“You are a remarkable patient, Mr. Cureton,” the doctor said to me. “We didn’t know for certain that you’d make it when you were initially admitted. This is going to be a long and difficult road to recovery for you, but I believe you’ll recover, mostly.”

That doctor’s words stuck in my head for a very long time. I didn’t get to leave the hospital in Oxford for a couple of months. The doctors said that I needed to be more medically stable before they could begin my transport back home.

At first, I was sent to a hospital in Germany to wait for a medical flight back to the States. From there, I would have to catch a space available flight to Dover AFB. It was the same route that fallen veterans from the Sandbox would take to have their remains brought home. That flight was rough for me. I was face to face with what the price of freedom costs.

Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Ma’am…

“Alright, Cureton,” the doctor told me. “I have you—”

“That’s a negative, doc,” I said, assertively. “First name’s Senior Airman, last name’s Cureton.”

“Oh,” the doctor said, chuckling to himself. “I have you, Senior Airman Cureton.”

“You can call me Airman Cureton, if you like,” I said.

“Okay then, Airman Cureton,” he started again. “I have you stable, now.”

He held tightly onto my gait belt as we moved ever so gently. I’d learned to get used to the belt—a cloth belt used to keep a patient from falling.

“Let’s try to take a few steps without your walker to see how far you can get,” he said, lively. I took a freely and, almost, independent step away from my walker.

WHOA! I DID IT!

It hurt like hell, but I did it. I, purposefully, took an unassisted step only for the second time in over a year since the accident. I was so invigorated, astounded really. I knew the day was coming, but I wasn’t so sure that I was strong enough to do it, again. So, when I took that step, I was overjoyed! I’d been at P-TRIP for more than six months, at that point. When I was back at the Richmond VA hospital and I’d heard the news that I could possibly walk again, my main goal was to do just that.

“Whoa!” the doctor exclaimed, catching me as I stumbled.

Walking was hard work and I was lost in elation at the task, but it hurt so much. I could feel the pain of exertion rip through my legs and into my torso as I forced all the energy I had, trying for another step. It was excruciating. My knees felt like they were on fire and it was like a million fire ants were crawling up my legs, hindering my will to go on.

“Doc!” I yelled in frustration. “This freaking hurts! Can’t I just use my walker?”

“I know that it’s painful, Airman Cureton,” the doctor said compassionately.

“But you’re defying every prognosis with each step you take.”

Soberly, I remembered the doctors’ grim accounts from when I first woke out of the coma:

“He has massive trauma to his brain…”

“He will need a wheelchair…”

“He won’t walk the same, if he ever does…”

“Airman Cureton?” the doctor asked...