Two fingers. Mental.
Among his happiest moments now are when he is visited by friends, he said, although those times can be aggravating because of all that he cannot do.
Which did he dislike more -- when people treated him differently or when they acted like nothing had happened?
Alan Babin reacts to Al Sr.'s touch as neighbor and friend Andrea Lovelidge looks on.
(Andrea Bruce Woodall)
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Neither, he indicated; he doesn't hold it against them either way.
He has a very specific goal in mind for his long recovery, he indicated: to walk again. But if it takes much longer than he and his family might hope, he won't be disappointed.
He has a very specific goal in mind for his future, he suggested. After a long series of questions and choices -- eliminating such careers as medical professional, police officer, minister, politician, businessman, chef -- he eventually indicated that he wants to return to school and get a college degree, and that he'd like to attend the University of Texas in Austin.
Rosie, who had been listening, rapt, asked what he wants to study. Nursing? Physical therapy? He shook his head no.
As more options were presented to him, none accurate, he grew visibly frustrated and tried to mouth the answer. His lips opened and puckered:
"W . . . wa . . . wa."
"Starts with a 'W'?" asked Rosie.
He nodded yes. "Wa . . . wa . . . wa . . . "
"War?" she guessed.
That was it, he nodded. But it wasn't a complete answer. After hearing a series of more possibilities, he chose military strategy.
"And how will you use that, Alan?" Rosie asked. "Let's say one if you would, maybe, teach. And two, if you would write about it. Or three, to contribute to a think tank. One teach, two write, three think tank." Alan extended the index finger of his left hand: teach.
He wants to teach in a university setting, he indicated, and he has a university in mind: the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Rosie was astonished. She'd had no idea.
"But wait!" she said, laughing. "You can't leave!" He smiled back at her. The dream was one he'd never thought of before his injury, but he had considered it often as he lay silent during the past several months.
Why military strategy?
Alan's choice: To help prevent what happened to me from happening to others.
Had what happened to him been "worth it?"
He raised one finger. Yes, and follow-ups suggested it was a very personal yes. He said his relationship with his parents is stronger than it has ever been. The same is true for his relationship with and trust in God; the course of his recovery would be God's decision, he said. He is not frightened, he said; he is, like his mother, optimistic.
Rosie nodded her head affirmatively at his answers. She told him that she looks forward to a lot of possibilities that she never would have imagined before. There's even a chance that if she pursues her newfound dream of becoming a nurse, she, Christy and Alan might all be in college at the same time.
"Imagine that," she said to Alan.
It was late afternoon, a time when Alan usually could be found napping in bed. He was tiring, his eyelids getting heavy. A nurse walked into his room and helped Rosie transfer him from his wheelchair to his bed. They straightened his tubes and adjusted his head on the pillow.
Before he drifted off into an afternoon nap, he answered one more question: "Who's your daddy? One, mom; two, dad; or three, I like having them compete for the title."
He quickly extended three fingers.
A SLEEPY SUNDAY MORNING, and Rosie and Al Sr. stood on opposite sides of Alan's bed and changed the sheets with him in it. Maybe it was something about the highly choreographed routine -- Al yanked one way, Rosie pulled the other -- that made Rosie think of dancing. She mentioned that she was looking forward to resuming the salsa lessons that she and Al Sr. had taken before the war. It was the perfect cue for her and Alan to playfully team up on Dad.
"What do you think of Dad's salsa, Alan?" Rosie asked.
Alan smiled and rolled his eyes melodramatically.
"What?" Al Sr. said, injured. "I can salsa!"
Al shook his head in surrender. Then he wrestled his son up onto his feet for a little exercise. He hugged him tightly to keep him standing upright. Alan's legs straightened as Al lowered his grip on his waist and raised him to full height. His legs were slightly bent at the knees.
"Okay, put your legs together," he told Alan. "Good. Let's pull you forward. Okay. Rosie, make sure his feet are flat on the ground. Okay. Alan: I need you to straighten your legs."
Alan's legs straightened, and Al Sr. set him upright on the floor, still holding him tight. Rosie stepped behind him to help support Alan.
"Good job, Alan," she said. "Now put your heel all the way down." Alan stood between them, letting the weight settle into his sandaled feet. His expression was one of intense concentration, as if every movement required conscious thought.
"That's great, son," Al Sr. said. "I'm just balancing you. Not even holding on. Just balancing."
"Let's rock a little bit," Rosie suggested. "Try to get the weight shifting from leg to leg."
Al Sr. stood in front of him, both hands on his son's waist, and Rosie did the same behind him, as they shifted from foot to foot. The heart monitor Alan still wears kept time at 91 beats per minute as the three of them moved together, in a slow and determined dance.
Monte Reel covered the war in Iraq for The Post in 2003. He is now a foreign correspondent based in Buenos Aires. He will be fielding questions and comments about this article Monday at 1 p.m. at washingtonpost.com/liveonline.
