by Brent Runyon
“No, it's definitely swollen. Maybe I should have one of the doctors come in and look at it.”
“Okay. If you want.”
She looks like she's thinking for a second and then like she realizes something and says, “Oh no, okay, I don't think that's necessary. Are you done?”
“Yeah.”
“Shake it off.”
I do. She pours the urine in the toilet, flushes, and leaves.
Mom and Dad have been visiting different rehab hospitals for when I leave here. There's a hospital in Delaware that they think I would like. It's called duPont and it sounds pretty cool. They've got a bowling alley and a huge exercise room. The only problem is that it's three hours away from all my friends here at Children's.
Sometimes they force-feed me that Metamucil stuff, which is so disgusting I can hardly believe it. It's like drinking the silt from the bottom of a stream. And then what's worse is that they bring out the bedpan and make me arch my back and put it under my butt so that only my shoulders and my feet are touching the bed. The stupid bedpan is so hard and cold, I always ask if they can get a padded one, but nobody listens to me about stuff like that. It's so gross and then somebody else has to come and wipe my butt. I hate being in my body.
The worst thing about being burned isn't how much it hurts, it's how much it itches. I didn't think anything could be worse than the pain, but now I've got this itching feeling all over my chest, down my arms, and in my hands. It feels just like the time I was playing in the bamboo outside my neighbor's house and a bunch of big carpenter ants started crawling up my legs and all of a sudden I felt like my body was covered with them, even though I knew there were only a few on my legs, and I had to go home and take a shower and try to get the feeling off of me.
I keep thinking about it. I was in the bathroom and I had the gas can and the matches and I sat on the toilet. That's when I should've realized how stupid I was being. That's when I should've stopped it.
But I stood in the bathroom and put the bathrobe on, and it was wet and heavy, and I could have taken it off and gone back outside to play basketball with Craig and said, You won't believe what I almost did. And he would've known what to do. He would've gotten me help and made sure Mom and Dad weren't mad at me. I should've done that.
I could have just lit a little part of me on fire, like my arm or something, just to see how much it hurt, and if it hurt too much, I could've stopped. And it definitely would have hurt, so I definitely would have stopped and then I could have still come in here and met all these people and then gone back to school in only like a week.
But I didn't stop. I lit the match and I put it against my wrist. And maybe if I'd just realized when the fire was going up my wrist to my arm but before it caught the whole bathrobe on fire, maybe then I could have turned on the shower and stopped the whole thing. I should have done that.
I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish. I wish I'd stopped. But I didn't.
They're moving me out of Intensive Care and into the main part of the unit tomorrow. There's an extra room out there and I'm not “intensive” enough for them anymore. But I like it here. It's quiet, except for the little kid who screams during burn care. Sometimes I walk by his room and try to see what he looks like. Most of the time, the curtains are drawn so I can't see, but sometimes they're open a little and I see his baby arms all wrapped up in gauze. He got too close to the barbecue and touched the pretty red coals.
One time, when I was little, I was sitting up front in the old Datsun we used to have and Mom went into a store to buy something and left me in the car by myself. I pushed in the cigarette lighter because it looked like something you should push in, and then after a while it popped back out. And I took it out and held it in my hand. The inside was a pretty color of orange and it was shaped in a spiral like my fingerprint, and I wanted to touch my fingerprint to it because they were such a perfect match. And I did. I pushed my thumb right into the orange cigarette lighter and it was either hot or cold, I couldn't tell which at first, and then it was hot, really, really hot, and I screamed and dropped the cigarette lighter and opened the door with my other hand. It was winter and there was a pile of snow right outside the car and I stuck my thumb into the snow. I remember there was a sizzling sound, and some smoke, or maybe I'm just imagining that. But I do remember how much it hurt. When it was in the snow, it felt okay, not too hot, but every time I pulled it out to look at it, my thumb would get hotter and hotter and start to throb.
When Mom came back to the car, I didn't want to tell her what I did, so I just sat in the front seat the whole way home, letting the pain build up inside me. I kept my face blank and I made it all the way home without her finding out what I did.
Mom's here and she wants to take me outside to see my dog, Rusty. She's been planning this for a while, so she's got everything all set up. She gave Rusty a special kind of doggie sleeping pill that's going to keep her from jumping all over me. That was probably a good idea.
Rachel helps me get a loose-fitting pair of pants on over my Ace bandages and puts a nice blue button-down shirt on me. My fingers can't quite do the buttons, so Rachel does them for me. She goes out to the nurses' station and gets some sunscreen and smears it all over my face. She gives me the lecture about how important it is to keep burn scars out of the sun, puts my purple L.A. Lakers hat on my head, and helps me into the wheelchair.
“You look great.”
“Thanks, Rachel.” God, so many of the nurses here could be models. Especially Rachel and Barb. And Tina, of course.
Mom takes the handles and pushes me down the hall, through a system of hallways, and then to the elevators. There's a different smell out here, like a combination of chicken and Clorox.
Mom wheels me out of the elevator into a huge atrium that goes up about forty or fifty feet. “There's the gift shop right there, and the chapel, and the information desk, where you have to sign in when you come to visit.” I can tell Mom is nervous because her voice is shaking just a little bit.
The last time I saw Rusty she was standing on the stairs with Craig. I wonder if she remembers what I looked like when I came out of that bathroom. She probably doesn't. She probably doesn't remember any of that because dogs don't really have memories, I don't think. I never saw a dog look so scared.
We go out some sliding doors and all of a sudden we're outside. It's incredibly sunny out here and humid and there's a bunch of doctors and nurses taking cigarette breaks. Mom wheels me down to the end of the sidewalk and stops. She puts the brake on.
“I'll go get Rusty, okay, honey?”
“Yeah, okay.”
The thing about being outside that you forget is what it smells like. I sort of remember the feeling and the humidity, but the smells, like flowers and car exhaust, I'd forgotten all of that.
Here comes Rusty, she looks tired and confused. Mom brings her up to me and makes her sit right next to the wheelchair, and I reach my hand down to her head. Oh God, her fur is so soft, her ears, especially, are so soft. It still feels like puppy fur.
She's so sleepy, she can barely sit up, but Mom's holding her on a short leash with one hand and holding her up with the other.
I wish I could lie down in the grass with her and let her kiss my face and jump all over me.
I keep my hand on her head for a long time until she seems like she's almost asleep. After a while, Mom says, “Honey, I should probably take her home.”
I say, “Yeah.” She takes Rusty back to the car and then wheels me back into the hospital.
So I'm moving. Moving out of the Intensive Care Unit. I know this sounds weird, but it makes me kind of sad. I don't know, I guess I just like the people in here and I like my room and I'm used to everything.
Janice, Rachel, and my mom are moving everything out. All the cards and posters and gifts and everything. All the signed stuff from Magic, the workout suit, the T-shirts, and the hats. And the giant poster of Michael Jordan, that's very co
ol. All the stuff from people I don't know, like the Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts from all over the world. The Louisville Slugger baseball bat with my name burned into it. The guitar Nanny and Grandpa sent. And the quilt that my friends from school sent. And the Get Well Soon balloon. That was the first thing I got.
My new room is pretty nice, with a TV and everything, of course. There's a lot more noise. Lots more people walking by, peeking in the windows. It doesn't bother me that people look in, that's what I do when I walk by other people's rooms too, but Mom pulls the curtain anyway and starts decorating.
Mom moves my bed against the side wall instead of against the back wall, where it used to be. This is so I can see the TV and also so I can look outside my room and see who's going by.
Mom puts up all my cards and pictures. This room could use some more posters. In my room at home, I've got these two great door-sized posters, both of the same girl in the same skimpy underwear, but one is taken from the back and one is taken from the front. She's so sexy.
I should ask my parents to get those posters for me so I can put them up in my room here. Right now, I've got this Cindy Crawford bathing suit poster that my friend Chris gave me, but that's it, and Mom hasn't put it up yet.
I sit on the bed and watch Mom putting up all the cards and pictures. I say, “What about Cindy Crawford?”
“Um. Let's see.”
“How about on that wall?” I point to the white space right under the TV.
“Um. Yeah, we could do that.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don't know. Wouldn't it look nice here?” Mom points to the bottom of the wall under a bunch of medical stuff.
“No. I can't see it there.”
“Oh. Okay. How about here?”
“There? On the back of the door? Then I can only see it when the door is closed.”
“What's so bad about that?”
“I want to see it all the time.”
“Okay. How about here?”
“In the closet?”
“Then you could see it when you want, and if somebody else comes into the room, then they won't have to see it if they don't want to.”
“Why wouldn't they want to see it?”
“Oh, I don't know, it could be kind of offensive to some people.”
“Like who?”
“I don't know.”
“You?”
“Well, not to me, but to women in general.”
“Women in general meaning who?”
“Some of the nurses.”
“Who?”
“I don't know. Maybe it's not in good taste to be putting up posters in the middle of a hospital.”
“But it's my room.”
“But it's in the middle of a hospital.”
“But it's my room.”
She puts on her more serious, teacherly voice. “But, Brent, you have to understand that your room is in a much more visible place now.”
“I know that.”
“And you're going to have to adapt a little to your new surroundings.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, it would be nice if there weren't pictures of half-naked women on the walls when the doctors come into the room.”
“The doctors don't care. They probably like it.”
“All right, then for the nurses.”
“The nurses don't care either.”
“How do you know? Have you asked them?”
“No, but I will.” I press the call button on my remote control and Janice comes back into the room. She's so hot, she could be on one of these posters if she wanted to be.
“Yes?” She says it like she's my own personal maid.
“Janice, do you care if I put up this poster of Cindy Crawford in the bathing suit?”
“No, I don't care. It's your room.”
“Ha! Thank you very much, Janice, you're dismissed.” She does a little half turn, curtsies, and walks out.
“See?”
“Fine.”
Mom keeps putting up the cards and pictures, and I sit back down on the bed, watching her. Then Janice comes back in with Rachel and the Polaroid camera. Janice lies on the bed like a Playboy bunny and Rachel stands behind her like she's on The Price Is Right. Mom takes their picture.
They giggle and say, “Now we're your poster girls.”
They have no idea.
It's night. I make sure the curtain is closed before I get into bed so no one can see. And I've got the control for my bed so I can put my back up a little.
I pull my sheet down and my gown up and look at my penis. There it is. I wonder if it still works.
My hand feels different than it used to. But my penis feels about the same. Maybe a little bit out of practice. Maybe like it hasn't done this in a while.
God, my arm is getting tired already. It used to move so freely. Got to keep working on my range of motion and strength exercises so I can do this better.
Maybe I should think about someone. Megan. No, I don't even remember what she looks like. No. Maybe one of the nurses, yeah, okay, what if one of the nurses came in and, who would it be, maybe Tina, no, she wouldn't, maybe Barb, that's silly. Janice. If Janice came in and saw what I was doing, maybe she'd come over to me and she'd put her hand where my hand is and she'd lean over so I could smell her perfume and put my hand under her shirt and I'd touch her breast under the bra and I could rub my thumb up against her nipple. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Barbara is here to watch Ben-Hur with me. It's that one about Charlton Heston on the chariots, but it's not The Ten Commandments. I tried to watch Ben-Hur on TV during Easter, but I fell asleep. Barbara said she'd get the video and we'd watch it together sometime. So, today's the day.
She starts the movie and we start watching the previews, and my skin starts to itch. Like seriously itch. Like all over my body, insects burrowing up through the dermis kind of itch. Everyone always said it would feel this way, but I didn't know what they meant. I always thought itches were kind of annoying, but this is a weird pain deep down under the skin, like a buzzing inside my body.
Barbara gives me some Benadryl and says that'll help quiet the itching. She starts the movie.
There's the MGM lion and some music. God, these credits are taking a long time. I'm just going to rest my eyes for a little while until the movie starts.
I wake up and it's dark again. The movie is gone. I don't remember anything about it. I wonder if it was on the whole time while I was sleeping. Barbara, Ben-Hur, and Benadryl. I'm going back to sleep.
I've got one more surgery scheduled. No big deal, just a little patch-and-cover job on those few little holes I've still got on my back and butt, but I won't have to lie on my stomach afterward, thank God. After that, about two weeks and I'm out of here. Heading up north to that rehab hospital my parents visited in Delaware. The one with the pool and the basketball court and the bowling alley.
That'll be good. I'll be happy to go. Make new friends. Try new things.
The only thing is, I don't want to leave. I don't want to go anywhere. I could do rehab here, with all my friends. Don't make me leave.
Fuck it, it's fucking useless.
Dr. Rubinstein sends Mom into my room to talk about the stuff I don't want to talk about. The other suicide attempts and stuff.
I don't want to tell Mom that stuff. I don't want to upset her.
And I'm different now. I don't do those things. I'm sorry. I was making mistakes. I didn't know what I was doing and I couldn't stop.
But Mom is here and she looks like she's ready to talk. If I just say it, then maybe I'll be able to stop feeling so bad inside.
So I'll say it. What will I say? I'll say, Hey, Mom, guess who tried to kill themselves a bunch of other times besides the one you know about? That's right, me. Hey, Mom, remember the Band-Aids on my wrist? Well, I didn't really scrape it on my locker. I cut it with a knife that I kept under my bed.
And remember all the black clothes, well, I liked black because it reminde
d me of death.
And you know the furnace in the basement, I thought about pouring gasoline in there and blowing up the whole house. And remember the time I got caught stealing supplies from Mrs. Loftus, the algebra teacher, well, that night I lay in bed, dressed up in my best suit, and sliced my wrists open. And you know how I got the book on how to make knots? It was so I could tie a noose and hang myself from the closet pole.
And a lot of the time I used to spend in my room alone, I was writing my will so you'd know who to give all of my stuff to.
I can't say any of this. I can't say any of this. So I say, “Mom?”
“Yes, honey.”
“When I . . . when I tried . . . to hurt myself, before . . .”
“Yes, honey.”
“That wasn't the first time that I tried to do something like that.”
She doesn't look surprised, but she's starting to cry. She puts her hand on top of mine. “I know, honey. I figured it wasn't the first time.”
“You did?”
“Yes, honey, I'm sorry I didn't know you were so sad.” She's crying hard now, and I'm crying too. “I didn't know, honey, I didn't know you were so sad.”
“I know. I'm sorry, Mom.”
“It's okay, honey. It's okay. We didn't know you were so sad.”
We cry together some more.
“Brenny?” she says. “About a week before your accident, we got into a fight at the dinner table and you stormed up to your room, and I remember, I said, ‘Where are you going?' and you said, I think I heard you say, ‘I'm going to set myself on fire.' Do you remember that?”
I think about it. “I don't think I said that. I mean, I might have, but I didn't mean it.”
She's crying harder now. “Okay, okay, because I thought you'd said that, and I just wish I'd been there to try and help you, and I wish I'd been there, and I just wish I'd known you were so sad.” She can hardly get the words out, she's crying so hard.
“It's okay, Mom. It's okay. You didn't know. I didn't tell you.”
She sniffs hard, and all of a sudden, the tears stop. “But if you ever get that sad again, you have to promise to tell someone so they can help you.”