The Gospel of Tetiana

for Reporters magazine special issue, text by Khrystyna Kotsira

“I say unto thee, arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way into thine house.”

Anatolii Shalaiev was considered an “impossible” case, but his treatment and love of an earthly woman let him walk again.

A short word, four letters, pierced her mind. Coma. It means “deep sleep” in Greek. Tetiana walked into the intensive care unit. She saw a mummy in the hospital bed: his head was bandaged, there were tubes sticking out everywhere. The part of the face that was not bandaged, was all blue and swollen.

Unconscious. Can’t hear. Can’t understand. Sleeping. That’s how the doctors described his condition. She took Tolik1 by his hand and felt a slight movement of his finger. Or was it just her imagination? Had he recognized and greeted her?

Her time in the ICU was over, and his time there only started.

ELEPHANT AND PUG
Their friends called them Elephant and Pug. Anatolii is 192 cm tall, wears size 45 shoes and weighs 105 kilograms. Tiny Tania, at 160 centimeters and 50 kilograms, is his better half—literally and figuratively. They knew each other since their childhood, growing up in the same apartment house in Kharkiv. When Tania’s nephew was born, her older brother chose Anatolii as his godfather, and that christening ended with their wedding.

After the christening, Tania just stayed in Tolik’s apartment. Little by little, she moved her things there every day, until she had filled not only his home but his life as well. The soft-spoken, calm Tolik did not argue. Once, after a family dinner, he asked her to marry him. Simply, without any pomp. Without heaps of flowers or a ring with sparkling diamonds. And she said yes.

On November 1, 2014, a week after Tolik proposed, they came to the registry office. Just the two of them

FEBRUARY 2. THE FIRST DAY OF LIFE AFTER LIFE

“We’re moving out. There will be no connection for three days.” Tania received this message from her Tolik, now a fighter of the 93rd Separate Mechanized Brigade “Kholodnyi Yar,” on the morning of February 2, 2023. She was nervous. Her husband was in places where no good news was expected—heavy fighting continued near Bakhmut. A few months earlier, he had joined the army, the assault troops.

“If not me, then who?” he insisted, trying for a long time to persuade Tania to let him go to the front. Eventually gave in—indeed, if not him, then who?

On that day, February 2, she was more afraid than on the first day of the fullscale war. In their native Kharkiv, their apartment shook with explosions, but they stayed together. They moved to the city outskirts—to the office where Tolik worked. It was safer in a semi-basement than at home on the ninth floor. They didn’t plan to leave the city. Tolik continued working—he drove around Kharkiv and helped people restore the internet, which was down in many places due to damaged wires. Tania kept emailing pictures of happy children. For many years, she’d made a living photographing little ones in kindergartens and schools. She sent the last pictures before the war for free, as a reminder of those recent days when neither children nor their parents knew what a missile strike was.

Now a year later, Tania was alone. She restlessly roamed the flat, grabbing her phone—what if he wrote something? She opened Tolik’s social media—what if there was any news there? The silence was terrifying. But the phone call at 10 p.m. frightened her even more.

Tolik’s commander called. Severe injury, after surgery in Kramatorsk he was taken to the hospital in Dnipro. All these words were not about just anyone. They were about her Tolik.

“I AM FOLLOWING YOU”

She couldn’t sleep all night. At 6 a.m., she took the first bus to Dnipro; she had already found out that Tolik was in Mechnikov Hospital. There, she found out more details—her husband had traumatic brain injury. For three days, she saw him strictly for 10 minutes per day. She was not allowed to enter the ICU for long, but held his hand and talked. No one believed that Tolik would respond, but he did.

On the fourth day, he was transferred to another city. Tania was only told he would either be taken to Kyiv or Vinnytsia. That morning, she walked down the hospital corridor and passed a gurney being carried by medics. Her heart skipped a beat, but she continued walking toward the ICU.

“Yours was just taken for evacuation,” she was told. She rushed back. She flew down the corridors and stairs. She asked everyone in a lab coat where the evacuees were. Was she too late? She ran outside. Just in front of her, the ambulance door was being closed. She jumped inside. He was there. She took his hand.

“I am following you. Don’t get nervous. I will be at your side.”

She was on time.

“UNSTABLE SEVERE”

The evacuation train took Anatolii to Vinnytsia. Tania followed in a passenger train. On her way, she found out where her husband was being taken and looked for a place to stay. The family of Tolik’s friend took her in. She was not allowed to see her husband that day. After the trip, he got worse: his condition shifted from stable severe to unstable severe. Tania lost the only thing she had been holding on to for the last few days: the word “stable.” She tried not to think about Tolik’s chances. She was warned he could die or stay motionless for his whole life; the word “vegetable” slipped out.

The only thing that hadn’t changed in those few days was his coma. Tolik, as the doctors said, didn’t react to anyone. But Tania kept coming and took his big hand. “If you can hear me, give me a sign, squeeze my hand,” she whispered, and felt a light squeeze in response.

She was allowed to bring Tolik puree soups and compotes. She ran around the bazaars, selecting the best fruit and vegetables, bought fish, searched for the recipes. She cooked in someone else’s kitchen, blended the food, and brought it to Tolik. He was fed through a probe.

Days passed in the ward with six other seriously comatose patients like him. The second week came and went, and so did the third. The doctors stood their ground— Anatolii had zero reaction. But Tania stood above him repeating like a parrot, “Tolia, show me your index finger. Tolia, show me your thumb. Tolia, show me where your belly button is,” she went on, and Tolik did give a sign—he could understand and hear.

It was not her imagination.

SHE IS TANIA, AND SHE IS HIS WIFE

After three weeks, Tolik was transferred to Lviv. This time, he was evacuated by plane. Tania, once again, made the journey by train. And once more, she spent the trip searching for the hospital her husband was being taken to and asked for a place to stay in a foreign city. Anatolii, along with three other patients from the Vinnytsia ward, was taken to St. Panteleimon Hospital. Tania rented an apartment on a daily basis. That evening, she was already sitting in Tolik’s ward. And then she saw him a watermelon.” She showed and named colors. She read short stories and reminded him of the alphabet. She brought over coloring books for children, put a felt-tip pen in his hand and taught him to hold it. When he wanted to paint a frog yellow, she patiently and relentlessly repeated, “Tolik, a frog is green, it is green!” She took a green felt-tip pen and showed him what green was. Once, she went home for a few days. Tolik’s mother and Tania’s brother stayed to take care of Tolik. Soon, she got a call from the hospital: come back, without you, he doesn’t want anything and doesn’t do anything. Tania came back and never left Anatolii’s side again.

In May, Tolik underwent a surgery. A plate was inserted where his skull had out a bandage on his head for the first time—Lviv neurosurgeons had removed the bandages to examine him. She felt sick. She finally realized how severe her husband’s traumatic brain injury was—he literally lacked a quarter of his skull. There was a hole above his left eye. The complicated words in Tolik’s medical records became all too real: severe traumatic brain injury, hemorrhagic contusion of both frontal lobes, formation of a subdural hematoma, and comminuted fracture of the skull vault in the left parietal temporal region.

“What should we do? What comes next?” She tortured herself and the doctors with questions that had no answers.

She found the recipe for herself—not to lose heart, not to cry, not to give up. She hasn’t shed a tear since the day of Tolik’s injury.

The next day, she called her mother-in-law. Up until then, she had forbidden her from coming, saying it was not the right time. But now she realized she wouldn’t make it on her own. She could carry, lift, and turn Tolik on her own—but only for weeks, not months. Already petite, Tania had lost a lot of weight and recently hurt her back. In spite of Tolik weighing only 70 kilos instead of 105, it was still difficult.

She found an apartment for a long-term rent across the street from the hospital. Every morning, she went to Tolik, just like going to work. She filled a large syringe with soups, broths, dairy meals and injected it into the tube inserted through his nasopharynx. She removed a bag of urine from his catheter. She washed it. She was a nurse, a rehabilitation therapist, and in effect, a mother to a man who had once been strong, but now, due to his brain injury, had turned into a child who needed to be taught everything from scratch. The only thing he hadn’t forgotten was that she was Tania, and she was his wife. Tania watched every move the rehabilitation therapists made, she watched their hands. She read scientific articles on brain injuries.

She exercised with Tolik. The rented apartment eventually became just a place to cook and wash, as she practically moved into the ward. She slept with her husband head to toe in his hospital bed. And exercised, exercised, exercised. She massaged his large hands and legs. She checked there were no bedsores. She worked out his fingers. She pointed at baby images and repeated tirelessly—“an apple,” “a watermelon.” She showed and named colors. She read short stories and reminded him of the alphabet. She brought over coloring books for children, put a felt-tip pen in his hand and taught him to hold it. When he wanted to paint a frog yellow, she patiently and relentlessly repeated, “Tolik, a frog is green, it is green!” She took a green felt-tip pen and showed him what green was.

Once, she went home for a few days. Tolik’s mother and Tania’s brother stayed to take care of Tolik. Soon, she got a call from the hospital: come back, without you, he doesn’t want anything and doesn’t do anything. Tania came back and never left Anatolii’s side again.

SHE RAISED HIS HANDS

In May, Tolik underwent a surgery. A plate was inserted where his skull had been crushed. From that day, everything began to improve. Just over a month later, Tania decided it was time to stop feeding her husband through a tube. The doctors disagreed, saying it was too early for him to eat with a spoon. But after four and a half months, she felt it was time. If he wanted to eat, he would do it. At first, she fed him. And then one day, he took a spoon and ate a bowl of soup all by himself.

When Anatolii was lying depressed, staring at the ceiling, and didn’t want to do anything, Tania made him get out of bed 15 times and get into the wheelchair so that he could learn to get around on his own. She quarreled with her mother-in-law when the woman did things for her son, like dressing him.

“Raise your hand 10 times and count to yourself,” Tania ordered. And, not wanting to see her give up, he obeyed. She still almost gave in. There were evenings when she wanted to run away. But in the morning, with new energy, she told herself and Tolik, “Go ahead!” She was certain—if she stopped, cried or felt pity for herself, Anatolii would remain bedridden forever.

“Go ahead!” worked. Soon, Tolik could keep his back straight. He could sit up. Then, they put him on his feet for the first time, and he managed to stand for three seconds on his own.

But he still couldn’t speak. No matter what the speech therapist did, not a single word came out. Once, he started to count, “One, two, three,” and Tolik suddenly repeated after him. And then he went silent again. Tania “took” his tongue in her hands. She pinched him, hit his ribs, hurt him. She deliberately provoked his aggression. Tolik started to swear and force out words. A few weeks later, the head of the department came in, as she did every morning, and greeted everyone. The whole ward was stunned when they heard Tolik respond with “Good morning.”

UNBROKEN—HOLDING HER HAND
From St. Panteleimon Hospital they were transferred to the UNBROKEN Rehabilitation Centre. There, Tolik learnt to walk. First, on specialized simulators. Then—with a walker. Finally—holding Tania’s hand. One day, she let go of his hand, and he continued on his own.

Tania noticed that changes worked well for her husband. A new gym and new rehabilitation therapists speeded up his recovery. Especially therapist Nazar, who never went easy on Tolik. When Tolik learned to walk, Nazar made up an exercise for him—to lie down on the floor and stand up without any help. Anatolii tried for a long time, writhing on the ground like a snake. What was simple for a healthy person was a challenging task for Tolik. Finally, he succeeded. He got up and then told Tania, “Take me away from this tormentor.”

Then, Tania started taking her husband to her rented apartment for a weekend. They sat at the table, had dinner, and tried to live a usual family life for a few hours. A few weeks passed, and Tolik was allowed to go home “for a night” for the first time. They expanded their walking routes. He started doing more and more things simply because he wanted to, and not because she made him do it.

HOME. TO KHARKIV

On February 2, a year after the injury, Tania published a video on her social media. She edited together a few clips from their life before the war, a picture of her husband in a military uniform, and then the very first photo she took in the ICU in Dnipro, when she saw Tolia after his injury. Then came a few short videos and pictures from his rehabilitation process, and finally—a picture of two of them walking hand in hand down the street. A short video capturing the longest year in their life.

Tolik was discharged from the hospital on February 25, 2024. Although Kharkiv was struck every week, Tania decided not to seek a safer place but to return home. They traveled by train. He watched the landscape change outside the window, walked down the corridor and felt happy— like a child experiencing their first train ride.

They huddled in the bathroom during the first missile strike, but still felt safe. After a year of hospital wards, unfamiliar apartments and strangers, his hometown, his family and the familiar walls of their home became the best medicine for them both. It was only at home that Tania realized how exhausted she was.

But she didn’t shed a tear. Didn’t feel sorry for herself. Too early.

Tolik was altering before her eyes. He gladly met with their friends and acquaintances. But the hospital was waiting for them again—this time to prove to the military medical commission that Anatolii could no longer defend his homeland. They needed three months to gather the documents, receive a disability certificate and discharge soldier Anatolii Shalaiev from the army.

WHEN YOU GO TO THE MOUNTAINS WITH ME

Every morning, they wake up in their apartment on the ninth floor. Tania tells Tolik to go wash himself and clean his teeth. For several weeks after arriving from Lviv, she took him to the bathroom by hand, stood by his side, and told him what to do and how to do it. He could wash his teeth, then open the toothpaste tube again and wash them repeatedly. If she didn’t stop him, he would do it over a dozen times. Today, Tania—a programmer of Tolik’s brain—“installs” the same software for his routines—from using the toilet to turning off the light, so he could finally do it himself.

They cook together. Tolik peels vegetables, cuts them into cubes. He washes the dishes. When the power goes out in their building, he walks up and down the nine flights of stairs. They fetch water, and Tolik carries two 7-liter bottles, while Tania keeps an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t get too tired—he still has coordination issues, and sometimes can sway, but isn’t able to recognize when he is getting tired. At the supermarket, Anatolii puts the groceries in the basket. He goes fishing outside the city. Tania reads him short stories and makes him repeat them. She learns poetry with him.

His brain can still play tricks with him. Once, Tolik left their apartment first and locked her inside. Tania knocked and asked him to open the door. When he did, he couldn’t understand what had happened. Sometimes he behaves like an adult man, and sometimes like a three-year-old. Too little time has passed yet for the complete recovery. The injury also caused epileptic seizures, which need to be treated with medication. Tania can’t leave Tolik alone for a moment.

Sometimes strangers on the street would never guess this sturdy man was lying in a hospital bed last year with a hole in his head, unable to do virtually anything. Sometimes, in the Kharkiv metro, grandmas scold Tolik to give up his seat for them, and Tania isn’t sure how to react. The fact he has a firstgrade disability is not written all over his face.

They both dream of a child. Only now does Tania understand why they haven’t managed to conceive—life prepared her to take care of a 192-centimeter-tall child. If they had children, she would not have been able to devote herself entirely to Tolik and his recovery

Since Tolik’s injury, Tania has never cried. She hasn’t turned for psychological assistance.

“I want to go to the mountains and scream so loud the whole world could hear me,” she says. That’s how she plans to release all her accumulated fatigue. But it will only happen when Tolik can go there with her.

IS IT LOVE, TANIA?

We spent several hours with Tania and Anatolii. She did most of the talking, while he sometimes inserted short phrases, smiled and looked at his wife with gentle eyes. When he went to the bathroom and stayed there for a long time, Tania went to check if he was alright.

“Is it love, Tania?” I asked at the end of our conversation.

“I guess,” said Tania. And laughed loudly and triumphantly.

Tolik’s eyes brimmed with tears. So did mine. I had spent a few hours in the presence of real great love—the kind that is not expressed in words but in actions. And in sacrifice.

In the Gospel of Mark, there is a story of Jesus healing a man who was “sick of the palsy”—a man who was paralyzed for many years. Christ tells the man to stand up, take his bed and go home. “And immediately he arose, took up the bed, and went forth before them all; insomuch that they were all amazed, and glorified God, saying, ‘We have never seen anything like this!’”

I saw it. A woman once told a “sick of palsy” man, “Arise and go,” and he arose and went. It didn’t happen in a second—the miracle took months of strength, tireless determination and hard work to come true.

Jesus in this story from the modern Ukrainian Gospel was an average delicate earthly woman from Kharkiv.

Her name was Tania.

Sasha Maslov Photographer

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