Ukrainian Soldier

Debbie: This story's author and treating occupational therapist

He arrived with his young son by his side. His hands were heavily bound in soiled bandages. He arrived in pain — pain that came from far more than just his physical injuries.

There was pain from shame.

Pain from neuropathic torment.

Pain from the loss of identity: no longer a breadwinner, no longer seen as a respected figure in his community.

Pain from the image in the mirror and what he saw hidden beneath the bandages.

Pain from the trauma of how he sustained the burns.

Pain from contractures, from the absence of early rehabilitation.

Pain from the loss of hope.

He had been injured on the front line, defending his country and his people. No one had told him that rehabilitation was possible. No one had shown him how to care for his skin. He arrived believing it was too late.

When I asked if I could gently remove the bandages to assess his hands, he could barely meet my gaze. He thought the damage was too severe for me to witness. I smiled, held his eye contact, and explained what we would do and why. His son listened too, quietly watching.

As I unwrapped the bandages, he held out his arms, resting them on the foam cushion support, encased in a non-permeable liner, next to me—tense, hypersensitive, bracing for judgment and the sharp sting of contact. But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t recoil. I simply looked, gently held, and stayed present.

His hands smelled of neglect, not of failure. He hadn’t been taught how to care for them. The pain was etched across his face – layered, complex, and unspoken. But in that moment, something softened.

I gently took one hand, approaching as we do to dampen hypersensitivity. I asked him to trust me. He did. Slowly, he allowed the tension to ease. For the first time in a long time, he experienced a measure of relief.

I kept talking to him— including his son, explaining each step, each intention. He wanted this. He needed this. More than he could express.

The truth was hard: he had come very late. Contractures had already begun to form. Not all were fully established, but to optimise recovery, further surgery would likely be needed.

But now, he was supported. He was no longer alone.

There were tears in his eyes. He had been given hope.