A Poem I wrote a few weeks after waking up from my coma after being blown up in Afghanistan how things have changed. By Andrew Grant, February 2019.
Through my Eyes Will, this country keeps an eye out for me in years to come? Even though my injuries aren’t as bad as some? It’s been six months since being blown up, and I still can’t walk, Therefore sometimes the only thing left for me to do is talk. It’s looking like another year before I will be able to walk without a stick, It’s almost like laying the foundations for my life again, brick by brick.
It’s a year of my life lost when I am supposed to be having so much fun instead, though I’m being told that I will never be able to run. Something so simple like getting a shower, Is now taking me the best part of an hour. To make things a little more complicated, there’s a chunk missing out of my right thigh; I can’t help looking down at my scarred body and thinking ‘why?’ So away from my right leg and on to my left foot big toe, Some shrapnel has damaged the nerves, and whether it will work again, they don’t know. It’s a good job.
I don’t care about what people say or think, Because I have got so many scars, people stare so much I sometimes have to remind them to blink. Injuries on both my forearms now visible for the world to see, I suppose now I have accepted them as a new part of me. But it’s the scars that people can’t know that I am more worried about. The wounds in my head that make me want to scream and shout!
The injuries and memories that sometimes wake me up at night. Sometimes so angry, all I want to do is fight. Fighting and anger I should have got out the way in Cyprus decompression, But I never got to do that, so now here is a question… What will happen to someone like me whose tour of Afghan is lasting for two years? Will they take into account all my tears and fears? When the day comes, when all this fighting and anger wants to come out, When I lose my rag and scream and shout, When I flip the lid and lose control, Punch by punch I am digging myself a deeper hole.
But I sincerely hope that day doesn’t come. So every night I pray to my Mum. And ask her to take care of me, like so many times before, Because I know she’s the one who saved me that day, of that I’m sure. Now I don’t want or need your pity. I do, in quite well, As I have my loved ones around me and there no real need to dwell.
As this is just a poem to say how I feel inside, And as for the minute, I am taking things in my stride. But there are a lot of lads who are not as open as me, And I can’t see them all turning to poetry. So watch this space, as I predict A lot more anger and pain coming from this ongoing conflict.