Day 1 - the accident. Disturbing content.

I've been debating about whether or not to write about this for a while now - it's part of the reason that I waited 23 days to start this blog. I want to warn you that you might find the below content upsetting (I certainly do), and that you don't have to read it. I'm writing this for me as a cathartic exercise.

June 29th. A Wednesday. Dentist appointment at 1:30. There's a big pile of scrap wood in the yard that needs to go, and I want to get the fire going so that Brendan can keep an eye on it while I'm at the dentist. Unfortunately, everything is damp from the last couple of days of rain, so I get the gas can from the rock room. It has a nice long safety nozzle, but the opening sticks so I take it off. I pour some gas on the pile of wood, take the gas can far away, and toss a match on the wood. It goes up, but quickly burns itself out, leaving the wood just as it was. I decide to go back and get some drier wood from the scrap pile, and put it on. This isn't like a camp fire, and I have to get going soon, so rather than find kindling and get the fire going slowly, I go back and get the gas can. Walking over to the pile of wood, I splash a little bit on the toe of my left sneaker, but I don't worry about it because the fire is out and I'm not going to get too close. I step up to the wood and start to pour a bit of gas on - as I do, it occurs to me that there may be a flame underneath the big piece of plywood I put on that I can't see, and then everything goes up. The next part happened in only a few seconds. I look down and see that the gas on my shoe has caught and take a step back to get away from the fire. Suddenly I notice that my shorts are burning, and then my shirt. I throw myself on the ground and start rolling frantically while screaming for my mom. This happens so slowly for me. I have time to think that this is such a dreamlike situation - surely this isn't really happening. When am I going to wake up? As I roll, I realize that the fire on my shirt isn't going out, and that I have to take it off - as I yank it off over my head, my mom runs outside looking for me. I'm on the other side of a tree from her, so I have to yell 'I'm over here mom' as I climb to my feet. I beat out the last flame on my shorts with my hands. She is so upset and so scared for me but also so brave. She knows exactly what to do in the midst of this absolutely completely bizarre thing that has happened, and she runs me inside to get in a cold shower. I keep asking what's wrong with my lips - in the process of yanking my shirt off I gave myself a first degree burn on part of my neck, chin, lips, and nose. I stand there shaking from the adrenaline, mildly fascinated by the pockets of skin that fill with water - probably burst blisters, my mom says. She calls 911 and they send an ambulance.

Only a few minutes later they arrive, and I step out into the hall (naked) and the men that have come with the ambulance look at me in a mixture of calculation and shock. They bring a chair for me, but it hurts to sit. I'm also shaking too much to stand for long, so I alternate between sitting and standing. I can't bring myself to be embarrassed to be naked in front of all of these people - I think to myself that I have completely lost the right to privacy. This is something I will repeat to doctors and nurses who try to give me some privacy over the next few days, and they, being the wonderful people that they are, will tell me that I'm wrong. In this moment though, I am right. A man douses me in some horrible smelling stuff that I think for a long time is the smell of my skin burning. I'm so unbelievably relieved when I whisper this fear to my mom hours later and find out I'm wrong. Finally they wrap me in a special cloth and lay me down on a gurney. I'm amazed that it can be wheeled through the rabbit warren that is my house. How silly of me to choose the bathroom on the first floor farthest from the front door (but at the same time, how unsurprising. We choose what we know in times of high stress, and I went straight to my bathroom).

We get out the front door and stop on the path as the men (and woman) talk, debating something that I can't focus on. My body is wracked in shivers, and they've stopped me in the sun. This is my first (and hopefully last) experience with the intense pain of sunlight on burns. After about a minute they realize they've left me in the sun and quickly move me to the shade. Shortly after that, they make their decision and we go to the ambulance. It turns out there are two ambulances for some reason, I'm still not sure why. I beg for my mom to come in the ambulance with me, and they let her ride in the front. There are people in the back with me, a woman who I think was trying to keep me out of shock. She kept asking me what I thought of then as stupid questions. There's a clock hung on the back wall. I watch it, wondering how long it will take to get to Waterbury - that's the hospital they've decided to take me to. I remember the clock saying 1:20.

We get to Waterbury a lot faster than I ever have before (that's what happens when you're in an ambulance Nooreen, duh), and they pull me out on my gurney through the doors and into the ER. The brief patch of sunlight between the ambulance and the entrance is awful. There are so many people in the ER, and they're all looking at me. I just try to keep from shaking myself off the gurney (something that couldn't happen anyway, as I'm strapped in). We turn into a room, and I'm lifted off the gurney. A whole ton of things happen here, very quickly and often simultaneously. I get an IV and a catheter, my temperature is taken, I have heart monitor things attached, my shivering is so severe that they bring me several heated blankets. They ask me how much it hurts on a scale of one to ten and I tell them eleven. This is the most pain I have ever been in in my entire life. It hurts so much my tear ducts won't work and all I can do is watch them work. My dad walks in with my mom and they're both so great and calm and reassuring. I'm finally deemed stable, and the ER doctors introduce me to the EMT who will be riding with me to Bridgeport Hospital, whose burn unit is my destination. I ask John (the EMT) how long it is to Bridgeport, and when he tells me about 45 minutes, I ask if he's a good storyteller. Anything to keep my mind off of my burns. He laughs at me and says no, so for the ride I ask him questions and he answers. ("How did you get into this?" "By accident." "Oh? Me too." bah dum chh!)

We get to Bridgeport much faster than expected, and I bid farewell to John and Dave (the driver). Dr. Ali and Dr. Suarez are there to welcome me to the burn unit. They take pictures of my wounds, and I get morphine and silver nitrate dressings (I think). My time in the hospital is amorphous and confused. There are large chunks that I don't remember, and large chunks that I do. I don't know when my surgeries were. I only remember being prepped for the first one. I received gifts that I had to receive again when I got home because I didn't remember getting them the first time. But anyway, that's for the next post.

This has been very cathartic. It was hard and kind of awful reliving the experience enough to write it down, but I feel a lot better now that I have. Mom says I'm in the grieving stage of my healing, which I think is probably true. Right now (day 26) I'm working hard on forgiving myself for what happened. I think this has brought me closer to that goal.

Day 23, Part 1

Time heals all things. At least, that's what they say - and while I do believe them, sometimes, time moves a little bit too slowly. Writing about things helps me heal. This is something I know very well about myself - and so, a blog. This way, I don't have to keep posting snippets on facebook, and you, dear friends, can be thoroughly updated on my progress.

So, here are some things you need to know:

I'm okay. I am healing incredibly fast. I am okay.

This is a long-term healing process. Though I hope to be recovered enough by January to head off to State College, I will not be fully healed (as determined by my awesome doctors) for an entire year.

There will be zero tolerance for pity. This is perhaps something that is more appropriate for in-person visits, but I can see it being relevant here too. I'm probably going to put a sign on my front door that says something like 'NO PITY ZONE' or maybe something else that makes more sense faster. I'm okay. I am healing incredibly fast. I don't need pity.

What I do need is the occasional 'Hey Nooreen! How's it going? Let me tell you xyz about what I've been doing!' to remind me that there are other people out there besides my family, my physical therapist, my nurse, and my doctors. I promise that as I settle into more of a routine I will correspond (for lack of a better word) better.

... I think that's it.

So! There's a lot of catching up to do, but I think I'll try to separate stuff out into individual posts so that you don't have to read what you aren't interested in. Thank you for joining me on this journey, and thank you for the oceans of love and support you've been sending me - I know this first post is a little bit snarky, and I'm sorry for that - you have been so wonderful, and, as per a previous facebook post, I love you all so much for it. Thank you.