My name is Artem Komisarсhuk. I’m a veteran of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, and I was severely wounded in combat. I’m currently in rehabilitation, working on my recovery and my return to civilian life.
Let’s start with your personal story. How long had you been in the military? What happened to you? How did you get injured?
It happened on October 14th, 2022. We had a specific area of responsibility what we called “the forest,” a strip of trees in front of a railway line. On the other side of that track were russian forces. Initially, we were just observing, not engaging. Then, we received order from command to conduct a reconnaissance mission and, if possible, push the enemy out.
The mission was assigned to me. I consulted with the deputy company commander, got some extra gear, selected the team, and led the mission myself. I saw there was a minefield ahead of us and started to investigate. One of my soldiers was also doing some conducting reconnaissance and, moving to the side, stepped on a buried mine.
After the explosion, I ran over to give him first aid. At that very moment, another soldier triggered a tripwire. It was connected to an OZM-72 bounding mine, a seriously deadly device. The blast threw me backward. I sustained shrapnel wounds — my arms, my legs, my torso. My entire body was wounded. Thanks to the professionalism and coordination of my team, we were both pulled from the battlefield. During the evacuation, three more of our guys were wounded, but everyone made it out alive, and some are still serving today.
What followed next was a long and complicated evacuation process. Something we’ve only really pieced together over time, tased on what people told us. First, I was taken to a hospital in Kharkiv, then Sumy, and finally Lviv. A council of doctors was held there, and they decided to try to save my leg. I was sent through an international program to Gdańsk (Poland) for treatment and see if they could save it.
After a year and a half of countless surgeries and antibiotic treatments, it was clear that saving the leg wasn’t going to work. The doctors gave me a choice: either we keep fighting for years, and maybe save it, but I would never get out of bed again, or we amputate the leg, clean the wound, defeat the infection, and in six months, I’d have a prosthetic and be back on my feet.
I had a whole night to think it over. Then I spoke with my wife, and we made a decision. I returned to Lviv and went through the military medical commission because, as we say, what threatens your life and health is secondary; the main thing is the paperwork. Then they amputated it. It wasn’t easy, it was a serious procedure: intensive care, the edge between life and death. Then, having successfully overcome the infection, we started preparing for the prosthetic and getting back to a normal life.
Could you tell me how did you feel throughout all of this? It’s so long, so difficult. What were you thinking about?
My emotional state was, I could say, a full-on emotional rollercoaster. Psychologists will often tell you that a patient might go through phases: depression, suicidal thoughts, bursts of optimism, deep pessimism. I went through and felt every single one of them.
When I woke up in the Kharkiv hospital, I had flashbacks to 2015, thinking I was a POW (prisoner of war) again. The medical staff spoke russian, and I was so confused. After the coma, I woke up and thought, “We must have been captured again.” I couldn’t grasp the scale of my injuries. I just thought my guys were still on the battlefield and I had to get back to them.
Then I ended up in Sumy because they couldn’t get me to Lviv. A doctor there unwrapped my wound right in front of me, and that’s when it hit me that I wasn’t getting out of here soon. The strong painkillers and opiates played a huge role. I only remember things in fragments. My wife later told me that period lasted about a week and a half. I was hallucinating, having dreams. I couldn’t tell what was real and what was my imagination.
When we finally got to Lviv, they started preparing me for what was next. I overheard the surgeons talking: “The leg needs to be amputated.” At that moment, I was in total denial. I thought life was over without my leg. I had suicidal thoughts and I told the doctors. The medical staff were warned, and they responded professionally.
The transfer to Gdańsk was a difficult journey. Over time, I realized the main issue wasn’t the wound itself, but the infection. That’s when my treatment got even harder. I was moved to an isolation room. I’t a single-bed ward. I was constantly in bed, with my leg in a traction device. The doctor came in three times a day, the nurse three or four times with meds and food. I was alone, I could watch TV, but it was still constant isolation. My internal clock got messed up; day turned to night. I was constantly lost in my own thoughts, trying to deal with this all by myself.
My wife came to visit and stayed with me for a long time, but we had a child at home and had to go back. When she was there for a week, I felt alive, I made plans. When she left, I would just fade away for three or four weeks. There were long weeks of depression. With strangers, you hold yourself back. You don’t snap, you don’t yell, you don’t break down. But my wife — she took the hits, because she was the one person I felt safe enough to break down in front of. I knew it wasn’t fair, I was aware of it… but the emotions were just breaking me.
I couldn’t see an end to the treatment. They initially said six months, then a year, then “maybe two, maybe four.” My life was confined to that room. I knew everything about the medical staff; they supported me, but it wasn’t my life. I was living in a bubble, watching my daughter grow up, watching her go to kindergarten through video calls. My life was torn out of the flow itself.
When we finally decided on the amputation, I returned to Ukraine. I felt like an unprotected child. For the first time in a year and a half, I saw the sky. It was a shock for me just to sit outside and look at it. After that, I started to adapt, to make plans, to go through training, rehab, and get my prosthetic. After the amputation, I had more surgeries to improve the look of the stump. It became a routine that pulled me out of my isolation.
I worked a lot with psychologists. When they asked me to tell them about myself, I’d start from 2014: voluntarily went to the military recruitment office, mobilization, Ilovaisk, captivity, executions, beatings, return, injury, isolation, coming home, rehabilitation. The psychologist said: “I don’t know what to do with you. You’re such a unique case, you’ve combined so many factors that it’s unclear what to work with.”
Other psychologists pointed out that I handled my captivity well and that I was successfully recovering after the amputation and getting my prosthetic. I have a plan and an incredibly strong support system at home. When people describe a soldier, they talk about a broad back and a chest full of medals, but what’s holding him up from behind is his wife. My wife did the same for me.
I understood that I had time to focus on myself, figure out how to rebuild myself. It was an emotional roller coaster and like all men, I could say “Everything’s fine,” though that was actually a lie. Because a man who respects himself will never admit he has problems.
When I remember those times, I sometimes doubt if my memories are real, if I actually lived through all that. But when I come home and hold my child in my arms, with my wife right there, I know I’m where I’m supposed to be. I’ve had my ups and downs, but I’ve survived. I try to share my experience with other guys. To support them, but I’ve also learned something important. Sometimes, you can’t just jump in and offer help. People won’t always take it. Not right away. When they specifically ask for it, then yes, you step in.
How did you manage to come back to life after everything? What helps you stay so positive?
We (my wife and I) rely on each other. I know in this world, I need her, and she needs me, and that’s it. It would be wrong to give some universal advice for everyone, because every person, every trauma, every personality is unique.
What helped us was that when I was struggling, I’d look at her to see if she wasn’t on the verge of an even bigger breakdown. When I knew things were really bad, I’d say:
Tania, I can’t handle this, I need help.
She’d step in. Sometimes she’d just sit next to me in the hospital room and fall asleep next to the bed. I would just sit there quietly, waiting for her to rest, even for a little while.
Tell me about your socialization. Was it difficult at first to go out among people? Was there any kind of reaction that made you uncomfortable?
Actually, this is quite an interesting topic. You lie in a hospital where they take care of you, you’re under constant supervision, they feed you, dress you. But then you come out of this bubble into real life, and you start to realize that you’re a white crow.
That’s probably the biggest problem with rehab centers. That constant overprotection leads to people getting too comfortable. They start to think that’s how it’s supposed to be: that when you come back, people will come up to you, put their hand over their heart, and say, “Thank you for your service, let me open the door for you.” Obviously, you get used to that.
But then you get home, and people just don’t care. Usually, they have their own problems, their own worries. You have no idea if their husband is a soldier, or if their brother is, or if their child is sick, God forbid. People are just busy with their own lives. They might even bump into you when you’re on crutches, turn around, and just keep walking.
When people intentionally overstep my boundaries, my wife and I have worked out a specific way to say something. I don’t know what it’s like in Lviv, but in Ternopil, it’s a huge issue. For me to get out of a car, I need a proper space to park, stop, open the door, and get out comfortably. There are equipped spots, they’re always taken.
How did you learn about “Neopalymi”? Did you have certain expectations, and how do you feel about the results now?
The “Neopalymi” project is truly unique for Ukraine. I’d even say it’s unique in the world from what I’ve seen and researched. That’s because combat wounds are completely different from everyday injuries.
Before the war, if people had burns or skin damage, those were considered typical injuries. Doctors would assess them based on severity. But when a soldier comes in, the wounds are often extremely severe and complex. It’s hard to even figure out what can be restored, what can be fixed, and what can be improved.
Once my treatment, I mean the amputation, rehab, and getting the prosthetic was finished, I started the “fitting” process and began to wonder if I could fix this defect or improve that one. I started looking into how I could get to a place where I would accept myself. The biggest problem for a veteran is accepting yourself first, and then accepting the world.
So, I ran into a problem where I couldn’t find any clinics willing to help soldiers with these specific injuries. So I started looking and accidentally talked to a good friend of mine. We have similar amputations. He’s missing his right leg, and I’m missing my left. He said, “You have to go there. It’s an amazing clinic; they really help.” They truly helped him, and he recommended them to me. I found them on social media.
When I spoke with the clinic, with the specialists and doctors, I realized that when I returned from being a POW, the trauma was internal. Society couldn’t see it. I could hide it: I’d get dressed, go to work, and people would only say behind my back, “He was a POW.”
But when I got severely wounded, a huge part of my body was damaged, and I wanted to hide it to be the way I was before. That’s what Neopalymi helps with. They help you accept yourself in the mirror and accept this new version of yourself. For example, I had an inflamed eye, a huge scar on my stomach, issues with my prosthetic, with adapting and taking care of myself.
When they tell you, “We can fix this. We can improve this. We can make this better and more perfect,” people come and get interested and recommend the clinic. They say, “This option is good, but we can do it better. It will be much more promising in the future.” In other words, they help a person return to a full life.
At Superhumans, our surgeon who performed the amputation, Danylo Turkevych, also pointed us to Neopalymi and said we would try to handle this scar cosmetically. There were just so many different steps. In the end, we found this clinic, and that’s exactly where we worked on the scar.
Translator Yuliia Melnyk
