'Let’s be honest — what about my eyes? ' 'Son, you don’t have any'

One of the munitions self-detonated. One went off, which caused all 84 rounds to detonate — they were at arm’s length from me.

Sudden darkness, ringing in my ears, no pain. Just this feeling of disbelief. While I was still conscious, I managed to say the words asking for help. My guys were far away from me at that moment, at a safe distance.

They were pouring water on me. I felt weakness and an extreme cold. The last thing I managed to say was: “I’m cold” — and I lost consciousness. After that, I came to ten days later in Kyiv.

First conscious memories: someone approaches me, takes my hand. I remember my father’s hands very clearly — I immediately knew Dad was there. “Son, it’s Dad, I’m right here, everything’s okay.” I tried to get up; the doctors immediately laid me back down.

Same thing with my beloved. She was holding my hand. I could roughly tell where she was. I pointed at myself, at her — and then pointed at my heart. And she said: “You love me.”

I could feel that my face and head were completely bandaged. I couldn’t open my mouth. My lips had been burned to the point where they’d fused together. The blast wave had damaged my lungs, burned the mucous membranes. Now I can’t smell anything at all.

I’m experienced in demining; I understood what injuries like these mean. I knew from the start that my eyes had been damaged. But I didn’t know they were completely gone. I was moving them. The muscles remained, so I could feel them moving — as if my eyes were still there.

I had hope that they’d unwrap the bandages, open my eyes. Maybe they couldn’t be opened right now because of some damage, or maybe they’d need laser correction, and my vision would come back.

But when I reached a relatively stable condition, they gradually began preparing me for the fact that I wouldn’t have my sight. The doctors never told me directly — they avoided the question.

I asked my father: “We’ve never lied to each other. Be honest — what about my eyes?” — “Son, they’re gone. They were removed.” — “Okay, I understand.” And we closed that topic, abruptly changed the subject. Without boasting, I took the news very stoically. No hysterics, no panic.

At some point came the full realization that life would never be the same as before. Whatever technology we bring in, it’ll never be like before.

At first, I’d dream that I was blind, feeling my way around. I had enormous problems with sleep. Had to take sleeping pills; I’d confused day and night. It was constant darkness for me — when the sun rises, I can’t see it — my schedule fell apart.

I wanted to bury my head in the pillow and not see or hear anyone.

I very rarely showed emotion when I was with my beloved. The rest of the time — a chaotic stream of thoughts: I need to be cared for now, watched over constantly, I’ll never be whole again, the way I was before.

I’m a burden now. My beloved, who deserves to live a full life with a fully capable young man, to build a family — she’s now condemned herself to a life with me.

I didn’t fight these thoughts — I’d just get exhausted from them and fall asleep. Sleep, wake up, feel a bit better. And this went on day after day for more than a month.

I couldn’t even imagine how I looked from the outside, what emotions my beloved and my father were experiencing. I’d put myself in their place, and it made me feel terrified inside.

I said to her: “Aren’t you scared to look at all this?” — “No, on the contrary — I’m waiting for them to let me kiss you.”

I tried to push her away, not give her a choice whether to stay with me or not. I didn’t want her to burden herself with this. I understood that letting me go would be hard for her, but not harder than spending the rest of her life with me.

She stayed close anyway, kept coming. Then a very close person talked to me and said: “Don’t be selfish. Respect the opinions and decisions of the people close to you.”

Those words really got through to me. That very day, I asked her several questions. I wasn’t interested in what she’d answer. I was interested in the intonation with which she’d say it.

I wanted to hear complete certainty. You sense those notes from a loved one immediately. Everything went exactly as I wanted.

I proposed to her in the hospital, and she said yes. We’re planning to get married in the summer.

My father lived with me in the hospital. We had two beds; he was always next to me. And my beloved — the hospital opens, she’s there; the hospital closes, only then does she leave.

I’m never bored with my father. Even in this situation, we joke: I can now peel a ton of onions and not cry. Or: the power outages are so bad — soon I’ll be teaching everyone to navigate by touch.

There was a problem with starting to walk again. My muscles had atrophied and my coordination was gone. Little by little, in small steps, leaning on my father and the doctor, I took my first steps. I recovered very quickly.

My habit of visualizing hasn’t gone away.

I’ve somehow rewired my brain — I no longer have constant darkness; everything is automatically in images.

We rented an apartment in Kyiv; I’ve been here since January. I felt around once, stomped my feet, imagined where everything is, memorized it, drew it for myself — what color and shape everything is — and that’s it. After that, it’s all straightforward.

I cook by myself. On New Year’s — I made French-style meat.

I started going to the gym. First workout — I understood it through muscle memory, memorized it. Felt the machine — that’s it, I can do it on my own after that.

I realized I could no longer help others the way I used to. I couldn’t cope with that emotion until we created the charity (the “We’ll See Victory” foundation — SP). When the idea came, we literally made it happen with a snap of the fingers.

I went through 33 circles of hell with the hospital, documents, legal help, rehabilitation. I had to figure it all out myself. Now I want to create a structure that will help anyone in a similar situation — not just military, but civilians too.

On August 9, a man who at that point hadn’t yet turned 24 died. What remained was a samurai who has a path, and he walks it with dignity.