Originally posted September 19, 2015

So… yet again I returned home from the Burn Center at UAB bandaged from hip to toe on both sides. This was the beginning of a rehab process that would last for months. Months of swelling and sponge baths, months of sleeping sitting up (I’m a side-sleeper so definitely not do-able), months of wearing black mens’ socks in place of shoes, hobbling around on a walker, and going to Birmingham for rehabilitation therapy.

The next big step was the first bandage change. A home health nurse was assigned to us for the first one. Her job was to assist with changing the bandages and teach both my dad and me the proper way to do it to avoid infection. I don’t think either of us knew what we were in for when we started the process that day. I’d been warned that it would be tough. I wasn’t prepared for it to last so long. The entire process took over 12 hours from start to finish. Peeling off those bandages was brutal. The thin, mesh dressing stuck to the fresh wounds and had to be gently pulled free. The concept is similar to peeling an adhesive bandage off good skin except that age-old principle of “rip it off” can’t apply here because you’re peeling it off the wound and it’s imperative that you don’t damage the skin as you do it.

We would get the bandage off of a small section and then I’d have to recover for a few minutes. I popped pain pills and Xanax, took deep breaths, watched, didn’t watch… no combination of actions helped much at all. It just had to be endured. We ran out of materials at one point because the nurse wasn’t aware that my burns were so extensive. A 24-hour Walgreen’s saved the day and we were back in business. After that first time, bandages had to be changed every three days and my dad had to do it until I had recovered enough to do it myself (a glorious day).

My mom stayed with me until she had used up every bit of time off she had saved up and was forced to go back home and back to work. I hated to see her go but it worked out well because my dad was exactly the right person to stay with me during the rehab. He’d been my softball coach during my formative years and approached the whole situation with tough love. He pushed me just enough. I became thankful for that terrible job I mentioned at the beginning of this story because I could set my own schedule and have someone else drive me around — and that’s what we did. Daddy drove, day after day, helping me in and out of the car so that I could earn my paycheck in spite of this whole ordeal and doing my job for me when I gave out at the end of the day. He always pushed exactly hard enough to keep me moving.

Those were my instructions, by the way: do as much as you can tolerate as often as you can tolerate it. I was told during one of my return trips to UAB that I was the “fastest healing burn patient” one particular nurse had ever seen. Maybe she says that to all her patients as motivation but I tend to believe it was true. Once we were confident that the grafts had taken (weren’t in danger of detaching), we stayed focused on avoiding infection and added the new goal of increasing mobility. I had lots of scar tissue around my toes, right heel and right ankle. My right foot, ankle, and heel were especially rigid and inflexible.

I slept in a boot designed to avoid (or minimize) a condition referred to as “ballerina toe.” If my rehab had not gone well, I might never have walked normally again. When scar tissue builds up around the ankle and heel area and/or when skin grafts are placed there, the skin pulls itself taut as it heals. The goal is to break the scar tissue loose and increase flexibility of the new skin so that the foot can once again rest flat on the ground. I walked with a stiff right ankle for a long, long time and then one day the scar tissue broke loose and I could bend at the ankle. Tears poured out of my eyes because it was the last big hurdle and I knew the rehab process was finally coming to an end.

Once I was released to drive again, I convinced my dad that he could go home and leave me alone again. I’m an independent person, sometimes to a fault. I will always, always be grateful for all both my parents did for me but I knew the next step for me was to regain that independence and find my new normal, whatever that might be.

Originally posted June 9, 2015

A few weeks ago, I posted an unedited account of my burn accident (The Before). It’s been two years since it happened and I’ve intended to write the story but every version I started never to seem to get finished because it never felt quite right. Maybe it was too much pressure… this was the single most horrific, life-changing thing I’ve ever experienced so maybe it was never going to be “right.” My mom has a saying, and uses it often: Done is better than perfect. Typically when I write (or do anything, really), perfect is what I’m going for but this story just needs to be done. It’s the exception because I need to do it, not to create some world-changing piece of work with intrinsic aesthetic value (a favorite expression of a Creative Writing instructor in college), but just to do it. And so I give you, part two of (maybe) three: The During.

***

I watched the fire truck pull up in front of my house and a female firefighter jumped off the back before it came to a complete stop. She took long, fast strides toward me. She was talking but I can’t remember what she said. She took the front steps two at a time and disappeared inside the house. She came back outside and told me it looked like the fire was out but they were going to walk through and check the entire house, including the attic, just to make sure. I thanked her and tried not to move. Moving was bad. Moving hurt. A few other firefighters filed off the truck and went into the house, another stopped to check on me. He asked if he could see under the towel. I nodded and he gently lifted it up and off, exposing my legs and feet to the night air and to my own eyes. It was the first time I really looked at the damage I’d done. My skin looked… melted. I can think of no better word to describe it. I realized I was twitching (fidgeting? squirming?) as he was talking. I have no memory of what he was saying. I was hurting. A lot. I don’t hesitate to write about how much it hurt because that pain is now the yardstick by which all other pain is measured. I smashed my thumb in the car door last fall and it hurt but compared to this? Cake walk.

I probably interrupted him to ask if anything could be done about the pain. He told me we’d have to wait for the ambulance because they didn’t have anything for burns on the fire truck. This struck me as completely ridiculous and absolutely hilarious. They don’t have anything for burns on the fire truck. Are you kidding me? I let that soak in and noticed my neighbors were all outside, mouths agape, taking in the spectacle. The next-door neighbor, the one I’d tried to wake, walked over to me just as the ambulance pulled up. They started the process of loading me onto a gurney and I called him over to ask if he would hang around until the firefighters cleared the house, and then lock up. They rolled me backwards into the ambulance and I watched the doors close. My first ambulance ride had begun.

When we got the ER, there were people everywhere. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, administrators… everywhere. It was overwhelming. Someone told me I had to take off my jewelry and it made me cry a little. I was wearing a bracelet with special sentimental value that I NEVER took off, but I had to anyway. I zipped it into the inside pocket of my purse, which someone promptly took away from me and put on the bedside table. I hated that. Questions were being fired at me left and right, including “Is there anyone we should call?” Damn. It was midnight by now. I couldn’t stand the thought of waking my parents until I knew how badly I was hurt. I was still oblivious to the fact that my burns were incredibly extensive. I called for a fire truck, not an ambulance. They’re making a fuss over nothing. So I told her not to call anyone. I also went into a spill about having an anxiety disorder and how important it was for them to be direct with me about what was happening.

Meanwhile, a team of nurses started debriding my legs and feet. For those who are unfamiliar, this means they were scraping off my skin. I tried not to watch but I couldn’t help myself. I’d watch for a minute and then look around for something to distract me. And for the record, the debriding was not lessening the pain. I reflexively pulled away a time or two and that’s when one of the nurses finally asked me a question I would hear many, many more times over the next few weeks: On a scale of 1-10, how would you rate your pain? Those who know me well know that my brain is always on. This is a blessing and a curse. Looking back, and based on his reaction, I should have just shouted “TEN” and been done with it but I didn’t. I had to think about it. Countless painful scenarios ran through my mind and I debated which of those might be more painful than what I was feeling (I know… I might be nuts). Based on all that, I decided my pain was a seven and told him so. He looked taken aback. “Seven?” he questioned. “Really? Are you sure?” “Well,” I explained, “there are people who get their arms cut off and people who have gunshot wounds. I figure those hurt worse than this so those are the tens… so mine can’t be a ten.” He smiled. “Fair enough,” he said. “But that scale is how they decide how much pain medicine they give you, so the next time someone asks, you tell them it’s a ten.” And he disappeared.

I guess he came back and gave me a shot of something because things are little foggy after that. The debriding was finished and they began the process of covering the wounds with silver paste. There were two nurses on each side of me, painting the stuff on with what looked like popsicle sticks. A doctor come in to talk with me while they were working. He shook my hand, introduced himself and told me they were sending me to the Burn Unit at UAB Hospital in Birmingham. “You said you wanted direct,” he said. “We’re just not equipped to deal with burns this extensive here but you’re an hour from one of the best Burn Units in the country so we’re going to let them take care of you.”

I don’t remember responding to him but I remember watching him walk out of the room. I remember watching the nurses wrap my legs and feet in endless white bandages. I remember grabbing my purse off the side table, putting my bracelet back on, and lying there in the ER waiting to take my second ambulance ride.