Moving Forward, One Step at a Time

Danny Roberts is hooked up to an electroencephalogram, which will measure his brain activity to determine the extent of any damage to his brain. (Photos Michael Lutzky -- The Washington Post)

Taylor and Danny exchange goodbyes, and Taylor studies him for a moment.

"You're the most down you've been since you came here," he ventures.

"I know. Just frustrated."

"It's the system. All right, my friend . . . "

Downstairs, they load Danny onto a litter and a couple of uniformed soldiers carry him through the lobby to the white shuttle bus idling outside. At Andrews, no one demands proof that Danny Roberts is a soldier.

World Without Sleep

Walter Reed, named after the Army major who proved that yellow fever was transmitted by mosquitoes, launched into operational tempo the day the war in Iraq started. The pace didn't slow when the war ended.

Some soldiers have been patients of 57 for so long that they are treating the nurses' station like a concierge desk. They request Chinese take-out menus and the number for pizza delivery. "They think this is a hotel," one nurse says. "I keep tellin' them it's a hospital."

Which no one really can forget. A team of Army psychiatrists visits the soldiers daily. They ask: Are you sleeping? Are you eating? Are you dreaming?

Most of the soldiers swear the war left no psychological imprints, such as the lieutenant who is such a charming cut-up that he invites his doctors home to Houston for margaritas. "Every day above ground for that guy is a celebration," comments a hospital staff member.

Then why can't the soldier sleep at night? A psychiatrist teaches him hypnosis. Imagine you are on a beach, the doctor says. Breathe.

Sleep is just as elusive for the nurses in the crush of overtime hours. They talk about sleep constantly. "I close the Venetian blinds, put on the siesta mask and earplugs; then the silence drives me crazy," one nurse tells another during dinner break.

Taylor's pager goes off so frequently that his 4-year-old son knows what the sound means. "Are the soldiers hurt?" the boy asks. "Do they need you?"

"Yeah, buddy, they do," Taylor answers before returning to Walter Reed for another numbing stretch.

He considers the soldiers his brothers and sisters, "not just a payment on my boat."

That sense of brotherhood overrides all sense of exhaustion on Ward 57. Jim Mayer, a Vietnam veteran and double amputee, is known as Milkshake Man because he brings McDonald's milkshakes to the soldiers several times a week. Garth Stewart has become a buddy. He loves hearing about Vietnam.

But one night, when Mayer walks into Garth's room, it's empty and smells of cleaning solvents. Garth has been discharged.

Mayer feels his eyes welling up. Then he reminds himself: This is a good day.

Holding Tight

Gajewski unwraps the bandage from John's worrisome left stump. Kristi hovers protectively. The surgeon takes a cotton-tipped swab and pokes beneath the black sutures. A thin red line of blood wells to the surface. Gajewski smiles.

"That's what we wanna see. We want to see that skin edge healing. Dead, unhealthy tissue doesn't bleed. We just had a little skin-edge necrosis is all. I can't get the applicator in deep there, and that's a good sign."

"You already had us in tears last night!" Kristi blurts out, relieved.

"I was in tears!" the doctor counters.

The Fernandezes head for the hospital cafeteria. Standing in line for omelets, Kristi rubs the burred back of her husband's head, and he leans in to nuzzle her. She stoops to wheelchair-level, and they kiss. This isn't how they were supposed to start their life together. They had a five-year plan: She would finish school, get into public health administration. He would finish his Army tour in 2006, then put his degree in systems engineering to work in the civilian sector. They'd start a family.

War fast-forwarded their lives. John decided to apply for medical retirement; he'll look for work as an engineer. Kristi will have to plunge into the job market. Where they live will be a matter of accessibility; even the little choices, like who drives, are dictated by injury. They have to compromise their very closeness: John's relentless pain makes sharing a bed impossible for now.