"Not giving up": A Ukrainian veteran with three amputations defies the odds, supports others

Two men smoke outside a prosthetic center in central Kyiv. One is a veteran, 39-year-old Roman Maksymets. The other is his friend and fellow soldier Artur. I greet them, ask them something, but don't hear an answer.

"So I'll give you a hearing aid, I have a spare," Roman laughs. After being wounded in 2016, he has poor hearing, two artificial legs, an arm and an eye, and only 20% vision in the other. The man traveled by train from Lviv to the capital for the maintenance of his bionic prosthetic legs. And also to order a "new arm", as the old one had already worn out.

As soon as he put on the prostheses, off he went

When the enthusiastic greetings of the women at the reception end: "Oh, Romchyk! How are you? Long time no see!", it's the turn of men to shake hands. Soldiers with amputations are waiting in the hallway. Some of them have a ready-made prosthesis, others have a bandaged stump. Maksym addresses one of them: "Let me borrow your leg!". Everyone laughs.

Roman is a thin, lively guy, bored with sitting still. One moment, he calls 55-year-old Artur, who took the day off to accompany his friend, for a smoke break, next he paces the hallway. He twists different models of prostheses sticking out of a box in the corner in his hands.

He is wearing a T-shirt with the words "Good evening, we are from Ukraine" and shorts. He hasn't worn pants since he got artificial legs. The electronic knee has to be open to make it easier to turn.

When he talks, he leans close to the interlocutor because of his poor hearing and vision. He has gray pimples on his face, which are traces of gunpowder.

Despite his expressive talkativeness and openness to the world, he refrains from talking about his personal life. He does not tell us about the circumstances of his injury ("I don't remember much"), or about his family ("It's ours, why should anyone know?"), or about living with a triple amputation.

"It depends on which leg I get up on," he smiles broadly.

As for the psychological acceptance of a different yourself, he answers gently: "Over time, any person accepts this in their head."

But little by little, during the day, we are putting together a puzzle of his past life from the pieces of phrases of Roman, Artur, doctors, volunteers and other people we meet.

Maksymets hails from the village of Davydiv in Lviv Oblast. He lived of his work as a repairman in Spain. That's why he got the nickname Spaniard. The war caught him in Ukraine. In 2015, as a sapper with the 46th separate battalion "Donbas-Ukraine", he was sent to the combat zone. He fought in hot spots for a year, and in the summer of 2016, he went to check a minefield near Maryinka under fire.

There was an explosion. Falling down. The darkness. The bulletproof vest protected his internal organs, but his right arm and leg were blown off, and his left foot was smashed by a piece of shrapnel. His eardrums were blown out, his left eye was burned out, and his face was disfigured. He did not die of blood loss only because the vessels in his limbs were sealed due to the high temperature.

Roman underwent 12 surgeries: several on his nose, ears and eyes (one of which was removed and an artificial eye was inserted for aesthetic purposes). His right arm was amputated above the elbow, one of his legs above the knee, and one below. It took 11 months to go from almost hopeless to "put on your legs and walk".

The prosthetist jokes: "Before I knew it, he was already buying beer."

A fellow volunteer is still surprised: "I have seen this only once in my life: he just put on his prostheses and off he went immediately. Romchyk is one of a kind."

It took much longer for him to return to his "as he was, so he is" internal state.

"He will never admit how long it lasted in his head and how he experienced everything. He doesn't tell me either," Artur assures me. "He is a very strong human.”

"All of them (the wounded with amputations - ed.) pop smoke. He did too," another volunteer says frankly. She has known Maksymets since 2017. "At first, everyone drinks and smokes a lot. And then it all depends on luck and family support. Romchyk has always been a good boy and independent. Over the years, he has balanced himself even more. But he also gets a lot of help from his family. His wife adores him, and so do his children (after being wounded, Roman married his fellow soldier's sister and adopted her three children from her first marriage - ed.)”

Two years in same socks

While waiting in line to see the prosthetist, Roman drains another bottle of Coca-Cola. Artur supplies them to him. Coke, cigarettes and coffee keep the men going all day.

"Girls, do you have a lot of work?" Maksymets calls out to the center's employees.

"Well, we serve both you, our long-time clients, and there are a lot of newcomers for prosthetics now. There are not enough hands. Oh," she gets embarrassed by the slip of her tongue.

Roman shows me a black bionic hand: he moves his fingers, unscrews the palm. I immediately remembered the old movie "Terminator". Obviously, I'm not the only one, because that's what the soldier's friends called him.

"Although I can hold a spoon with my artificial hand, I use my own. This one is an auxiliary one: to support something, for example, to fasten a zipper," he explains. "It has a service life of 3.5-4 years, I have been using it for 6 years. Two fingers are already broken, because I fell. I have been waiting for a new one for 16 months. Today they will make a cast, and in a few days, I hope, I will get a prosthesis. I will stay with friends in Kyiv, because I have to go for a fitting. My pension is not enough to travel back and forth to Lviv. I also want to visit Palych (owner of the prosthetics center - ed.) to have my legs adjusted."

Valerii, a prosthetist, sees the fighter in his office. They have known each other for a long time. Maksym is relieved to take off his prostheses and sit down on the couch. He still has silicone liners on his stumps.

"Do they get hot?" I ask.

"Yeah, it feels like wearing rubber boots," the warrior says.

I pick up his biggest prosthesis. It weighs 6 kilograms.

"Imagine carrying them all day," Roman says, kindly.

"Apart from the fact that he's a lively guy, there's nothing extra on him (Maksymets weighs about 55 kg - ed.). It is very important to maintain the balance of your weight and the weight of the prostheses," Valerii notes.

Between manipulations, the two men talk. They talk about the advantages and disadvantages of different prosthetic systems, their prices, and how more expensive is not always better.

Valerii measures the muscle activity on Roman's arm with a sensor. In the places of the greatest pulsation, he draws crosses on the skin. They are important for the inside of the cast. On its basis, a proximal end will be made, also known as a "stump tube". Sensors in it will read the electrical impulse from the muscles.

The brain of the prosthesis, a microprocessor, will process the information using computer algorithms. In a fraction of a second, it will generate commands and send them to the motors. After that, the prosthesis will perform a certain movement: turn the hand or squeeze the fingers in a certain gesture. For example, it will pick up a pencil.

But this is all for later. Now Valerii is wrapping the stump with bandages and plaster. While the cast hardens, he leans over to Roman's shoes.

"Your sneakers are suitable: sporty, dynamic heel. You can take a smaller size than yours, then it will be easier to walk. Are they leather? Preferably leather," he tells Roman.

He teases in response: "But why? Those feet don't smell. I've been wearing these sneakers for two years and haven't changed my socks in as long."

We laugh.

"Do you want me to peel off the skin?" the prosthetist asks Roman to take turns to tense and relax his muscles. “Don’t worry, man, I won’t make it worse.”

With force, but gently, he removes the cast like a rough sock.

He brings the veteran his future hand – a metal black hand. He asks him to stand in front of a mirror in the hallway, to see if the size is visually appropriate. He sprays antiseptic inside the prostheses. He does this every time he has to take them on and off.

"That's right, it's like in sex: if you don't anoint it, you can't proceed," Valerii jokes.

Roman will receive his new prosthesis in eight days. Before the full-scale invasion, it would have been twice as fast, but now there are more orders.

When they heard that the fingers cost 35,000 euros each, they fixed the whole road

Roman also visited the owner of the center to have his prostheses "serviced". And then we went out for coffee in a nearby cafe. Artur had gone somewhere, so it was just the two of us.

Roman squints his eyes after going outside: it takes a few seconds to get used to the sun. He asks me to point out where there is a hole, curb, or slope on the road. He can only see large objects, such as a fence or a car. He can get around them on his own.

The warrior on prostheses and with a cane moves so fast that I can hardly keep up with him. He sits down at a table in the shade, often smoking. I ask him how he lives in the village.

"I find things to do. A friend asked me to help him lay tiles, so I helped with one hand. Then I managed to attach flippers to my second pair of legs - mechanical ones. And to my arm, too. Now I swim for an hour or two to keep myself hydrated. Every day we do something with the kids: mow the grass or clean the house," he says.

"He helps people! You tell them about it," Artur, who found us in the cafe, gets angry.

He says that the local authorities in the village decided to asphalt a section of the street near Roman's yard. But he insisted on doing the whole street.

"One day I was walking down the main street and there were potholes," Roman joins the conversation. "I can't see well, so I fell and broke two fingers on my bionic arm. I came to the village head, saying ‘each finger costs 35,000 euros’. When they heard, they immediately filled the potholes. And asphalt was laid. There hadn't been any repairs there since the Soviet Union."

I ask him what he finds most uncomfortable in our world that is not adapted to people with disabilities. We agree that everything in it is not adapted: from high curbs, steep ramps that are scary to drive on, to the lack of elevators in hospitals – in one of them Roman was carried down by a soldier.

"For me, it's hell going to the social security department. I found on the Internet that as a first-group disabled person, I am entitled to a wheelchair with an electric drive. I came to them: ‘Am I entitled?’ - ‘Yes, you are’. - ‘Why didn't you say so?’ - ‘Why didn't you ask?’ - ‘Isn’t that your job?’"

He says that he sued the Pension Fund because it hadn't recalculated his pension for four years. And he won. It will be increased.

"And I'm not the only one. In other words, in our country, you need yourself, your family, if you have one, friends, comrades-in-arms, volunteers. Otherwise... it's hard," he sighs.

Roman would like every regional administration to have a position like an assistant for veterans. This person would represent the interests of amputees from their region, know them all, call them once a month and ask what they need. He or she should have connections with prosthetic and rehabilitation centers and solve the issues of each of his or her clients. Once every six months, these veterans' assistants would communicate with each other and bring some issues to the state level. And then, you never know, the laws could change.

"Ask people with amputations locally what they need! What prosthetic systems are suitable, what kind of work they want. Group 1 disabled people do not have to work, the law protects them, but I want to. And some others want to as well. And at the top, there are men in suits, figuring out what to do with us. We should be there," Roman was prompted to think about this by a pilot project vacancy.

They were looking for a person to work as a veteran's assistant on a competitive basis. He was eager to apply, but the prerequisite was a university degree. And he didn't have it. But he has experience in helping people like himself.

"You will see what Romchyk is really like in the hospital"

When Roman visits Kyiv, volunteers and rehabilitation therapists often ask him to show up for moral support. Once, at the Irpin hospital, no one could make the highly amputated soldier walk on prostheses. He was angry: "I don't have an eye, I don't have a leg, you don't understand me." They called Roman, and he came to see him.

"Come on, put your leg on, let's go to the gym," he said.

"It's bothering me," this soldier replied.

It turned out that he was wearing it for 30 minutes a day, but he should be wearing it for at least an hour. He was lazy and used a wheelchair.

"I told the rehabilitation therapists straight: ‘Take away the wheelchair, and then he will walk’. And so it happened. Now we are in touch with this guy," Roman adds.

Volunteer Lena, an old friend of Roman's, drives us to a Kyiv hospital. But first, a warm meeting: they hug, laugh, and immediately have a smoke together.

"Romchyk, do you remember when I met you at the train station? It was freezing cold, and I was wearing short jeans. This oddball came out of the carriage in shorts," she says to me: "It’s heaving and he starts shouting: ‘Lena, you'll freeze, your legs are exposed’."

On the way, Artur whispers: "In the hospital, you will see what Romchyk is really like."

And it is indeed a kind of rebirth. The guy in his usual environment, where there are 90% fighters, finally opens up, comes to life. His face brightens, he relaxes. He constantly jokes, compliments, reminisces, tells some stories, and encourages others.

We are on the first floor of the trauma center, which he climbed to on his own. The nurses rush to him with smiles. He admits that he does not remember many of them.

"But we remember you, Romchyk," they say.

One of the volunteers, with a bag full of T-shirts, takes a picture with him. She calls him a legend.

"Not all the volunteers know that he is here today, otherwise there would be a crowd," Lena says. She takes Roman around the wards.

They are flooded with sunlight. The guys are lying in their underwear as it is hot. Most of them have amputations. One, two, three. Maksymets approaches one of them and instantly strikes up a conversation as if they have known each other all their lives. The content is the same, give or take. The fighters ask how long it took him to recover, whether he had phantom pains, where he ordered prostheses and what kind. Maksymets asks about their injuries and assures them that if he has his eyesight, the rest is a matter of practice.

He encourages everyone: "Oh, you have knee joints, that's great," "Four surgeries? I had 12 and, as you can see, I'm alive", "Count on 10 months of rehabilitation. I myself spent 11 months in hospitals. I'm tired of it too", "If you can withstand the pain, don't take painkillers, the body gets used to it". And he assures every single one: "Your situation is not the worst."

He is yet to approach a man covered up to his neck with a sheet. The fabric outlines the contours of the body. Shoulders, arms, stomach. But below the buttocks, it's empty. There are no legs at all – such a high amputation. I get hot and go out into the corridor. I don't hear what Roman is saying to him and don't ask. That's between them.

Finally, everyone is calmed, supported, and comforted. The veteran notices a bed at the end of the dark corridor. It is cluttered with some things, with only some space at the edge. With relief, he squeezes in. He exhales. Only now it becomes clear how tired he is.

A few minutes later, another volunteer, Natalia, comes over. It is planned that Roman will talk to the boys in the park as well. He jumps to his feet. Artur persuaded his friend to transfer to a hospital wheelchair. He rolls him between the buildings. Everywhere, the wounded rest on benches, alone and with their families.

Birds chirp around them, drowning out the noise of conversation. They don't care about the explosions, the pain in limbs that don't exist, the flashes that are reflected in their retinas. Roman Maksymets does care. He continues to listen. What he does not hear with his ears, he feels with his heart.

We are heading for the exit when it is already evening. On the way to the car, Natalia tells us about the cases of different wounded: "Romchyk, in 2017, there were 2-3 triple amputees like you in Ukraine. And now there are a lot of them. One of them was taken to Lviv yesterday, his amputations are so high that he can't have a prosthesis fitted. The doctors wrote it down as such: "guillotine". He is missing two arms and a leg."

Roman asks about all the stories: "Does he have eyesight?" He argues with Natalia about the expediency of fitting prostheses to a blind person without arms. He won't be able to see how to put them on.

In parting, he confesses: "You know, it was hard for me six years ago. But now I have seen the injuries of the guys - it is just so terrible."

I was with Roman Maksymets from 10 am to 7 pm. In the end, my legs were falling off from fatigue and heat. And Roman got on his prostheses at 5 am. And he never complained.