I’m Bohdan. I got wounded in the arm.
Vovchansk. We were in a building. There was artillery fire, seemed like from a mortar. I was shooting from the window, and as I was turning back, it seems like something hit my arm from a ricochet — broke two bones. Before they brought us in, I had lost my first aid kit. I’m shouting to the guys: “I’m 300!” — they got confused. I say: “Throw me a whole first aid kit or a tourniquet.” I remembered I had one tourniquet in my bag, I dropped it, and by the time I got to it, I couldn’t lift my arm anymore. The guys threw me a tourniquet, I barely managed to tighten it there.
I say: “I’ll run over.” They say: “Don’t run, because someone’s shooting at the door.” I waited a bit more, I hear the shots stopped. I ran to that room where the guys were sitting. They gave me first aid then.
Got a bit scared at first, but it’s, you know, such a shock. It didn’t even hurt. I was thinking how to apply pressure to save the arm, and how to run over there to the guys so they could give me first medical aid.
The second guy, I think, was also wounded. Around 11 a.m. we were leaving with another guy who had a light wound. He had the impression that it was just like he got hit in the arm. But they told him that someone should go out with me.
I lay there from noon until 11 p.m. One guy gave me a shot, re-bandaged the arm, and said, “Let’s wait and see how it holds. If anything changes, we’ll loosen the tourniquet a bit.” About half an hour later, he came back, checked it, said, “Looks good.”
I was going out: got up, I had a helmet on me, you could say like a mask. Everything started spinning. The guys came in too. That’s it. We left.
Scary. It’s night. There are corpses there. Thank God, somehow we push forward. There was shelling. We weren’t walking — they drove us. On the way back, we managed to run quickly to the pickup point where the evacuation was supposed to arrive.
We loaded into the vehicle and headed straight to the stabilization point. I was just relieved to be alive. They quickly cut off all my gear.
A doctor looked me over and said, “Looks like it’s just your arm.” “Yeah,” I said. Still, they checked me thoroughly. Then they told me, “Head downstairs. You’re going into surgery.” They removed the fragment. I said, “Give me something strong — knock me out. I don’t want to see or feel a thing.” They laughed a bit, then gave me something. Everything faded to black or gray, really. I faintly heard them pulling something out — felt like a pretty big piece. That was it. They bandaged me up, and I was off again to another hospital, and then, I think, a third one in Kharkiv.
At first, when I was going there, I didn’t want to tell mom so she wouldn’t worry. She was always calling, checking in. I didn’t want to upset her. So I didn’t say anything. I texted my brother instead and told him where I was heading out, gave him the numbers of my superiors and the guys I was with. As soon as I had a connection again, I messaged him: “Stepan, I’m 300. It’s my arm. They got the fragment out. I’m doing okay.”
Then I messaged a few of my closest friends. Only after that — my mom and dad.
Reaction? I was happy, laughing, joking with the doctors. Just cheerful that I was already returning from there. The arm — that’s just something. They gave painkillers, so I don’t remember anything hurting. Just glad that I’m already going further from there.
At first, I was lying with the external fixation apparatus, I was in Truskavets, in the military hospital. I went to motor skill’s therapy, tried to assemble things, pick up objects. Then — rehabilitation. I was admitted somewhere in June, in August they did surgery: put in those two plates. About two months, just walked around with plates in a cast. Eventually, I said, “I need rehab — my arm’s useless like this.” They sent me again to the same hospital. I went intensively from the end of November for about a month and a half.
The holidays interrupted things a bit. Then I applied for a disability group that took time too. Then I got back to it again. All in all, I’d say it took around three months just to get some movement back and to be able to straighten the arm and rebuild grip reflexes.
I found out about Neopalymі through a Viber group. I think it was called “We Are Ukraine” or something like that. Big group. I usually just read the news in there. One day I saw a post about Neopalymі — they help people suffered from the war. I checked out their site and filled out a form. Not long after, they called me back and I got into the program.
I didn’t really have expectations going in. I’m happy with the results now, and this isn’t the end yet. I think there’s more progress ahead.
The hardest part was taking a shower, going to the bathroom. Putting on shoes, getting dressed — it was rough. After they cut everything off me at the hospital, they gave me this special adaptive shirt with Velcro patches. I remember walking down the street once, and the patch just came off. I stopped, stuck it back on. Yeah, it was uncomfortable. But I kept telling myself — the arm will heal. It’s still there.
Like, peeling potatoes — that’s still tough. I peel quite roughly, but beyond that there’s really nothing that stops me from living my life. I just started doing more with my left hand — you adjust. You go on.
How did people react? They asked: “Where did you fall like that?” I say: “I didn’t fall, the russians helped.” One old lady on the bus sat next to me and gave me chocolate. I say: “No need.” She says: “No, it hurts you.” — “It doesn’t hurt.” — “Take it.”
Pity was the worst part. That was uncomfortable. I didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. One of my buddies, Ihor, he was always worried, always trying to help. I told him, “Look, it doesn’t hurt, I’m on painkillers. Here, touch it if you want.” The over-caring that actually got to me. I didn’t want to be treated differently. I’m still the same guy.
If someone asked something stupid, I could snap a bit. But for the most part, people were cool. I got along with everyone just fine.
Before rehab, I couldn’t straighten the arm at all. Now? Much better.
Before the army, I worked at the “Fujikura” factory, near Lviv, Riasne-2. Operator of automatic and semi-automatic lines. They tell me: “You can come back.” I say: “I can’t — need rehabilitation.” They worked on my hand a bit, I got the fingers moving again, so I could grip things. Eventually, I told them I was ready to return.
They say: “Maybe we’ll give you something easier?” — “No, I want to do the same thing I did before.” They put me back at the tester table that checks the network. I work. Of course, it’s a bit difficult. But colleagues help. We manage.
The younger child didn’t really understand. I didn’t say anything like that. I said: “Look what kind of boo-boo daddy has, and that’s all.” She probably understood: if I’m smiling, it means everything’s fine with me.
The older son is a teenager but took it normally. I told him: there was such a thing in the war. He seemed to take it normally. Because I was smiling, so everything’s okay. And this is temporary.
I perceive myself as I am. It’s not my fault this happened, and that I look like this now. I’m okay with that. Why should anyone else see me differently? And if they do, that’s their problem, not mine.
To spite the enemies — you need to live. Live, whatever life may be. Even if you become disabled, you can always find a way out, adapt. Look at Nick Vujicic — a person was born without legs, without arms, but achieved so much! Take example from such people.
Translator Yuliia Melnyk
