12/05/2025
Seventeen years ago today, I died twice.
The IED blast in Afghanistan didn’t just take my legs. It broke my body with fractures and covered me in burns. My heart actually stopped beating two separate times while surgeons fought to keep me on this side of the curtain.
But physical pain is one thing. The pain of a Crew Commander leaving his men behind is something else entirely.
I was in charge. My job was to lead, to protect, and to bring everyone home. When the dust settled and the medivac chopper lifted off, I wasn't just leaving the battlefield; I was leaving my crew in the dirt while I was flown to safety. That guilt weighed heavier than any kit I ever carried. I felt like I had abandoned them when they needed me most.
While I was fighting for my life in Germany, my wife was back in Canada receiving the phone call and knock on the door that rips a family apart. She listened to a voice tell her I was critical, broken, and might not survive the night. My family lived in terror, waiting for the phone to ring again.
I survived dying twice. I survived the amputation of my legs. I survived the burns. But I also survived the guilt of the "what ifs."
Today, I stand tall (on titanium) for my wife who held the line at home, and for the men I served with.
17 years later. Still fighting. Still leading. Still here.
Pro Patria
~ Mike 🇨🇦
