War tears off masks. Сombat medic Athena talks about the fear of death, the fragility of life, and her sense of time at the frontline

"If it wasn’t for "Athena," "Did" (Grandfather) would have been dead," as of the soldiers of the Achilles drone battalion briefly described the work of the combat medic. "Athena" is the call sign of the 27-year-old junior lieutenant, Yuliia Khomiak.

She loves the poetry of Lina Kostenko and Yurii Izdryk, and sometimes listens to the Ukrainian band BoomBox and singer Klavdia Petrivna. Now treating the entire battalion, Athena dreams of a scientific career. 

"Did" is the call sign of one of the fighters, a former stormtrooper of around 50 years old. One day, when Did became dizzy, his brothers-in-arms insisted that he ask Athena for help.

"There were no obvious signs of cerebral circulation disorders, his blood pressure and reflexes were okay. But some symptoms were indicative of cerebral circulation disorders," recalls Athena.

Athena's diagnosis was confirmed after magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) and further clinical examination. In simple terms, Athena noticed signs of an impending stroke. The thrombus [blood clot - ed.] blocking one of the brain vessels was dissolved in time using conventional medication and, within a month, Did's health improved.

How did a doctor diagnose a pre-stroke condition without prior examinations?

"It's just experience," Athena explains.

But where did a young woman gain such experience, and what does it feel like to be a combat medic? The following text is Athena's direct telling of her story.

The fragility of life

I remember how life slipped out of my hands. It was during the Kharkiv counteroffensive. We had already liberated the right bank of Kupiansk. It was work as usual when there was one explosion nearby, and then another. Our driver and I jumped in the car and drove right towards the sound [of the explosions].

The strike hit Kupiansk hospital. A building was damaged and local doctors were helping the wounded amid the commotion. Something led me to look into the basement. There, I saw a man in civilian clothes, about 50 years old, lying on the stairs. He was breathing heavily, or rather, whimpering – a picture of agony. I quickly began performing CPR, then hospital workers came running with a defibrillator.

I had a medical backpack and a bag with ampoules. We used half of those. His heart rate was coming and going.  Resuscitation lasted about an hour but, unfortunately, we could not save the person. He was an anesthesiologist at Kupiansk hospital.

I've seen deaths in hospitals before. But then I was an intern, a witness [of deaths]. And then, for the first time, I had a feeling that life was slipping out of my hands – a difficult and complex experience.

What can we compare life to? A crystal ball or bowl. It is light, fragile, and very, very valuable. One wrong move and it’s over. To prevent the bowl from breaking, you need to be focused, cool-headed, and able to control your emotions. That's why I turn off all emotion while working.

Going to the front line with a broken leg

I wanted to join the Armed Forces of Ukraine at the beginning of Russia’s full-scale invasion, but they didn't take me in at first. 

I first applied to the local Territorial defence forces as I come from Drohobych [a city in Lviv Oblast]. I was told that combat medic vacancies were closed. Then I tried to get into Lvivʼs Territorial defence forces, but it also didn't work out. This situation continued until July 2022, allowing me to finish my internship.

I saw an advertisement on Facebook in the summer of that year [2022], stating that a combat medic was needed on the frontline in Kharkiv Oblast. I called, and the head of medical services of the 128th battalion of the 112th Territorial defence forces brigade answered.

"You have to understand that this is a work at the line of contact; this is a risk," he said.

But I was mentally ready for this.

"Send the deployment orders [A document on behalf of the unit commander stating that the unit is ready to recruit you for a particular position.]," I said.

On the day I had to go to the enlistment office with those deployment orders, I twisted my leg. The X-ray showed that the metatarsal bone was broken. I burst into tears because I thought they wouldn't take me with a broken leg. But they took me.

Without a cast and limping a little, I got to the village Kamiana Yaruha, Kharkiv Oblast, where the battalion's medical centre was located.

Fear of death and sense of time

Death is always around. I understood this even before the war, it is connected to my profession and my mother’s. She has been working in emergency medicine all her life. I remember the stories she would tell after work, for example, about how a child died in an ambulance. I still sometimes think about certain cases from her practice.

Doctors face death more often than other people. They face not only death but also suffering, incurable diseases, and the despair of families. Our work involves dealing with the congregation of pain and grief.

Perhaps that is why I was not terrified of the possibility that I might be killed in war. Of course there is fear but it’s a background fear and not acute. You have to be able to accept the idea of death. You can't live under an illusion of immortality.

War simplifies everything. In ordinary, civilian life, it seems that different personalities are so complex that it is difficult to understand them. But in fact, we are very similar to each other, we have similar desires, needs, and experience similar suffering. We all need care, attention, and love.

I had been dividing my life into "before" and "after" the frontline, until a particular moment. There was a long portion of my life "before" and a short one "after" in my mind. I know now that I'm on a temporary mission and will return to that other life again. And now the terms "before" and" after" have disappeared.

Behind the scenes of the battle for Bakhmut

It was especially difficult, physically and psychologically, at the stabilisation point [a place where combat medics evacuate the wounded from the line of contact and provide first aid - Ukrainska Pravda] in Konstiantynivka, during the battle for Bakhmut. I went to the stabilisation point for the 92nd Brigade and the International Legion, one might say, of my own free will.

There were relatively few injuries among our unit's soldiers in those days, so I went to the stabilisation point to ask if anybody else needed any help.

"I really need it," I was told.

There was a stream of wounded 24/7. Sometimes 15 a day, sometimes 50 [wounded]. There were injuries that I had never seen before, for example, facial skull fractures and eye injuries... I lived in this flow for about three months. Hundreds of fighters have passed through my hands.

My basic specialties are midwifery and gynaecology, which are surgical specialties. That's why I worked at the stabilisation point as a surgeon and anesthesiologist. Now, 90% of my work is as a therapist.

Soldiers get sick just like civilians. Because of the big load, chronic diseases worsen. We need to develop treatment algorithms for different diagnoses. All this is my responsibility. I have enough work to do.

Being a woman in the Armed Forces of Ukraine

I am surrounded by male soldiers who are constantly trying to protect and care for me somehow. They make sure I do not lift anything heavy and try to create comfortable conditions for me. Some will say that these adhere to gender stereotypes that need to be eliminated. But in reality, it's just life as it is. Some people have different experiences, but this is mine.

Once, I went to one of our positions in Donetsk Oblast. The guys there lived in spartan conditions. They had domestic difficulties, in particular, with their water supply. But they got used to it, they were fine with it. As soon as I arrived, improvements began: They bought a pump, looked for adapters, and connected something to the generator so that there was warm water because…Yuliia had arrived!

I dream about our victory, the end of the war, and an end to people dying.

We constantly hear about the dead and gradually get used to all this information. Human destinies turn into numbers on paper. But every person is a universe. When one person dies, the darkness of grief covers two or three more people. It may be that the relatives of the deceased soldier will never be able to return to a normal life. Unfortunately, it happens. I really want this to end as soon as possible.

Of course, I also have my dreams. I'm tired of living like a nomad. My belongings are now scattered in the Kharkiv, Donetsk, and Luhansk oblasts. I want to have a home, a family, and the opportunity for self-development. I plan to pursue science. After all, my speciality is reproductive medicine.

Dmytro Fionik, for Ukrainska Pravda

Translation: Yuliia Kravchenko

Editing: Rory Fleming-Stewart