Yet they insist that they're coping just fine. Kristi hasn't fallen apart, not once. "I'm still waiting for it." No looking back is their attitude. "If this had to happen to anyone," Kristi says, "I'm glad it's us." Because they can handle it, she is sure.
"All I see when I look at him is John."
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)
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| ___ Video ___  Purple Hearts
Marine Gunnery Sgt. David Dill, 39, and Lance Cpl. John A. Keeney, 20, were awarded the Purple Heart for their sacrifices in Iraq. Both were recuperating at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda.
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For his part, John speaks of what happened to him with an engineer's cool regard. He is a mathematical problem -- man, minus legs -- with a mechanical solution. Even though the explosion that killed three men beside him remains under investigation as a possible friendly-fire accident, John is unwavering in his support of the war. "It could happen in any war," he says. "It's war. It's not a pretty thing."
The hospital staff marvels at the resilience of John and Kristi Fernandez, at the tight net beneath their trapeze act. But among themselves, the doctors and nurses who have treated traumatic injuries for decades question whether the young lovers can bear the stress over the long term. "Is their relationship going to survive this?" Taylor wonders aloud.
On the most important day of his new life so far, John nearly misses the appointment to get his first artificial limb when a fellow amputee -- a sixtyish stranger -- blocks his wheelchair in the hall and begins spouting advice. John and Kristi listen with polite impatience. The man is diabetic. Once he's out of earshot, they hurry to Miller's lab. "Nothing he said applied," John observes. "I know!" Kristi nearly shouts. "It wasn't vascular, it was a bomb!"
Joe Miller greets them with the foot he ordered for John from a catalogue.
"What exact type of foot is this?" John wants to know. "Is it flexible? How does it work? What about lateral distribution weight?"
"This is a dynamic response foot," Miller says. "A special keel gives you ankle motion without having a true joint."
John has brought a new sneaker for the new foot. Kristi pulls it out of her ever-expanding tote bag, which also contains sterile gauze, John's pills and lip gloss.
A thick silicone stocking slips over John's stump. A brass pin on the bottom will screw into the plastic socket Miller has crafted, which in turn fastens onto the artificial foot. "Does it hurt?" Kristi wonders.
"No, I'm all right," John assures her.
"I forgot what you look like with legs!" she says happily.
Miller leads the way to a practice walkway flanked by parallel railings. He warns John to take it easy, that he may feel dizzy.
For the first time since he was wounded, John Fernandez stands.
"I'm going to be a lot taller!" he discovers, laughing. The prosthesis has added two inches to his 5-foot-8 frame.
"Oh, I like it when you stand up," Kristi says flirtatiously.
The parallel bars shake from the force of John's grip, and Miller asks if he's okay, can he manage. And John answers the way he always does.
"Yeah, I'm all right."
Memories of War
When Garth Stewart was in Iraq, he would lie under camouflage netting and listen to the plastic leaves rattling in the wind. He'd close his eyes and imagine he was at home in the woods in Minnesota.
But back in Stillwater, all Garth can think about is Iraq. His mom works in the bakery at a grocery store, so he has the apartment to himself most of the day. Fitted with a new prosthesis, he practices walking with his cane. He plays video games and reads Marcus Aurelius.
His friends throw a party in his honor. Garth holds everyone spellbound with his stories from Iraq. He removes his prosthesis to let people see. A guy drinks beer from the hollow socket.
Garth keeps in touch with the Milkshake Man. Jim Mayer encourages Garth to visit Ward 57 someday to speak to new amputees. At first, Garth recoils. That hospital represents nothing but pain. But the idea starts to grow on him.
Stillwater is green and hot, cut in two by the majestic St. Croix River where Garth swam as a kid. One afternoon, a friend picks him up and she drives him to the river. Garth limps as he makes his way toward the water. "It's not much farther," his friend says, looking back to make sure Garth is okay.
