Happy Alive Day, Drew!

Throughout one’s lifetime, a person will have key, landmark events or journeys that will shape their memories and their history. For example, the most landmark event that had occurred in my lifetime before last summer was the attack on the World Trade Center in September 2001. For my generation, it will always be one of those events that will forever be imprinted in our minds. If you ask anyone, they’ll be able to tell you where they were and what they were doing when that plane hit the first tower. I remember it being a Tuesday. And as a freshman at the University of Georgia, I was lucky enough to only have one class on Tuesdays and Thursdays my first semester. That class was a PE class—volleyball— and I was on the campus transit when I heard of the devastation over the bus’s radio. And the rest is history… 

Unfortunately for us, most people have more than one landmark event that will ever be imprinted in our minds. The second, and now most important, event for me was on June 7, 2012. It was a summer day in Fayetteville, North Carolina. I had on black slacks, comfortable black high heels, and a mauve colored, short-sleeved knit top that I wore to work that day. I remember feeling good that day. It was a Thursday—almost the weekend—and although I hadn’t heard from Drew (who was deployed), I wasn’t as worried as I normally was. It was a rough deployment, with a lot of people getting hurt, and although my friends and I could usually predict, sense, and fret over when there was a communication blackout (meaning someone got hurt or killed,) I never had my sixth sense that day. Ironic.

I even remember snapping a picture of myself from my desk at work and emailing it to Drew that day—smiling and writing that I loved him. You know… the usual stuff you do when you’ve got a loved one deployed.

Little did I know that Drew wouldn’t be checking his email that day.

It was busy at work that day. As the Marketing/Admissions Director for an assisted living facility, I was always busy at work, which helped pass the time and the days when Drew was deployed. But on this particular day, I was working later than usual. The State was in our facility for the next few days to conduct our annual survey. This basically means that we were working long hours to ensure everything was up to par for the survey. Even though we were working late that day, I remember enjoying myself with my co-workers. With no end in sight, our boss decided to order us pizza for dinner. I volunteered to pick it up.

Pizza Hut was exactly 1.1 miles down the road. I knew the exact distance because I used to give directions to our facility from that intersection. After picking up the pizza, I started the short drive back to work. My cell phone started ringing. It was a local number. Assuming it was one of my colleagues asking me to swing by the gas station to get them a drink or something, I answered. It wasn’t a co-worker.

The unfamiliar voice on the line asked, “Ms. Mills?” Suspecting it was some kind of telemarketer, I answered shortly, “yes.” Then he asked again, more persistent this time, “Is this Linda Mills?” Frustrated, I answered rather harshly, “YEAH. WHO’S THIS?!”

He introduced himself. When he stated that he was the commander for Rear D—that’s Rear Detachment, the group that stays behind while the unit is deployed to handle affairs such as these—my heart sank.

He continued. When he stated that my husband, Andrew Mills, was seriously injured by an improvised explosive device, the blood left my body.

Mind you, I’m still driving down the road.

His exact words were all a blur, but I do know that he didn’t have much to say. He mentioned soft tissue damage to the legs and a back injury. He mentioned “in surgery” or a “flight”…. or… something. But again, he didn’t say much. His voice sounded detached; tired. Now, a year later, I know why. He was busy making a lot of these phone calls during this deployment. And on June 7th alone, he probably had close to ten calls to make. Having gone through volunteer CARE Team training, I remembered the three, different levels of injury that the Army used. I asked him, “What level of injury is my husband classified as?” He responded, grimly, “VSI.” VSI stands for Very Seriously Ill/Injured. Through my training, I remembered soldiers classified as VSI usually didn’t make it. VSI was the worst possible level of injury.

The blood left my body. Again.

The above conversation and emotions happened in less than half a mile’s drive. It all happened so quickly. It was all so… surreal. I soon pulled into work, left the pizza in my car, and found my boss and co-workers inside. I remember sitting in the front office, just staring off. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t throwing up. I just stared and answered their questions. They didn’t really “get it” though. I, surprisingly, was the only person at work who really had any ties to the military.

Lucky for me, I had two RNs on staff, and I walked to their office. I asked them, “What is a soft tissue injury?” It didn’t sound too serious to me at the time…

I worried about the term “back injury” that was given to me. I feared paralysis.

Naivety saved me that day… and the next week to follow.

I was offered a ride home by several co-workers. I declined. I got back in my car, and somehow managed to start the drive home.

Unknowingly at the time, June 7, 2012 would be my last day at work.

I remember calling my dad. I remember the stoplight on Reilly Road where I was when I told him, and when his exclamation of fear carried across the phone. I can still, to this day, hear that sound that my dad made. You never want to hear your dad express sadness or fear.

I called several friends next. Army wife friends. Three of them met me at my house immediately. They were my family. They were all I had at Fort Bragg. My parents would drive up from Georgia the next day…

Now, I must wait.

Several hours passed, and I received no information. Nothing. Nada. Not a phone call. I called the gentleman back who had notified me. I told him that I had some questions for him since I’ve had several hours to process the information. Even in a time of crisis, I tried to use inference and deductive reasoning as best as possible with the little information that I had. They’re not allowed to tell us much of anything. It didn’t stop me from asking him directly if Drew were the one that stepped on the bomb. He stated that all he knew was that Drew was “in the vicinity.” I chalked that up as a positive at the time. I concluded that he had a better chance of survival and recovery if he hadn’t stepped on it directly. It now saddens me that someone I know was the one who did, though. I also asked him if all notifications had been made. He hesitated, but he told me “no.” I knew at that point that someone(s) had died. I feared for my friends. I knew so many of those guys and their wives. They were family.

It was a mass-casualty attack that day. And we would later find out that Brandon Goodine gave the ultimate sacrifice.

Personally, I was still fearful of the doorbell ringing that night… or the next day. With my friends at my house, I would make frequent trips to the front door and driveway at every sound I heard, fearing they would come notify me in person that Drew hadn’t made it.

I wasn’t playing the waiting game very well. And luckily for me, I knew the right people who could help get me more information. At around midnight that night, I made a phone call to the Army’s Casualty and Mortuary Affairs Center. A warm voice greeted me on the other side of the line. I told him who I was, who my husband was, and if I could get any additional information. After a few clicks on his computer, he gave me what I needed.

It wasn’t much. And it wasn’t complete, but it was something. He said, “Ma’am, your husband is currently being transported from Kandahar (K03 hospital) to Bagram. He is currently on a ventilator. We don’t have much more information than this, but I can tell you that they would NOT be transporting him if he weren’t stable enough.” He encouraged me to call anytime, and that they would be updating me regularly. Four months later, in October 2012, through personal connections of my Uncle Mike, we would obtain pictures of Drew in the ICU at Kandahar on the ventilator. Chills.

To me, the Casualty and Mortuary Affairs Center was like that oasis in the desert. Why hadn’t I been given their phone number six hours earlier? Why doesn’t EVERY military spouse with a loved one deployed have this phone number on speed dial?! I later was flabbergasted that this wasn’t commonplace. Or maybe it was, but Drew’s unit didn’t know about it.

But regardless, I got the number. Thanks to one of my ArmyStrong friends who knew the right person.

I felt some relief. Very little, but some. I still wasn’t crying much. I remember getting emotional when I feared Drew being in pain and alone, with no one there to comfort him. I was still in shock. My friends departed soon after that. I told them to leave and that I was “OK” and felt more at peace after receiving that little bit of information. I was left to battle the night by myself. I really wasn’t OK.

As expected, sleep didn’t come. I got a phone call at around 2am. It was a surgeon in Bagram. I remember his European accent being warm and friendly, like something out of an animated Disney film. He had just finished operating on Drew. He had stated that Drew was stable, and that they saved his legs… for now.

I didn’t like, nor truly fully understand, what the “for now” clause meant.

That next morning, I was speaking to a nurse in Bagram. After giving me more updated information, he stated that Drew wanted to TALK to me. They had expected him to be on the ventilator for many hours to come. But I should have known that my hard-headed husband wouldn’t have it that way… 

The rest is history. June 7th (thankfully) came and went. That next morning, after hearing Drew’s voice, I began Drew’s story—our story—on Facebook:

June 8, 2012 near Spring Lake, NC 
“To All My Friends: For those of you that don't know, Drew was severely injured in an IED explosion yesterday. In the short 12 hours that I've known of his injuries, prayers have been received and answered. He was able to be flown from a Kandahar Hospital to Bagram Air Field, where he underwent a long surgery. I got a phone call at 2am from his surgeon stating that he was on a ventilator and in ICU recovering. He has soft tissue damage to both legs, with the left being the worse. His tibia was fractured in his right leg, and he was suspected of a C-Spine injury. The Doctor stated he would be intubated for 12 hours before they stabilized him to be flown to Germany for more operations. About an hour ago, I got a call from a nurse who stated, "Your husband wants to talk to you." !!!!!!!! Drew was awake and off the ventilator in about 5 hours times. Of course he was... he's Superman! He was extremely sedated but sounded like his normal self. He said, "Hey honey bunny. Baby, I've got a big chunk missing from my leg... but I still have my man parts." He also stated that he couldn't imagine the pain Travis Mills went through when losing all his limbs. He cussed the Taliban multiple times. He asked me to pray for the others that were involved in the explosion. He is expected to fully recover and will be getting an 8 hour flight to Germany at 4am Bagram time. I'm extremely blessed and grateful that my husband is still here with us today. He's such a strong, honorable man. Please keep all our soldiers in your prayers and thank you all again for the overwhelming support.”

It’s so strange to go back to the very beginning. It’s so weird realizing how very little information that I knew, and what I did know, how it proved to be incorrect or inaccurate. Most of the injuries I mentioned in the above status weren’t correct. I believe it was for the best that I was so naïve about the extent of his injuries in the very beginning.

Facebook would soon become our connection to our friends and family. Never expecting his recovery to be this long and involved, I would soon find myself typing dozens and dozens of “updates” on Facebook over the next year.

Another eight, long days would pass before we would reunite on June 15, 2012 at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, MD.

Words don’t do justice the amount of gratitude, appreciation, humility, and love we have for all of our family and friends who have supported us this last year. No prayer, gift, visit, phone call, meal, card, knowledge, useful connection, or other act of kindness has gone unnoticed. I can wholeheartedly say that we couldn’t have gotten through this past year without each and every one of you and your prayers. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

So there you have it: That was June 7, 2012. The first day of the rest of our lives.

Our journey has just begun. It’s been, and will continue to be, a long one at that—a roller coaster ride for certain. But every tragedy proves to have a silver lining… if you allow it to. We’ll continue to include you in our journey if you’d like to join us.

So, without further ado:

Today is June 7, 2013… All aboard!

“Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.” Maria Robinson