The Burn Journals

by Brent Runyon

  There are two kinds of people in this world. People that have to lie on their stomachs for ten days straight and people that don't. And the lucky bastards that don't have to lie on their stomachs for ten motherfucking days are the ones that get to skate through life like they have their own personal Zamboni smoothing the way for them.

  People here like to talk to me about Pain Management. They ask me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten. One being the least painful and ten being the most. I don't think they have a number for some of the pain I'm going through. I don't think they even have a number.

  Then they like to tell me if I relax and breathe deeply, then I won't be in as much pain. That's complete bullshit. I'd like to see them breathe deeply and take this pain without drugs. I'm sick of pain.

  Anxious, there's a word I hear a lot. They say I get anxious before burn care and anxious before I have my appointments with Dr. Rubinstein. But I don't think they understand the meaning of the word anxious. People get anxious in awkward group situations or before they go to birthday parties. Before burn therapy, I don't get anxious, I get freaked out. Before my meetings with Dr. Rubinstein, I don't get anxious, I get angry because she's going to ask me stupid questions and I don't want to answer any stupid questions.

  Dr. Bitchenstein is here to ask me about everything that's ever happened and everything that ever will happen and to try to make me feel worse even though it's not really fucking possible to make me feel worse at this point, unless you were to do something terrible like put me facedown on a bed for ten days and ask me a bunch of questions about things that happened months ago that I don't even remember.

  “Brent?” she says in her annoying accented Dr. Ruth voice. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” I say without unclenching my teeth.

  “How are you feeling?” How am I feeling. How am I feeling? I'm feeling pretty bad, you bitch.

  “Bad,” I say.

  “I understand,” she says, but it's painfully fucking obvious that she understands about as much as I understand Austrian, which is none at all.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Uh-uh.” This time I don't even open my mouth.

  “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You're not feeling very verbal today. That's all right, I'll leave you alone, but you're going to have to talk to me at some point, Brent.”

  That's where you're wrong. I don't have to say another word to you if I don't want to. I don't even have to open my mouth.

  Dad's here giving me ice chips and not saying much. Every once in a while he tells me about someone I know, or someone he knows, that's doing something great.

  He says, “Craiger seems like he's leaning toward George Mason. That'd be good, huh, bud? Real close to home.”

  “Is he going to live at home?”

  “No, he's going to live in the dorms.”

  “Is he still going out with Valerie?”

  “Yup. They're going to the prom in a week.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “She's pretty nice.”

  “Are they going to get married?”

  He laughs, but I wasn't really joking. I guess that's a no. He says, “I brought your mail. Do you want to see it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Here's something from Sue, Roger, and Kellie. They say, ‘Get well soon,' and they all signed it. And there's a picture of Kellie here. Do you want to see?”

  “Sure.” He holds it up. It's a school picture. She's in eighth grade like me, like I was, and she looks happy with a big smile showing both rows of teeth, short blond hair, a blue shirt, and hoop earrings. Her parents were friends with my parents before we were even born, so we kind of grew up together, but we never really got along. She was too stiff and I was too wild. But she doesn't look so bad in that picture. I wonder if I should figure out a way to make her fall in love with me. I mean, she has known me her whole life, so it shouldn't be that hard for her to love me now and maybe she won't care what I look like. Something to think about.

  Dad tapes Kellie's picture on the wall. Then he picks up a big manila envelope that's stuffed full. It's from Patty Perry and her fourth-grade class. He reads the note, “‘An ancient story from Japan says that a wish is granted for every one hundred origami cranes folded. So here are a hundred origami cranes folded by Mrs. Perry's fourth-grade class. We wish that you'll get better soon.' And then they all signed the note at the bottom.” Dad pulls out a string with a crane tied to it and another and another. He keeps pulling them out of the envelope until the string stretches all around the room. He hangs the string over some thumbtacks in the wall, over the quilt my friends at school made with the messages written in bubble paint, over the Aerosmith poster and the pictures of Nanny and Grandpa and my cousins, over the letters from my French class and the Chicago Bulls pennant, over the wall of get well soon letters from God knows who and the Christmas picture of the Humberts, over the Cindy Crawford poster and the signed Magic Johnson T-shirt. The string stops right above the IV that's pumping something into my veins. Dad looks around and says, “You're going to need a bigger room.”

  When I was in fourth grade, I used to show off and bang my head into different things, like walls and banisters and stuff, just to prove I could take it. It didn't matter to me, the pain always went away eventually. But sometimes, during burn care, the pain feels like it goes on forever—like it's the ocean and I'm crossing it in a rowboat.

  So the good part is I don't have to have another major surgery. That's good. The bad part is that I have to lie on my stomach for another four days. Even Becky and Dawn have stopped coming to visit with me, I guess because they can't do any range of motion exercises while I'm on my stomach.

  Sometimes Tina still comes in and talks to me about stuff and makes me laugh a little, but she seems busier now. Barbara comes in too, feeds me ice chips and talks to me for a little while, and then goes to see to another patient.

  Cheryl, a night nurse who only comes on the weekends, sits with me and brings the TV in close so I can watch my programs and the videos my parents bring me. She has more time because she's only here on the weekend. Once she asked me if I remembered what it was like to be paralyzed, and I asked her what she meant, and she said that when I was first in the hospital, they gave me drugs during burn care that paralyzed me. I told her I didn't have any memory of that. She said I should be grateful that I didn't remember such terrible things, but I don't want to forget anything. I don't care if they are terrible memories. They're mine.

  Mom's back from her trip to North Carolina with Craig, and she comes to see me the first chance she gets. She's really happy to see me and she gives me a kiss on my forehead and asks me if I need anything. I say, “Ice.” And she goes immediately and gets a cup of ice chips and brings it right back. She has a spoon too and starts giving me little bites while she tells me about her trip and how much she missed me and how she doesn't think Craig thought much of the school but how he started laughing at one point about something I said once when we were all driving together. We passed a big old brick mental hospital on the side of the road with a huge fence made of chicken and razor wire, and I said, “Why do they need a fence? Why can't they just have a sign that says This Is an Invisible Wall.”

  I'm glad Craig thought that was funny.

  I think I hear someone in my room. I can't turn around, so I ask, “Is somebody there?” but nobody says anything.

  I keep hearing things, though, like footsteps and the creaking door.

  “Who is it?” I ask again, and nobody says anything, again. But there is definitely somebody doing something back there. It's starting to freak me out.

  I say again, “Who is it?” I probably sound a little scared.

  And this time Calvin's voice says, “It's me, Brent.”

  “Calvin? What are you doing?”

  “I was tickling your foot.”

  “You were? I didn't feel anything.”

 
“Can you feel this?”

  “Feel what?”

  “This.”

  “Oh, I think I felt something that time.”

  “I was pinching you that time.”

  “You were? I thought I felt something.”

  “It's just a little nerve damage. Nothing to worry about. It'll probably come back.”

  The doctors are all here to look at the graft sites and the new skin. Tina has a pair of scissors and she's cutting through the Ace bandages that are wrapped around my chest and legs. I can feel the metal through the bandages working back and forth down my legs. I always worry that she'll cut me with them, but she never has.

  She unwraps the layer of gauze slowly, in case I have any sticking, but the grafts haven't leaked very much. I guess that's a good sign, and the gauze comes all the way off. The Xeroform is still a little wet because they just put it on a few hours ago. I can feel the moisture on the backs of my knees where the fire didn't get and the nerves are still working.

  The doctors are just talking to each other, not to me. I'm getting pretty cold lying here naked like this.

  Tina leans down and whispers, “It's looking really good, Brent, the doctors are very pleased.” I'm glad she's here. “Do you want to ask the doctors any questions?”

  I think for a second. I can hear them fiddling with their pens and clipboards. Doctors can be so impatient sometimes. “How much longer do I have to lie on my stomach?”

  One of them answers, “Oh, let's give it another day to heal, and I'll write in the orders that the patient can be turned for half the day tomorrow, and we'll see where we go from there.”

  I can hear them start to shuffle through the door, but I have another question. “And when can I walk again?”

  “Hmm. I'd like to give the sites a few more days without too much stress, so I'll postpone that decision until next week.”

  They all leave, but Tina stays behind and says, “That's so great. Only one more day on your stomach.” Thank God.

  Lisa, my favorite night nurse, is here to check on me. She says, “You should be asleep.”

  “I can't sleep.”

  “How come?”

  “Too nervous.”

  “About what?”

  “They're going to turn me over tomorrow.”

  “Why does that make you nervous?”

  “I don't know. Just seems like a big deal.”

  “It is.”

  “Yeah, but I'm getting kind of comfortable on my stomach. How come I can't just stay on my stomach?”

  “I thought you hated being on your stomach.”

  “I do.”

  “So what's the problem?”

  “I don't know. . . . I'm just nervous.”

  “I can check your chart and see if the docs wrote any scrips for sleeping meds. Do you want me to do that?”

  “Yeah. Could you?”

  “All right, I'll be back in a second.”

  The TV is on, but the sound is off, and the blue lights keep flashing, making weird shadows on the walls with the IVs.

  She's back. “Okay, there's no sleeping pills in your chart, but I can give you a Benadryl, that'll put you to sleep. How's that sound?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Can you sit up to take this pill?”

  “I'll try.” I arch my back a little, not too much, I don't want to pop my grafts, and take the pill with a swallow of water from a Dixie cup. “Thanks, Lisa.”

  “Good night, Brent. Sleep well.”

  When I wake up, it's already daylight. I can hear things going on outside my door, even though the door is closed. I wonder who the other people on the unit are. I know there's a little kid somewhere because I can hear him screaming. And there's Jimmy, he's the only other teenager around, but he's not in the intensive care section, he's out in the regular unit. Sometimes the nurses tell me about kids who have left the unit, like this one kid who tried to jump on a train while it was moving and got his leg caught in the wheels. They really liked him. He's supposed to come visit sometime, but I haven't seen him yet.

  Tina comes in, smiling. She says, “Today's the big day, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah. Who's going to help us?”

  “I'll go see who's around.” She comes back with Reggie and Janice and starts directing them. “Okay, we're going to turn him over. We'll move him toward the edge of the bed and then roll him slowly over onto his back.” They pull the sheet out from under the mattress and they each take a corner. Reggie takes both the corners near my feet and says, “You ready, big man?”

  I say, “Yeah.”

  Tina counts, “One, two, three.” And they lift me up in one quick motion and slide me across the bed to the edge where the bars come up and put me down carefully.

  “That was fun.”

  “Ready for the roll, Big Brent?”

  “Okay.”

  Reggie and Tina put their hands flat under my shoulder and hip bone and start lifting me onto my side. I try to help by shifting my weight, but I'm not sure if it does anything. I can feel Janice's hand on the edge of my hip keeping me up but careful not to touch any of the graft sites. All of a sudden, I'm worried about the IV in my arm, and I try to say something, but I can't. I'm going over. So slowly. This is how the Titanic must have felt. Maybe I should say that. How would I phrase it? I feel like the Titanic. No. I'm just like the Titanic. No. Anyway, I'm over.

  I forgot what it was like to be on my back. Looking up at the ceiling. Tina brings me a pillow and puts it under my head. When she tilts up my head, I can see part of my chest and it's still got the heart monitors stuck to it. Tina sees them too and says, “What are these still doing here?” and pulls them off quick. “There we go. That's better. It's nice to see your face smiling back at me.”

  Okay. Here I am, lying on my back again. Mom and Dad will be happy.

  I can eat real food again. Dad's filling out my menu for tonight, even though I still have that big nose tube in my face. I'm having some fresh fruit, probably a banana, a container of vanilla pudding, and a carton of two percent milk.

  Dad goes out of the room for a minute so Tina can take the catheter out of my penis. It feels sort of weird having a beautiful woman stare at my penis and pull a long plastic tube out of it.

  Becky pushes my left arm straight up, like she's trying to hail a taxicab for me, then lets it rest and tells me about her boyfriend, Jeff, who is studying to be an environmental lawyer, whatever that means. I missed Becky when I was on my stomach. She's so strong. She's got a little brother who's a few years older than me and she tells me lots of stories about how she tries to beat him up but that he's getting so big he can overpower her now. I find that hard to believe.

  I remember, before I was in the hospital, this movie came out in the theaters called Pump Up the Volume, with Christian Slater, about this kid who starts a pirate radio station in his basement, and all the other kids try and figure out who he is. That sounds so awesome. I'll tell my mom to get it from the video store.

  Dad's leaving for the afternoon to go to work and Mom is coming in until closing time. In the mornings, she's started tutoring kids that need help with schoolwork. She says she really likes it. She's pretty much quit her job teaching at the elementary school so she can come visit me as much as she wants.

  Dad works at George Washington University as an administrator. He takes care of the cafeteria and the bookstore and all of the things that kids buy when they're at college. He's got all these connections because he deals with Coke and Pepsi and all those people that have a lot of money. I wish we had a lot of money. Then Mom and Dad wouldn't seem so worried all the time.

  Mom goes down to the cafeteria to get some food and now I've got this sudden pressing feeling in my belly. Oh wait, I know what this is. I have to pee. I need a nurse. I press the red button.

  Okay, here's somebody. Who is this, I've never seen her before. She says, “Can I get you something?”

&
nbsp; I'm embarrassed, but I really have to go. I say, “Um. Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “I kind of have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay, number one or number two?”

  “Which is number one? Pee?”

  “Yes.” I can hear in her voice she's a little annoyed.

  “Number one, then.”

  “All right.”

  She gets a urinal from behind my bed somewhere and hands it to me. It looks like a milk bottle with a big hole in the top.

  I look at her and she says, “What?”

  “Uh, what do I do with it?”

  “You pee into it.”

  “I know, but I never did it by myself before.”

  “Okay, do you need a little help?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She pulls down the sheet and there's my penis sitting there between the bandages on my legs. They shaved down there when they took some skin for a graft, so it looks kind of weird.

  She puts the urinal between my legs and looks at me. “I'll hold the urinal, you hold your penis.”

  My right arm is still really stiff, but I can reach down to my penis. I point it where I think the urinal should be. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, that's fine. Go ahead.”

  I just realized, I don't think I can go like this, lying on my back with some strange woman standing over me. I wait. I try to think about waterfalls, and Moses, and the parting of the Red Sea. Nothing's happening.

  “Do you still have to go?” she says, sounding more annoyed than ever.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want me to turn on a faucet or something?”

  “What would that do?”

  “I don't know, help you somehow?”

  “Okay.”