A Long Shot: Moving to Bluefield From New York to Start a New Life (Part 1)
Introduction:
Over the course of my life, specifically the last decade, I have had the privilege to live out my very own version of the American dream. I have lived the life, some might say, of a dozen men, and experienced more than many will in a lifetime. I am a blessed man who has had the opportunity to see the entirety of the spectrum and have reverted to not talking much about these unique experiences until now. I believe humility is best practiced, and not talked about and have usually only spoken about these experiences in a comedic way — or if seriously, in a way where I felt it could legitimately help another person on their journey. Although individuals who misinterpret much more than just articles will place an egotistical reasoning behind this series, it is my firm belief that it is time that I begin to speak on these experiences in order to both bring awareness, as well as set the stage for others — especially veterans, who seek to accomplish more than just a 9–5 after their service.
Over the past decade, I have pushed my comfort zone to unimaginable levels, taken risk and applied myself in ways which I am very aware others are not willing to do. Although beneficial, a sickening work ethic and self discipline is not the only thing which has allowed me to reach new heights from awful depths and I owe so many people, so much for my journey, and I can never name or repay all of you — but know you are always with me. Beyond this, I recognize that this is an article and the many details within a decades time are better left for a book; putting a life time of experiences in an article serves no purpose other than to escape organization. Due to this fact, I will not be discussing anything prior to my enlistment in the military and focus specifically on my path to Bluefield, I hope you enjoy this wild ride as much as I have.
Part One
After my time in the Army, I was tired, angry and left feeling unfulfilled. Two years at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center (recovering from the most precarious infection & wounds any one I know ever had) left me in a state of zombie-ism, every day blurred together and life was nothing special, let alone worth sharing.
Sometime in early June, 2014 in Kandahar, Afghanistan, my foot began to swell and turn purple, my skin was fraught and it felt as though my foot was dying. Within two days I couldn’t walk on it and I was being carted off to the emergency room for evaluation. When I arrived, doctors looked at my foot as I was sitting on the table with my weapon slung. Recognizing what needed to be done, doctors asked me to un-sling my weapon and drop my magazine. They suggested I hold my medics hand and I did. Failing to numb my foot due to its grotesque condition, they began to cut in-between my big toe to try and relieve pressure and clean out a wound which was now splitting from the swelling. As I screamed in agony, I was only able to last all of maybe 10 seconds, which felt like a lifetime. Doctors stopped and agreed I needed further emergency treatment and admitted me. I remember thinking that this cannot be real, it cannot be serious, and that something this random can’t happen. I reassured my command it was probably just a spider bite, that nothing was wrong and it was just a minor flesh wound, and I let everyone know I’d be back in no time. As it would turn out, this was the beginning of the end of the road for me in the Army.
I was sent to Walter Reed after the second botched emergency surgery in Afghanistan to save my foot, it was infected with MRSA, staph infections, cellulitis and blood tests showed high levels of radioactive agents wreaking havoc on me, which no one (especially the military) agreed on the source of, even though I have a pretty good idea. The Belgian doctor who was flown into our base to perform the surgery was hard of English, but upon awakening from surgery to the dizzying sound of an incoming rocket alarm and a man standing over me, I was able to make out “not good….”. Doctors and surgeons would end up performing over 7 operations on me over two years, everything from minor invasive to extremely invasive operations, some of which were performed multiple times and were experimental.
I was told over the course of my twenty two months as a patient that I had cancer that I did not have, degenerative conditions that I did not have, specific mental issues I did not have, and more. I was given awards I did not earn, awards that aren’t and weren’t on any official record of mine. Generally, my time at Walter Reed felt almost like a free-for-all, like no one (especially the military side of it) really knew what the hell they were doing. Myself and many other single (no spouse or caretaker) military personnel were largely left to fend for ourselves with the exception of social workers who filled a crucial “parent” like role in the lives of young, injured Soldiers & military personnel. Doctors, nurses, surgeons and care takers alike tried to show the utmost care for patients, but they were clearly overwhelmed. Social workers attempted to put on events for military personnel and coordinated visits with heads of state so that we could have more of a “D.C.” experience while in Bethesda. Although an immensely painful time in my life, Walter Reed had its moments, including President Barack Obama awarding me the Presidential Call to Service Award at the White House in 2014, and agreeing to share a beer with me for my 21st birthday, to which he obliged and gave me a 6 pack of White House Honey Ale, with honey made from honey bees on White House grounds — before inviting me back again after my bold beer request.
I would end up either auctioning for charity or giving away 4 of the presidential beers to those individuals who I feel deserved it more than I, one of which was returned to me after going for $600 dollars at auction for a local veterans charity. I met many senators, dignitaries and officials and created connections which would spur a passion for constitutional law that I didn’t realize I had.
I made some very close friends that I will take with me for life, and I learned what immense sacrifices good men and women make daily on behalf of this nation, as well as the mortal injuries they sustain around the world which would stun the average American into a constant state of gratitude. Despite many thankful opportunities, too much had gone wrong, including a jacked up WIVB Channel 4 (Buffalo, NY) article on my presidential beer, which claimed I was blown up in Afghanistan. I do not believe the article was posted with malice, I just believe the reporter had mixed up my speaking on our units mission and coming across a bridge which was blown up, associating it with the general idea that Soldiers get blown up, and it ended up in the article as that. It was embarrassing and I told my command in hopes they could issue something official and see if it could be changed. My platoon sergeant sat me down and explained that news agencies get it wrong all the time, that they had botched his units story as well and that it is nothing to worry about and to carry on.
My unit, still in Afghanistan at the time, saw this event very differently. They looked at it no differently than treason or stolen valor, they believed I was living the high life at the White House & telling people I was blown to pieces. Quickly their support for my return, diminished. I would hear from official unit command only twice in two years while at the hospital. Currently, more people from my former unit have ended their life or passed-on under other circumstances, than have graduated college, to my current knowledge. My former unit, the 814th MRBC, was, is and will always be criminally negligent and complicit in its Soldiers suffering and was known in the D.C. military crowd for being incapable of functioning as a cohesive unit. The leadership from the brigade level down at Fort Polk was less than pathetic because pathetic would have been a compliment to them.
My time at Walter Reed is best described as regularly insufferable, and would serve to fundamentally change me as a person for the rest of my life. Nearly half of the weekends I was there, due to lackadaisical over site, I would drive the 7 hour trip back up to Buffalo on Friday afternoons and be back by Sunday afternoon because it was so incredibly difficult to witness the level of suffering I did on a daily basis. I do not mean this in a callous way, rather only that war, specifically its consequences, are nothing like the movies. There is no scene to explain the look on a mothers face as she pushes her son, missing his arms and legs, down the hall way; the look on her face is entirely exhausted and constantly drowning in silent grief. Multiply this energy by 350 patients in our out-patient building connected to the hospital, and thousands of different patients on hospital grounds, and you can begin to see how difficult it might be to accept being there even one minute longer than necessary. I was alone and exhausted of my environment.
My life at Walter Reed quickly spiraled out of control. I became too timid to leave my room, I didn’t want to speak to any one, I didn’t want to talk, I just wanted to be left alone. Until my first year there, I really didn’t even make friends with anyone at the hospital, I stuck to myself, getting food and bringing it to my room and refusing to leave. It wasn’t until I picked up Chloe, my now 5 year old black Labrador, that I began moving around more & attempting to go to the gym, talking to other veterans and exploring my options. I made friends with people who had brain cancer, I made friends with people who were having a difficult time with mental enemies, extreme physical limitations and everyone in between. I made friends with anyone who needed a friend, because I needed a friend.
Gradually I became involved in the gym again and even picked up an (albeit not permitted) side job in the DC area, as a valet guy… easiest job I ever had, sit and wait for a half million dollar car to pull up and use my ability to drive a manual to park the car and get tipped 20–50 bucks. Not bad. I only had it for a couple months before my sergeant told me I had to get out of it, I had more surgeries coming up and I wasn’t supposed to be that “active”.
After my last surgery, which was by far the most invasive in winter 2016, I was preparing for medical retirement from the military and by the end of March 2016, I would be heading back to Buffalo. Needing direction and a place to concentrate my anxious attitude of getting back to work, I picked up a job 3 days after coming home with a local pest control and wildlife company. I worked beyond the scope of anyone they had ever met, regularly pulling 70–82+ hour, seven day weeks to make up for what I felt was lost time working or serving others. I regularly tried to fulfill my need to serve others by providing customer service that even gained the attention of the CEO, 6 states away. I felt I had unfulfilled obligations in serving my community and nation and I needed to make that obligation up every single day, or else I had failed again. I felt a sense of being indebted to the American taxpayer for taking care of me even in the worst circumstances and I felt I had to make it all up to my country, as though I’d taken more than I’d given.
Work was work, and I was alive, but I wasn’t living and I wasn’t prepared to be doing what I was doing, I still needed to heal my soul. I wouldn’t change it for a thing, but it did not change the fact that I needed a change (tongue twister). By mid 2017 I recognized I hit a wall and it was time to do what I needed to do in order to feel a sense of fulfillment and purpose in line with my destiny. I had wanted to play college football after high school but homelessness, poverty, living from house to house and circumstance would not allow it. Many people think I joined the army to avoid poverty and homelessness, and to some extent I’m sure subconsciously this may very well be one of many factors, but more than anything I wanted to fill my grandpas shoes and I just wanted to serve my nation with the purest intentions.
Before leaving for the military, I was taken in by the Blendowski family who became a saving grace for me in many ways, I was lucky to have been taken in by such a kind family who treated me, although a total stranger, with the utmost respect and served me in ways I can never repay them; I am and always will be immensely grateful to them for taking me off the streets. They watched, and were an integral part of, my long road to recovery and when I brought up the idea of playing college football a year and a half after my last surgery, I think it concerned not only them but just about everyone in my life. Nonetheless, I recognized it was a challenge I had to rise to and something I simply needed to do. After quitting my job, I sold everything I could that I felt made me materialistic…my fancy ATV and trailer, my boat, the house I was renting and all my nice furnishings; after a year out of the military and in the private work force, I had built a modest life for myself that needed to be sacrificed. I started from scratch, spending a month on a (long time) friends couch. Vinny and his wife Kim welcomed me into their home without question and our 15 plus year friendship, along with Steve and his willingness to support my journey, made a big difference for me in those odd times. Shortly after staying with Vinny, I would be moving in with my good friend Tyler in exchange for a small rent payment. Tyler and the rest of the body family are another saving grace to me and I am thankful for them as well on my journey, they are incredible people.
I enrolled in community college and picked up side hustles in pest control as well as a part time job at Best Buy while also training passionately around 4 hours per-day in pursuit of the opportunity to play college football. One thing which shocked me was the level of victim-hood others place on you when you begin to break free and follow your most true path. People openly questioned whether my foot was “even injured at all” if I was able to pursue this aspiration, others said I was dumb for giving up my good middle-class job, and talked to me almost as if I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew I had a vision and I had to stick to it, the resistance I faced pushed me to be more obsessed with my calling.
In late 2017 after linking up with an organization called “Athletes of Valor” who assist veterans in gaining the opportunity to play college athletics again, I became aware of an acute opportunity to potentially play ball again. I was asked to go on a visit to Bluefield College in early 2018, and without hesitation I packed my bags and drove through the night with my long time friend Steve. Upon arrival, I was not interested in tours, greetings or anything of the sort… I was tired and I was there to meet the coach and pitch my case, this was a business trip and I was out to show the world I was not going to accept being victim, or a prisoner of my own mentality.
STAY UPDATED FOR PART TWO- ON THE WAY.
Picture gallery below:
