A journey in the life of someone affected by war…

Each room is separated into four cubicles by flimsy curtains that provide only visual privacy. All cries, movements in bed, blaring iPods and conversations can be heard throughout the room. Tacked on the wall, a piece of paper lists the occupants by name, rank and division. Rosaries dangle from many of the pushpins. Some rooms are marked with green stars, indicating that a patient is infected.

The rooms all looked the same to me, whether at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., or Madigan Army Medical Center in Tacoma, Wash. These were the hospitals where I rotated the last couple of years while Jonathan recovered.

Most beds are covered in blankets from home, some handmade. Frequently, they are topped by a metal support system with a ring suspended from crossbars so soldiers and Marines with battered legs can pull themselves up. A 10-inch TV hangs from the wall, with the fare ranging from ESPN to news to reruns of “Who’s the Boss.” Many of the patients sleep with headphones on, as I did at varsity.

Bedside tables look like those in a dorm room—stacked with Gatorade bottles, cookie wrappers, Doritos bags, protein drinks and Skittles. Crammed amid the detritus are Purple Heart medals, usually still in their cases.

Some soldiers and Marines have pictures of their wives and children. Some have so many cards and balloons that you would think it was a high school graduation party.

When I asked these patients what happened, many responded with short sentences.

“I got shot.”

Or simply, “IED” (improvised explosive device).

Then, silence as tears welled up. Some soldiers just stared into the distance, and I didn’t know if they were trying to find the words or just couldn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say.

There is a lot I would have to know before I could begin to understand what they saw.

These young men and women now know in a powerful way that their world stretches far beyond their neighbourhood. No one will ever have to tell them what Baghdad or Mosul or Fallujah is like because they have a permanent copy of it in their minds.

Eventually, I stopped asking them what happened.

The soldiers are almost always skinny. You can see their ribs. Many have tattoos. You can tell the newer arrivals at the hospital because they still have a deep tan on their hands and faces while their bodies look as if they have never seen sun.

Their fingernails still have Middle Eastern dirt underneath them.

Almost all of them are quiet. They are waiting for families to make sometimes long journeys to join them.

Family members band together in waiting rooms, hang out in the halls and smoke outside. I see them stare to the ceiling after being told that their loved one will never again use his left arm or his right leg. I watch them take in news that it would be better for him to go through an amputation and use a prosthesis.

One soldier, burns all over his legs and groin, was suffering from infected wounds because the bomb that exploded under his Humvee had been planted in the sewer.

This soldier screamed and wept each time staff changed his dressings. I will admit, I didn’t like hearing it. I struggled with my thoughts about this soldier, struggled with wanting him to be tougher, to suck it up. It would be easier for me if he acted invincible.

And yet, this soldier was particularly defenseless. He had no cards or balloons in his space, just a case of nutritional drinks and a powdered bed pan. Where was his family?

He told me his mother would lose her job if she came to visit him.

“We just have to wait and see,” he was told.

One morning I took the shuttle to my hotel after visiting Jonathan at Walter Reed. The only other passenger was a short, bald man of about 50 who looked as if he had worked all night at the hospital.

He got out at my hotel, and we got in the elevator together.

“Long night?” I asked him.

“The longest of my life,” he replied. “I just spent all night in the intensive care unit with my son. His whole body is broken and has tubes coming out of everywhere.”

Time stood still as our eyes locked. I told him I was visiting a friend who was injured in his second tour of duty. He said, “I am sure we will be seeing you.” Then he paused.

Tears welled up in his eyes, his neck and face turned bright red and he said, “Thank you for being there for one of our troops. I’m sure he has never needed you more.”

The elevator doors opened at my floor.

“I will pray for you and your son,” I said.

He put his hand on my shoulder, then said simply, “Thank you, ma’am.”