From war wounds to recovery: A glimpse into Mechnikov Hospital’s mission in Dnipro

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Dragons and Almaz

A sturdy man bounds toward the car with dragons, shouting something approvingly to the driver. He’s surprised I don’t know him.

“I’m Almaz, how have you not heard of me?” he laughs. “I’ve met with [Volodymyr] Zelenskyy twice this year alone—he knows me.”

I glance down—the man stands confidently on prosthetic legs.

At 61, Almas Khaziyev, a Tatar and member of the Kholodnyi Yar brigade, goes by the call sign Almaz. He was a doctor and volunteered to fight on the second day of the full-scale invasion.

“I lasted a year,” he says, gesturing to his legs, amputated below the knees.

Now a veteran and military psychologist, Almaz works with patients who’ve recently lost limbs. Their wounds—physical and emotional—are fresh. Not all want to see a psychologist.

“I tell them, ‘Look at me.’ If a leg’s gone, I can do this,” Almaz says, swinging his prosthetic leg to the side. It looks effortless.

He’s still struggling with Ukrainian, having started learning it only a year ago.

This spring, his brother-in-arms, who is a drone operator, was admitted to the hospital, having lost both legs and an arm.

“When someone from the 93rd Brigade is wounded, they call me right away: ‘Your brother-in-arms is coming,’ and I meet him like a father. This particular guy didn’t want to see anyone; his mom was crying on the phone. I told her, ‘Stop. I’m on my feet—he’ll be on his feet.’

In just a month and a half, the soldier was standing on prosthetics. I usually go to the ward in a military uniform. The soldier sees right away: you’re one of us, you’ve been there. Soldiers won’t trust civilians, and civilians won’t get veterans. Never,” Almaz nods to emphasize his words.

“Hey, Almaz, already working?” a man with a gray (or chub) - traditional Ukrainian long lock of hair on a manoseledets, Cossack mustache, and a shirt bearing the “Mechnikov Hospital” patch (worn by all staff—some in lab coats, others in scrubs or shirts) peeks out from the emergency department, laughing.

“Good afternoon, Yuriy Yuriyovych,” Almaz is glad to see his colleague.

The mustached man is Yuriy Skrebets, deputy medical director for surgical care. We’ll spend a few hours with him at the Illia Mechnikov Dnipropetrovsk Oblast Clinical Hospital.

Thanks to his charisma and sense of humor, those hours pass less somberly than expected.

The story that made Ryzhenko cry

Mechnikov Hospital is open to the press. They give tours, answer questions, and allow interviews with patients. It wasn’t always this way, but now the media has easy access to the hospital’s general director, Serhiy Ryzhenko. He’s well-known in Dnipro and beyond. 15 years ago, he was the first deputy minister of health.

On every screen in the hospital—and there are many—Ryzhenko smiles: performing surgery, shaking hands with soldiers, standing with patients and colleagues.

His Facebook page has 110,000 followers. He shares various compelling cases that happen at the hospital almost daily. It was through him that the country learned about National Guardsman Vladyslav, captured by the enemy along with his brothers-in-arms. They were tortured: cut into pieces, eyes gouged out, lips and noses sliced off. On Vladyslav, the blade dulled. They slashed his throat, narrowly missing the carotid artery. All the Ukrainians were thrown into a pit, presumed dead. Vladyslav crawled out, bandaged his throat with rags, and spent days reaching friendly lines. He can’t speak, but his life is no longer in danger.

“I’ve worked at this hospital for 13 years, day and night, seen all sorts. But I can’t get used to how people can be tortured like this. I break down mentally when things like this happen,” Ryzhenko’s eyes well up instantly.

Another story that touched the director was about a soldier forced to finish off a critically wounded brother-in-arms.

“He did it, threw up, asked to go relieve himself. The Russians laughed and laughed. He grabbed a rifle, shot them all, and escaped. Then he was treated here; he had mental health issues,” Ryzhenko says.

The hospital primarily receives fighters with severe injuries, but the good news is that 90% survive. Some also undergo rehabilitation here.

27,000 photos on his phone

Skrebets, call sign Yuzik, is a remarkable figure. A People’s Hero of Ukraine.

He’s worked at Mechnikov for 35 years and, with Yana Zinkevych, founded the volunteer medical battalion Hospitallers. Since 2014, he spent all his legal vacations in the ATO zone, saving fighters. He met the full-scale invasion as a Hospitaller, later enlisting in the Ukrainian Armed Forces as the medical chief of the Arey assault battalion of the Ukrainian Volunteer Army. He recently retired due to disability.

“Got into a bad situation in Kursk Oblast,” he says briefly as we rush through the hospital corridors. “Spinal fracture, both legs broken. I have endoprostheses. Hip joints replaced with metal, and down here—my little stumps.

It doesn’t make it easier, honestly; sometimes it’s better to walk with a low amputation. But it’s fine: I ski, ride a bike, swim, run—everything’s okay. Just can’t skydive,” he laughs. “And my face, see, cracked from overeating,” he points to a scar on his cheek.

In truth, it’s from a wound.

On Skrebets’ phone, there’s a folder with photos of his wife and three children. The rest of the gallery is documents, mostly “Form 100”—wounded soldier escort forms. He has 27,000 such photos. Yuriy Yuriyovych scrolls and scrolls, and they seem endless. Among them are pictures of the fallen.

“Nothing shocks me anymore; I’m a sick person, sentiment ripped from my heart. I’ve buried 300-400 people from my battalion, many friends. Spent five months in the hospital while they pieced me together. After that, a person either breaks completely or lives as a drug addict on meds. I found my way out: booze and religious fanaticism,” he doesn’t let me recover from his joke and continues with another:

“I graduated from a Moscow seminary long ago. Didn’t find God there, but started drinking,” he laughs heartily. Then, proceeds seriously: “My life’s fine: I wake up very early, get to the hospital very early; the boss doesn’t let me slack. Lots of work. And we have fallen colleagues. They have kids, elderly parents. Yesterday, I was at the mom’s of one of our fallen, ordered a monument and memorial plaque with her.”

Skrebets is constantly pulled in different directions: he needs to visit the morgue to say goodbye to a colleague who died at work the previous day, answer calls to distribute wounded civilians across hospitals nationwide, and attend the “Hero’s Family” event, held every few weeks.

In the polyclinic’s assembly hall, families of fallen soldiers and fighters themselves gather. The staff, led by Ryzhenko, greets them. Families are assured they won’t be forgotten, that the hospital’s doors are always open. Nurses take those present to offices for consultations, checkups, X-rays, and ultrasounds.

Between work moments, Yuriy Yuriyovych answers our questions:

“Here’s the resuscitation ward; all critical patients come here. Every night, 40 to 70 arrive. Overall, we constantly have about 500 such patients. Plus civilians.”

A bandaged man is wheeled past, quietly groaning. Ryzhenko, coming from a polytrauma ward round, says: “They’re all recovering well, and Mykhailo got a haircut. Looking sharp.”

“See, we’ve got stylists and barbers roaming in packs,” Skrebets laughs.

He finds us a hairdresser who does haircuts, shaves, and washes the fighters.

When I cut the hair, I chatter: ‘We washed and trimmed away all the bad’”

Iryna Zhuikova is initially shy but soon opens up. She came to Mechnikov 11 years ago as a volunteer to cut soldiers’ hair. Now she’s on staff.

“The wounded are so happy when I wash them; they come straight from the trenches—sometimes after two weeks, sweaty, dirty. This procedure gives them confidence and relief.

Those who can stand, I help to the shower; those who can’t, sit, and I use a plastic apron, a basin, and pour water from a bottle. I wash their head, shoulders, face. When I cut, I chat: ‘We washed and trimmed away all the bad. Let only good grow back.’ Only arms and legs won’t grow back,” Iryna sighs.

She serves up to 15 patients a day. Those conscious tell her what haircut they want. Sometimes, a man needs body parts shaved for surgery, so she does what doctors request.

“I’ve gotten used to cutting in beds. No mirrors around, so I say, ‘You’ll have to trust a woman,’ and show them the result in the end. I add, ‘If it’s too short, it’ll grow back; if too long, we’ll fix it.’ I shave beards, too. Guys want to look tough, but in the hospital, it’s unsanitary.”

Iryna is used to the sight of wounds, but amputations still hurt and scare her.

“I’ve noticed when moms or wives visit the wounded, they soften. They fall under this wave of pity, hearing from mom, ‘Oh, my son, how are you here? My little boy, what do you need?’ Or wives who lash out at doctors: ‘What are you doing to him? He’s in pain!’ And the guys’ toughness fades with such talk.”

One case struck Iryna: “An infantryman in December, weighed down with 30 kilograms of gear, fell into icy water and had to swim to an island. I told him, ‘I don’t envy you.’ He said, ‘I regret dropping out of this game.’”

She finds it strange to call war a game. We agree soldiers perceive it differently.

6-7 thousand amputations per 40-45 thousand wounded

In the polytrauma ward are fighters admitted days ago. Faces and bodies are pockmarked with shrapnel. Each is hooked to one or more medications. All are naked, covered with sheets. At the foot of each bed is a tag: name, origin, and a half-page list of injuries.

A bearded man, half his face covered in white burn ointment, is nestled by his wife. Someone eats oatmeal and boiled beet salad from a bedside table; a nurse feeds another. Skrebets bursts into the ward with jokes and optimism that instantly spreads. The fighters smile.

Here’s Mykhailo, already trimmed by Iryna, born in 1999. His bed has a travel pillow with an animal face.

Skrebets touches his toes, asking if he feels anything.

“No, my legs are like concrete.”  

“No worries, no worries, it takes time.”

Mykhailo asks if they’ll remove shrapnel from his body.

“If they’re not bothering, not pressing nerves or vessels, we’ll leave them as souvenirs. Sometimes getting to those pieces is more traumatic than the shrapnel itself. They’ll get encapsulated in connective tissue and stay put. I’ve got some in my face; could attach a flashlight,” Yuriy Yuriyovych laughs. “Comfortable?”  

“Not really. But cool.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice movement, like a fly buzzing. It’s red liquid dripping through a tube from a wounded man’s leg to somewhere under the bed.

“This method we’ve used for 10 years: the wound is sealed hermetically, and a device suctions out dead tissue and destroyed blood elements. Before, we’d have amputated such a leg—200%. Now we can save it,” Skrebets presses the man’s toe.

Thanks to advanced medical technologies, out of 40-45 thousand wounded, there are 6-7 thousand amputations. That’s low compared to other wars.

“Most guys come to us already with amputations. We do them too, but it’s always a team decision—we fight for every arm, every leg. It’s like dentists trying to save all a patient’s teeth. I’m more pragmatic: none of mine are left, blown out in 2023, whole mouth’s implants. I’m perfectly happy: no pain, no itch, and free,” he jokes again.

My son could have died

Stanislav Ishchenko, 44, is missing his left hand, has a stitched forehead, one eye blind, the other barely seeing, eyelashes burned. He was wounded a week ago.

“I’ve been fighting for 11 months. Saved others, but this time I got hit. I was in the front of the car with a shotgun, watching the sky. An FPV drone with a mortar shell hit us, right where I was sitting. I knew immediately my hand was gone: the bone was sticking out. Thanks to my brothers-in-arms for putting on a tourniquet right away; we’re experienced at this.

They took me to Druzhkivka; our military medics gave first aid and sent me to Pavlohrad. Then here. I don’t know where they amputated my hand; I was under anesthesia. Mom, wife are crying, but what? You can’t glue a hand back on. That’s reality: those who really fight, not sit in headquarters, will definitely get injured. This is war. Serious war,” he says.

Stanislav awaits further treatment in Odesa for his vision.

Vasyl Topolyuk, 50, also has injuries on his left side. Swollen eye, battered hands. He’s been at Mechnikov for five days.

“I’m a driver, delivering shells with a partner. I was driving fast, but a drone dropped [a shell] on us. The whole hit was on my left side, but I survived; my partner died.”

I ask who visits him.

“My son and a brother-in-arms.”  

“Yours or his?”  

“Both. We fight together. He’s 29, Oleksiy. We always drove together, and that day he was supposed to be with me, but they called and told him to stay,” Vasyl cries – with one eye – realizing his son could have died.

No throat, yet he’s reading a book

Yuriy Yuriyovych pauses in the corridor, catching a rare moment without rushing. He talks about Vladyslav—“the guy with the slashed throat.” The doctor remembers everything the fighter wrote in his diary.

“Their position was hit by guided aerial bombsKABs, and he was collecting the living remnants of the group when he was captured. Two Russian soldiers took him. They led him to a basement where seven Ukrainian guys were, strangers to him. The youngest looked about 18.

There were several Russians, around 22-25, judging by their talk, likely ex-convicts. He remembered some call signs and passed them to investigators.

These Russians tortured all the Ukrainian captives, cutting off genitals, noses, ears, eyes, lips—anything they could. They killed the youngest first, and he died. The rest followed from their injuries: massive bleeding, shock—no one can endure that long.

Then one of those scum said the knife was dull and he’d ‘finish the last one.’ He slashed Vladyslav’s throat, missing the carotid by 1.5 centimeters. They threw him and the others into a pit. Vladyslav climbed out, bandaging his throat with torn rags.

He doesn’t recall exactly how many days he crawled to our positions—thinks five. He was desperately thirsty, considered drinking his own blood, but caught a few mice and drank theirs.

He encountered groups of soldiers: some he knew were enemies, others not. So he hid from everyone. They brought him to us from some hospital in mid-August. I went to the emergency department, and he’s reading a book. No throat, a tube sticking out. And he’s not complaining,” Skrebets smiles, amazed, and continues.

“The wound was horrific, covered in maggots (fly larvae—ed.), but that’s good. Without them, he’d have died in those unsanitary conditions. They cleaned the wound, eating dead tissue. There used to be a treatment from World War II—larval therapy. Now there’s a vaccine.”

Vladyslav currently can’t speak.

“He needs a column of air in his throat. Without air from the lungs, speech can’t be restored. He has a massive tissue defect; we need to replace it and restore normal neck anatomy. That’s for plastic surgeons—we have those. It’ll be fine. I believe in it. We once had a worse case: a grenade tore out a policeman’s throat. We saved him.”

The doctor says Vladyslav is a positive, bright person, always smiling. His wife says he can’t even kill a spider at home, carrying it outside and watching to ensure no one eats it.

We were at Mechnikov on August 28, and on the 30th, Vladyslav disappeared from the hospital; police were searching for him. People online speculated, worried the enemy had abducted him. It turned out he went to his wife’s place.

“He decided to take a little ‘therapeutic leave’ for the weekend. Given what he’s been through, he’s earned it,” Skrebets commented.