I was sitting in the lobby of the ophthalmology clinic at the Navy hospital, waiting for my pupils to dilate and wondering why I bother wearing mascara to these appointments, when an old man parked his wheelchair next to my seat. His left leg from the knee down was gone. He had tied his navy blue slacks in a knot to conceal what was left. We both looked at the television hanging from the ceiling above us, where Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama were in the middle of a debate about health care. Ironic, I thought.

“Ah, politics,” I said and smiled over at my waiting-room companion.
Before he could respond, a nurse came around the corner to take him back for his appointment.

“How are you doing, Sir?” the nurse asked.

“Oh, I can’t complain,” he said as he wheeled his chair toward her.

I was already well acquainted with the nurse. She was the one with the magic drops and the space age machine that would eventually take pictures of the back of my eyeball. For six weeks, I had been complaining of a bright light in my right eye. The ophthalmologist wanted to check for tears or a detachment. The spot was a major nuisance while I was reading, writing and driving. The nurse heard all about it while she gave me my drops. So when the man said he couldn’t complain, I smiled at him and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve already complained enough for the both of us.”

The man and nurse disappeared down the hall. I picked up a magazine to read, despite my growing pupils, and the extremely bright overhead light that felt like a flood light shining into my eyes.

A few minutes later, the man returned to wait with me again while his pupils grew. The palms of his hands were covered in black dirt, and the musty smell of tobacco smoke drifted over from his flannel shirt.

“Nope, I can’t complain,” he suddenly said, picking up where we had left off.

“I’ve had this spot in my eye for weeks now and it’s driving me crazy,” I said.
The man nodded.

“I hate having my pupils dilated, and not being able to read while we wait here.”
The man nodded again.

“Gosh, could that overhead light be any brighter?” I said. (Have I ever mentioned how bad I am at small talk?)

“When they found me in ‘Nam, my eyeballs were sitting on top of my cheeks, still attached to the nerve,” the man said. He wasn’t looking at me. “They said I’d never see again. Took a bullet right through my forehead.”

I looked at my lap shamefully. How could I have been so stupid to complain?

“The doctors still can’t explain it,” he said. “They thought I was blind for life. But sure enough, I can see you plain as day.” Finally he turned his head to look at me. He smiled warmly. “Yes, today is a very good day, a very good day.”

I couldn’t forget that man for several days. Incidentally, our command had a casualty the same week. Someone’s husband had not come home alive. Kind of makes all the day’s nuisances seem inconsequential. I was beginning to feel down on military life. What’s the point, I wondered. Why risk all these lives when most of America doesn’t even seem to care?

Then I remembered something else the man in the wheelchair had said: “For my country, I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. I was blind and now I see.”

As we mark the five-year anniversary of our involvement with Iraq, and while the politicians continue to fight over when to leave and who was right or wrong, let us all remember that at the end of the day, if a Soldier has completed his mission and come home to his family alive, it is a very good day indeed. And while some of us gripe about long lines, slow traffic lights, and the high price of gas, there is a man with one leg who despite a bullet in his head and years lost to blindness, still can’t complain. Neither should we.