Sasha

Nathalie Halbout is feeling broken with David Halbout.

I keep in touch with some of the wounded soldiers I met in Kyiv’s hospitals. One of them, Sasha, hasn’t responded to my messages since October 2nd, and I immediately feared he was no longer alive… and he wasn’t.

Sasha was severely injured in both legs in eastern Ukraine during the summer of 2024 while pushing the occupiers back. His brothers-in-arms quickly placed him in a wheelbarrow and got him out of the view of enemy drones. Five hospitals and fourteen surgeries later, yet he still had a long road ahead. I met him in the third hospital and wrote a vignette about him (see attached).

After I left, I worried most about Sasha; his wounds were the most serious, and his family was far away. With the ocean between us, my ability to help was limited, but I’m glad I was able to do a few things to improve his situation: I arranged for a birthday cake delivery through my friends in Kyiv and later a network of friends in Lviv organized homemade meals for him (sometimes I really appreciate social media!) Then a heatwave hit, and he asked for a fan since there was no air conditioning. I decided to send two fans, convinced there was likely another soldier suffering from the heat. By then, Sasha had been moved to a more rural hospital, which wasn’t as well stocked with medicines. Now, he had to buy his own meds from the list provided by the doctor, and it was his responsibility to take them on time. I offered to pay for the medications, knowing that Sasha was the oldest of five siblings, but he insisted on managing on his own.

I wished him a Happy National Defenders Day on October 1st. The following day, after spending time with his sister, he suddenly began to feel unwell. A clot traveled to his lungs (pulmonary embolism) and claimed his life within minutes.

Every hospital in Ukraine is overwhelmed with wounded soldiers, and the doctors do their best with the knowledge and resources they have. Yet, I can’t accept this—soldiers shouldn’t die in hospitals. In Ukraine, we don’t really respect “boundaries.” I should have pressed harder to cover the cost of his meds—maybe he never purchased all of them.

The Ukrainian language is rich, and Sasha’s name has many endearing forms. I want to say to him: Sashko, Sashen’ka, Sashuliya, Sashuniya, Sashik, Sashusiya, Sashulychka, Sashechka, Sanko, Sasha—thank you for your sacrifice. Heroes never die!

A Boy with Cornflower-Colored Eyes

“Can you help me get into a wheelchair?” I hear Sasha ask. He’s the only one in the ward who can use a wheelchair. Wheelchair=a chance to get outside, grab a quick smoke, and pick up a few snacks from the nearby kiosk.

“Sure,” I reply, expecting it to be an easy task. But it’s not for the fainthearted. Sasha’s leg is shattered in multiple places. The bones are drilled through and are held together by a metal rod —a common technique to heal fractures, developed over 50 years ago. I would have to lift the rod to move his leg-something I cannot muster the courage to do.

Noticing my apprehension, Sasha gives me a different role—hoisting one crutch behind the wheelchair seat and threading another through to support his leg.

Sasha was wounded by shrapnel, bleeding profusely. His young life was saved by a tourniquet—one of the items we fundraise for. We talk about the future and the past. The present is too painful to face. He has many surgeries ahead, and it’s uncertain how much function he’ll regain. Some pieces of bone are missing.

Sasha is only 26.

He speaks proudly of his life by the Black Sea and his job as a foreman at a construction company. I seize the chance to connect and ask him to add my sister’s place to the list of his future projects. It was damaged by the rocket explosion. He’s excited, and I go over the repairs needed—after he’s back on his feet.

Sasha loves to cook, and we bond over our shared love for smoked chicken hearts and slivers of smoked pig ears (FYI—they go great with beer). He talks dreamily about his past life.

All our lives are now divided into two parts: before the war and during the war. One day, there will be another part—after the war is over.

Sasha hands me a patch from his uniform. Patches are exchanged or gifted as symbols of patriotism. My hands tremble as I hold it. Sasha had it on during his service, through many battles and days in the trenches. He wore it when he was wounded. I promise to treasure it. He adds, “I can’t go back to fight with the same patch. I’ll need a new one.”

I look into his eyes with confidence -“Yes, you absolutely have to get a new patch.”

His eyes are the blue of cornflowers, like those that bloom abundantly in Ukrainian fields. My memory drifts back to Donbas—a region now occupied and heavily shelled, but once a place of blissful summers with my grandparents.

As a child, I remember giddily running through wheat fields, secured by the borders of cornflowers…