up at the track’s starting point. “Time me.”
Brett shook his head but raised the stopwatch. “Your funeral. On your mark.”
Kirstie started at a jog—more of a fast walk-run hybrid, testing the prosthetic’s response. The knee shifted into running mode, the swing phase shortening, the ankle providing powered push-off. It felt wrong, mechanical, like her leg was a spring-loaded pogo stick instead of flesh and bone.
But it worked. Sort of.
By the first turn, she was breathing hard. By the halfway point, her residual limb was screaming from the socket pressure. By three-quarters, she wanted to quit more than she’d wanted anything in her life.
But she didn’t quit. Marines don’t quit.
She crossed the finish line at fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds—a quarter mile that she’d once run in under two minutes. Brett was there immediately, helping her to a bench, his hands checking her residual limb for damage.
“How bad?” he asked.
“Bad,” she admitted, her voice strained. “Socket pressure is intense. Feels like it’s trying to saw my leg off.”
“That’s because running creates forces the socket wasn’t optimized for. We’ll need to work with Dr. Kim on adjustments if you’re serious about this.” He handed her water. “But Kirstie? Fifteen forty-two for your first attempt at running? That’s incredible. Most above-knee amputees never run at all.”
“It doesn’t feel incredible. It feels like failure. I used to run that in under two minutes.”
“You used to have two biological legs. Stop comparing current-you to past-you. That’s not fair to either version.”
She wanted to argue but couldn’t. He was right. The person she’d been before the crash was gone. She had to learn to measure herself by different standards.
“Next week,” she said, still breathing hard. “I want to try again. With socket adjustments.”
“Deal. But tomorrow, we’re doing aquatic therapy. Your residual limb needs recovery time.”
“Aquatic therapy? You mean swimming?”
“I mean moving in water where there’s no impact stress on your residual limb. The prosthetic is waterproof—you can swim with it on or take it off, your choice. Either way, it’s recovery day.”
Swimming. Kirstie hadn’t swum since before the crash. The thought of being in water, of feeling that freedom of movement, made something ache in her chest.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Swimming tomorrow.”
The Pool
The Walter Reed aquatic therapy center was a temperature-controlled indoor pool, empty except for therapists and patients. Brett met Kirstie poolside wearing board shorts and a Walter Reed Physical Therapy t-shirt, looking less like a professional therapist and more like a college athlete.
Kirstie tried not to notice. Failed completely.
She wore a one-piece swimsuit that she’d bought specifically for this—athletic cut, covering most of her scars. Her prosthetic was still attached, the waterproof seals checked and verified by Dr. Kim that morning.
“Ready?” Brett asked.
“As I’ll ever be.”
They started at the steps, Kirstie holding the railing as she descended into the water. The temperature was perfect—warm enough to soothe, cool enough to refresh. As the water rose to her waist, then her chest, she felt the weight of the prosthetic become negligible. In water, the mechanical leg didn’t matter. In water, she was almost whole.
“How does it feel?” Brett asked, moving to stand beside her in the chest-deep water.
“Like flying. Like I’m not carrying all this weight anymore.”
“That’s exactly right. In water, you’re neutrally buoyant. The prosthetic doesn’t matter. Your injuries don’t matter. You’re just a person moving through water.” He demonstrated a gentle treading motion. “Let’s start with some basic movements. Nothing strenuous. Just feeling comfortable in the water again.”
They spent thirty minutes on simple movements—walking in the water, gentle leg lifts, core rotations. The prosthetic moved differently underwater, the powered ankle less useful but the knee still responsive. Kirstie found herself laughing when the ankle’s push-off feature activated underwater and nearly launched her forward.
“Okay, maybe disable the powered ankle for swimming,” Brett said, pulling out his waterproof tablet and adjusting her settings. “The microprocessor knee is enough.”
After the basic work, Brett surprised her. “Want to try actually swimming? Laps?”
“Can I?”
“Your choice. With or without the prosthetic. Some amputees prefer swimming without—more natural movement. Others like keeping it on for the security.”
Kirstie thought about it. Swimming without the prosthetic meant exposing her residual limb, acknowledging the reality of her amputation in a way that still felt vulnerable. But it also meant moving freely, without the weight of even a waterproof prosthetic.
“I’ll try without,” she said quietly.
Brett helped her remove the prosthetic—a process that was becoming routine but still felt strangely intimate, his hands careful and professional as he released the vacuum seal and detached the components. Once free, Kirstie felt simultaneously lighter and more exposed.
“I’ll be right here,” Brett said, carrying the prosthetic to the pool edge. “Swim at your own pace.”
Kirstie pushed off from the wall and started swimming freestyle. The motion was awkward at first—her body compensating for the missing leg, her kick uneven and asymmetric. But as she found her rhythm, something clicked.
She was moving. Really moving. The water flowed around her, supporting her, carrying her. She wasn’t walking, wasn’t limping, wasn’t struggling. She was just swimming.
She completed one lap, then another, then another. By the fourth lap, tears mixed with pool water on her face. This was the first time since the crash that she’d felt truly capable, truly powerful. Not despite her injuries, but beyond them.
When she finally stopped, breathless and exhausted, Brett was grinning from the pool edge.
“Four laps. On your first day back in the water. You’re a natural.”
“It feels like freedom,” she said, treading water with just her arms and her one leg. “Like I’m me again. Not broken-me or amputee-me. Just me.”
“That’s what we’re going for. Finding activities where you’re just Kirstie, doing things you love, not defined by what you’ve lost.”
Something in his tone made her look at him more carefully. He wasn’t just her therapist in that moment. He was someone who genuinely cared about her wellbeing, who celebrated her victories like they were his own.
“Thank you,” she said. “For this. For everything.”
“Just doing my job,” he said, but his smile suggested it was more than that.
Later, as she sat on the pool deck and Brett helped her reattach her prosthetic—his hands competent and sure, her awareness of his proximity distracting—Kirstie realized she was in trouble.
She was developing feelings for her physical therapist. Real feelings. The kind that made her pulse race when he smiled, made her look forward to therapy sessions, made her think about him when she should be sleeping.
It was inappropriate. Unprofessional. Complicated.
And absolutely terrifying.
Month Four - The Advocacy Request
Colonel Martinez called Kirstie into her office on a Tuesday afternoon. The program director looked pleased, which Kirstie had learned usually meant something challenging was coming.
“Staff Sergeant Roberts, your progress has been exceptional. Dr. Kim and Brett both report that you’re exceeding expectations—walking distances, managing stairs, even attempting to run. The data you’re providing is invaluable.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Which is why I have a request. The program needs public advocates—wounded warriors willing to speak about their experiences, to help push for insurance coverage of advanced prosthetics, to show what’s possible with proper support and technology.” She paused. “We’d like you to be one of those advocates.”
Kirstie felt her stomach drop. “Public speaking? Ma’am, I’m not—”
“You’re exactly who we need. Combat-injured Marine, door gunner, survivor of a catastrophic crash. Your story is powerful. And you’re articulate, determined, and genuine. Those qualities matter more than polished speaking skills.”
“What would it involve?”
“Media interviews. Speaking at conferences. Potentially testifying before congressional committees about prosthetic coverage. Sharing your story—the crash, the injuries, the recovery—to help other wounded warriors get access to this technology.”
The thought of standing in front of cameras, of sharing her darkest moments with strangers, made Kirstie want to run. But she thought about the letter that had saved her life, about the program that had given her hope, about all the wounded warriors who couldn’t access advanced prosthetics because insurance denied coverage.
“If it helps other people get this technology ... yes, ma’am. I’ll do it.”
Colonel Martinez smiled. “Outstanding. We’ll start small—a local news interview, low pressure. Then build from there if you’re comfortable.” She handed Kirstie a folder. “Your first interview is scheduled for next week. Brett will be there for support, and we’ll have a media trainer work with you beforehand.”
After the meeting, Kirstie sat in the hallway, staring at the folder, feeling the weight of what she’d agreed to. Sharing her story meant reliving the crash, acknowledging her suicide attempt, talking about her struggles.
It meant being vulnerable in front of the entire world.
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