I felt something flowing from me. I looked at my sweater — it was all blood

That morning, I was still at home when I heard the sound of something flying, whistling. I ran outside and say to my husband: “Are they shooting again?” — “Three or four rockets have already flown over.” But I went to work — people were expecting me.

We arrived at work, and I say: “Let’s quickly resolve this issue and go home.” I sat down at the computer in my office.

There wasn’t even a siren, no sounds at all. I blinked, and it all happened instantly. I open my eyes: my office is simply destroyed. The computer monitor was lying flat. I had a fairly large safe — it had fallen over too. The desk was dirty, buried under debris. I searched it for my phone, with one thought: “I need to call my husband.”

I walked into the hallway and felt something dripping from me. I looked down at my sweater: it was covered in blood.

Two of us were bloodied: me and a man. There was a young guy whose clothes had been slashed by fragments, and a woman who’d been thrown by the blast wave.

We went outside — we had this lovely little courtyard. Everything that had been green had turned orange; I don’t know why. We crossed the road, and ambulances were already pulling up. They were shouting: “Injured, come over here!” We stood where we were told.

I was standing on my own two feet, while people lay on the ground covered in blood, receiving aid. I wasn’t screaming; I just waited — especially since my bleeding was being stopped with a towel.

A volunteer medic came up to me, started trying to distract me, saying that everything would be alright. Then he said: “We’ll have tea together with syrniki yet.” I say to him: “Do you promise?” — “Yes, I promise.”

He started bandaging my head, then put his arm around me. I’m old enough to be his grandmother, so his feelings toward me were very warm, you know.

At the hospital, they put me in a wheelchair, uncovered my shoulder, and wrote a number on it: 20. I asked: “Why are you writing on me? I have documents and I know who I am.” They explained that there were many injured, they couldn’t process everyone immediately — this way they at least know how many people there are, so nobody gets lost.

My turn came. They stitched up my head, the wounds on my chest. The doctor reassured me that he was trying to make very neat stitches because I had wounds on my face. Honestly, that didn’t concern me much.

When he started cutting the hair on my head, I say: “Doctor, what are you doing?” — “I’m giving you a modern hairstyle.” — “I beg you, don’t get carried away — keep my age in mind.”

The next day, bandage changes again. I say: “Doctor, I’m very worried about my hairstyle getting messed up.” He burst out laughing.

A few days later, the head of the department came to my ward: “A soldier who gave you first aid is looking for you. May I give him your phone number?” I say: “Not only do I allow it — I’m asking you to. I really want to hug him and thank him.”

They wheeled me out on a little gurney, we sat on a bench, and here comes Sasha. I didn’t know his name was Sasha — that’s when I first learned it! He’s Oleksandr and I’m Oleksandra.

He brought me such a bouquet of flowers, my God! But it’s not about the flowers — even if he’d come with a single rose or no flowers at all — I just wanted to hug him. I’m so grateful to him for the support and for how brave he is. He’s only 19!

Right after Sasha bandaged me on the day of the shelling, I said: “Give me a phone, I’ll send a photo.” I wanted to send it to my sister in Russia — she doesn’t believe they attacked us, she believes Russian propaganda. And that moment was taken out of context by Russian media — they didn’t show the destruction all around, they made me out to be an actress.

For me, this situation with my sister is such a pain — it’s been going on for more than a year. She was born in Ukraine but has lived in Russia for many years, and she’s a completely different person now. Back when Russia was starting all this in Crimea and in the Donbas, we used to talk over Skype. I tried to say to her: “What is Russia doing?” She didn’t believe me. She’d say: “They persecute Russian speakers where you are!”

We have the same parents, but it turned out the television was dearer to her than I am. I told her: “Listen, you live in another country and you’re telling me what’s happening in mine. Why not ask me — I’m your sister?”

I thought about it and decided not to send her that photo. I sent it to her older daughter — we’re in touch, she hasn’t lived in Russia for a long time. She called me. I say: “I was wounded, such and such happened. Don’t send this photo to your mom.” I simply don’t believe they’d feel any sympathy.

My sister called me toward the end of the week, even though I was wounded on Monday. I thought for a long time about what to do. If she’d wanted to, she would have called on the 10th. I didn’t call her back. I just sent photos where I’m already without bandages, with stitches on my head, on my face. I wrote: “This is a gift from your beloved Putin.”

Then I added a photo of the office and wrote: “Show this to your dear son.” He used to say: “We only bomb strategic military targets.” So this is a strategic military target — my former office. She wrote back that I was very mean.