WOUNDED WARRIOR, FRIEND
Omar Avila and Chris share a smile. A long hour of conversation at a ranch retreat led to a close friendship.
I met Chris in 2010. It was a down time in my life. I’d been badly injured in Iraq three years before when our Humvee was hit by a massive IED. I stayed in the truck to provide cover fire with the .50-cal as the convoy regrouped, but stayed a bit too long—the fire started cooking off our spare grenades. I managed to get out, but ended up with burns over 75 percent of my body. The worst were fourth-degree burns, where the muscle kind of melts. Besides that, my legs were broken, my hands deformed, and my foot was so badly mangled I needed to get it amputated.
I was twenty-one.
That was 2007. Three years later, I was doing better physically, but mentally I was in a bad place. A hole. One day I was invited to a gathering at a ranch to spend a weekend hunting and hanging out with other disabled vets. I wasn’t going to go. What was the sense? But then the idea of hunting tickled something. Hunting had been important to me before the war, and maybe the vague hope that I might do it again got me out.
I didn’t end up doing much hunting that weekend. What I did do a lot of, starting from that first night, was talking to Chris. I’d never met him, and I had no idea who he was—this was before the book came out. We just started talking, ex-Army guy to former SEAL.
“So how are you doing?” he asked me after I told him about my injuries.
“I’m doing fine,” I said. I thought the question was the kind of blow-off question people ask to be polite.
“No, no. How are you doing?” Chris insisted. He really wanted to know how I was mentally.
From that moment, I knew this was a person I could talk to. I opened up about survivor guilt—my best friend, a guy with a wife and a kid, had died on the mission. Chris knew exactly what I was talking about.
We talked for hours that weekend. Again and again, he told me I had to get my feelings out. “Write them down,” he said. “If you can’t share them with someone, at least write them down.”
So I started to. I also started talking with him regularly, and hanging out. He kind of took me in, him and Taya and the kids. They made me feel like I was part of the extended family. He was there during my darkest days.
For a while there, I was drinking, smoking, not taking care of myself. Finally I caught myself and turned it around. Chris doesn’t get all the credit—I have a strong family, and they were all there for me, along with some strong and important friends—but Chris Kyle was a big part of it. He made me come out of that negativity shell.
Today I’m paying it all back. I mentor other wounded warriors, talking to them, helping them any way I can. People call me at all hours. I share my testimony. Working as the Texas coordinator of Feherty’s Troops First Foundation, I’ve been blessed with a lot of opportunities to help people. I’ve talked people off the ledge. I’ve just listened, and seen how powerful that is.
And I’ve discovered that my wounds aren’t the sum total of me. I’ve skydived, learned to play golf, even honed my sense of humor over my injuries: my nickname these days is “Crispy.” You have to push everything to the limit. Everything.
Recently I wrote a poem about Chris:
Driving
my truck today
I thought of something funny,
so I picked up
my phone to call you.
As I entered your name
it hit me that
you are no longer here,
my friend.
As tears started running down
my eyes,
all I could do was smile
as I felt you next to me.
I heard you say it’s okay.
I’m here.
Keep my memory alive.
Now wipe that tear,
have no fear,
and toast to the ones
that couldn’t be here!
Hooyah, Chris Kyle!