VOLODYMYR MARCHENKO is the Head of the Marketing Department at the “Osvita” Publishing House, a company that produces textbooks for schoolchildren. During the war, he received a severe traumatic brain injury but continues to lead an active lifestyle, focusing on rehabilitation through sports and travel.
The day before the full-scale war. On February 23, 2022, the check-in for a flight from Kyiv to São Paulo started. Qatar Airways company was offering randomly allocated quotas for teachers, and my wife is a high school teacher of National Defense. She was lucky and won a ticket to any country in the world, along with a 50% discount for her companion — me. We thought about it for a long time, considered our options, and finally opted for Brazil. We planned to fly to São Paulo, carefully mapping out our itinerary and destinations: arrive in São Paulo, spend the night in a hotel, then head to Rio de Janeiro (to see the Sugarloaf Mountain, the statue of Christ, and Rio’s beaches). After that, we would travel to Foz do Iguaçu, home to the world-renowned Iguaçu Falls. We’d return to São Paulo. Carnival was canceled at the time due to COVID, but some carnival activities were still scheduled, either in Rio or São Paulo — I can’t recollect which one it was. We savored every detail of our trip, setting everything up perfectly. But on February 24, all of it was cancelled.
About the war. In the morning, my wife woke me up and asked what we were going to do: should we stay in Kyiv or go to the summer house. Our summer house is in a quiet, peaceful place—between Bucha and Borodyanka. I wasn’t the only one to make this mistake.
We gathered friends and family and set off. The journey, which usually takes an hour, took us five that morning. Hostomel is in the vicinity, and everything could be heard well, so we spent the night in the basement. Luckily, I have a good basement, like a bunker.
In the morning of the 25th, I had a strange feeling. I wasn’t scared, but I was like a coiled spring. I drank some coffee, said goodbye to my family, and headed to Kyiv, to the recruitment office. Chaos was omnipresent. In Obolon (my home area), there was a disturbance when an armored vehicle or Ural, supposedly with a sabotage group, entered. The situation was tense. Eventually, we were issued weapons and assigned a sector to defend. We held out for a few days. It was something similar to “Makhnovshchyna”.
About the injury and recovery. The more shelling and action there was, the calmer and more rational I became. I have a certain quality—I make good, well-considered decisions. But there is an issue—it takes me a lot of time. In war, there is no time for that. Under stress, my mind worked quickly and correctly. I was calm.
During one of our tasks, we got into hell. My guys saved me.
I suffered a severe traumatic brain injury. I was in a coma for two weeks, then spent a month in intensive care.
But I didn’t fall into severe depression or panic attacks. My family supported me, and I never thought about how I would live with this injury.
What worried me more were the challenges that came with this injury. I didn’t expect that learning to walk again would be so hard. It frustrates me when things don’t go the way I know they should. For example, I understand radio physics—it’s an exact science. But in medicine, things don’t work out exactly as you plan them.
They put a titanium plate in my head, which led to inflammation, so they had to remove it and conduct one more surgery. I went through several months of antibiotics and treatment for osteomyelitis.
You plan one thing, but your body has other plans. But I know that I’ve done everything depending on me.
About support and family. My wife and children are the foundation from which I fell and rose. I once talked to a respectable man about cars and he said: “A car must be reliable. Otherwise, suddenly you get into an accident and become disabled, who will need you? Is it mom?”
My wife didn’t know where I was, because at some stage of the evacuation I got lost – they misspelled my last name. She found me at the Mechnikov hospital only by the scar on my knee (I set a cellophane bag on fire when I was a child, and it fell on me), not by my face. I was covered in bandages, and when they unwound me, she couldn’t tell if it was me. She asked me to show her my leg. No one could say whether I would see, or stand up, or talk, or be able to take care of myself. We live on the first floor and my wife said: “It’s good that it’s not high, we can assemble a ramp and take you out for a walk.”
There was no phrase from her: “I need to think” about me and whether she can be with me. She accepted everything immediately, started looking for a solution and, while I was in a helpless state, kept everything under control. It carved in my memory for the rest of my life.
About the unconscious. I was unconscious for about a month. Then, little by little, I began to recover consciousness, though at times I’d still drift off to a place “beyond the clouds.” During my coma, I had wild adventures. I was constantly busy with something, making decisions, signing business contracts with Oman.
I have no connection to the perfume industry, but we were running a campaign for a new fragrance. I chose a model who went to Oman, because there were some very expensive, purebred horses that were needed for the photoshoot. For this shoot, I was paid 10 electric Lamborghini Diablos—five white, five black. I don’t know if such a car even exists; I’m just telling you what I saw in my dreams. This happened when I was partly conscious and partly somewhere else. I told my wife, “I had a contract, but they paid me with cars, not money. I parked them somewhere in Kyiv, but I can’t remember which parking lot. Did I tell you?” I was stressed that no one could explain where the cars were. After coming out of the coma, I was even writing down names and phone numbers.
I know the moment I stayed in this world. There was some sort of event that involved breaking through a checkpoint. But it wasn’t a military operation. I have no idea who was manning the checkpoint. We were on a bus, where I was the driver, and we were some kind of gang. I don’t know what we were doing, but it didn’t feel entirely legal. Almost at the moment when a clash was about to happen, I slammed the brakes and said, “Thanks, I’m not going any further with you. I want to live.” I put down my rifle and got off the bus.
There was a moment when I couldn’t tell where reality was—whether it was on the hospital bed or out there with those people.
I know exactly the moment when I stayed in this world. There was some kind of event where we needed to break through a checkpoint. But it wasn’t a military operation. I don’t know who was manning the checkpoint. And we were kind of a gang on a bus, where I was the driver. I don’t know what we were doing, but it didn’t feel exactly legal. Almost at the point when the clash was about to happen, I hit the brakes and said, “Thanks, I’m not going any further with you. I want to live.” I put down my rifle and got off the bus.
There was a moment when I couldn’t tell where reality was—whether it was on that hospital bed or with those people out there.
After the War. I’ve become a bit harsher. I used to be patient, though if someone kept adding fuel to the fire, I could explode and be unstoppable. Today, illogical things irritate me. That’s why I try to think everything through, to lay it all out logically—so that everything turns out right.
On Reactions to Injury. People with facial injuries often become withdrawn. I consider my injury relatively mild—there are cases where people lose their nose or half of their face. Such mutilation can intimidate the general public, and that’s not something people can easily train themselves to overcome. So, facial reconstruction isn’t about beauty. No one needs to be molded into a Tom Cruise. It’s about reintegrating a person into society.
Only people within a trusted circle have the right to joke about an injury or trauma. My comrades and I might joke about it, but not even all family members have that freedom, let alone strangers. Even if a veteran refers to themselves as a “cripple” or “disabled,” it doesn’t give a permission for others to do so. These are the fundamentals. You don’t need a university degree to know how to interact with veterans.
On a Place of Strength. Before the war, I loved going to Serhiivka in the Odesa region, especially to the spit beyond the bridge. I would go there not in summer but in autumn or spring, sit, and watch the waves crashing against the sand. Sadly, the spit is now mined, and access is restricted. I find peace in watching water—it has a calming effect on me.
What truly makes me happy, though, is my younger son. He often tells me how much he misses me, which brings me to tears. Meeting up with friends and having heartfelt conversations is also something I really enjoy.
Translated by Green Forest English School