Bruce Moncor: Every Day is a Bonus Day

I was eating breakfast; it is a day that will live with me for the rest of my life. I never thought anything would top the events of the day prior: A five hour firefight with a dug-in Taliban force. The biggest NATO battle ever and the largest Canadian-led battle since The Korean War. 

As I tear the metallic pouch in which the contents of my breakfast are in, I begin to talk to my fire team partner about the day’s mission. Casually and calmly we watch the American fire power work towards softening the defences of where we were about to be. In the blink of an eye, my day was turned on its head. 

The official report would say that an American A-10 Warthog was given improper voice procedure from the Canadian Forward Operating Officer and told to, “look for the fire”. He spotted the fire that our position had improperly lit, and without checking the coordinates strafed the Canadians. Realizing his mistake early he only strafed for a second or two, but it was a burst from an A-10 Warthog Gatling cannon - a 30 mm shell, depleted uranium, and explosive shells so powerful that when fired it pushes the jet back. That burst would be enough to kill Private Mark Anthony Graham, and injure another 66 of us, including myself. I would not know any of this. My only recollection is being tossed in the air and seeing blue sparks. The feeling of being electrocuted pulsated through my body. My body was flung down the mountain and landed face first and I lost consciousness. I never saw it coming. 

I came to with my right arm flailing like a fish out of water. To my horror, I thought it was detached. My left arm grabbed it, and to my relief it was attached. I did an extremity search; all my limbs were still there. I let out a big sigh of relief and then the blood began to flow down my face. I feverishly began to try to catch it, save it. My hands were cupped like I was going to wash my face, but it was not water flowing from a faucet - it was my blood pooling in my panicked hands. It took too long for me to realize that the blood was of no use to me anymore, but once the realization occurred to me, I dropped it among the sand and rocks. I can still see the blood and sand coagulating. It was then that I experienced a wholly new sensation, a breeze began to blow on my exposed brains, this was when I began to realize I was probably breathing the last breaths I would ever take. I began to try to telepathically send messages to the people I loved, hoping that they would feel my messages halfway around the world. It was all I had. 

I crawled to a Master Corporal but I could not physically lift my head. As I dragged my face across the terrain I prayed like I had never prayed before. It is only after the soldier providing me first aid went down from shock from his own injuries that my faith in my own mortality was shaken. Here was the moment that I resigned to my fate and made peace with my maker. It was here that I made a very conscious decision to give up on life and let the chips lay where they land. Fortunately for me, the medical personnel were not going to let me take one step towards that light. 

That night as I laid on the operating table, enemy rockets landed in the base. As I awoke, I asked the nurse why my body was lined with lead blankets. I was given a coin flip of a chance to survive, yet the doctors and nurses continued to perform my surgery even when the rockets landed all around the operating table. They stayed at their post and took care of me. 

I was flown to Germany where I underwent a second brain surgery and had 5% of my brain removed. There were still pieces of uranium embedded in my brain and too deep to retrieve. Lifelong mementos to remember Afghanistan by. The second brain surgery was a pain worse than even getting shot. Each heartbeat reverberating through my body would cause excruciating pain. It was horrific. 

The effects of the surgery would rob me of the most basic functions. I lost the ability to read, write, walk, and my talking was slurred. The road to recovery was arduous to say the least. Thankfully my recovery has been advised as miraculous and unexplainable by the experts. Many have stated that my recovery was better than others that were not as injured as myself, but I still experience long term effects. I fatigue when I concentrate and my short term memory is deficient, but I persevered. One of the biggest problems I faced when I came home was when doing neuropsychological exams: there was no way to measure my cognitive abilities from before I was injured, they can only measure to ensure that I had not gotten worse since the injury. 

Each day I have on this earth since that terrible incident is a bonus day and I am grateful for them. I was prescribed University to see if I still had the capacity to learn and it stuck. I take nothing for granted and perspective is key to my outlook on life. 

But, there is the fear. Early on, I feared I was going to be diagnosed with ALS, MS, or early onset Alzheimer’s. The fear became palpable. I just know one of these diseases is going to come for me, whether the science supports my theory or not. I live in fear that the injury will help these awful inflictions rear their heads. Then I became aware of the CTE research and diagnosis in football players. I followed each one intently. Junior Seau, Chris Benoit, and others who all tested positive for CTE. I know my TBI and PTSD play off of each other and I would not be surprised if CTE is currently making tau protein inside my injured brain. 

I have signed up to donate my brain for research for two reasons. First: every day is a bonus day and I feel there is a reason I am still here. I have not figured out the plan yet, but perhaps my brain can help to find a cure or provide a better understanding of CTE. Second: the uranium still embedded in my brain was not removed. In the Vietnam War, American doctors learned it was better to leave than retrieve. They learned that it was causing more damage trying to remove shrapnel or bullets lodged in the brain. I wonder how many soldiers before me had to go through brain injuries before this was discovered? In a way, this is an homage to them. I want to pay it forward by offering my brain to science so I might play a small part in helping future generations of people suffering from traumatic brain injuries.