by Brent Runyon
“Yes. Okay. I'll tell someone.”
“And know that we love you so much and we don't ever want to lose you.”
“I know. I know.”
So the last surgery is today. I wish they'd stop talking to me about it. Just do it and get it over with and stop talking to me about skin and mesh and graft sites and scarlet and Silvadene and morphine and bacitracin and Eucerin and total body surface area burned and antimicrobial and cultural epithelial autograft and range of motion and all of that shit. Just do it and shut the fuck up about it. Please.
I'm awake. This is the first time I've been completely covered in skin since I got in here.
When I'm better, Tina and I are going to go out of the hospital together. We've got it all set up. We're going to Ben & Jerry's to get some ice cream and then to the movies to see What About Bob? which I've seen commercials for on TV, and it looks really funny. Bill Murray and Richard Dreyfuss. They're so funny.
I was in fourth grade the first time I heard the word suicide. I remember exactly where I was, I was walking down the hall in my elementary school, and I was talking to my friend Chris B., this kid who had cystic fibrosis and was always pale and skinny. He said, “Maybe I'll commit suicide.” I don't remember what he was talking about or why he said that, but that's what he said.
I said, “What does that mean?”
“You know, kill myself.”
That was the first time I'd heard the word, and I just kept thinking, Why would someone want to kill himself? Why would anyone do that? I couldn't stop thinking about it and it got inside my head and started squirming around in there like a worm in the dirt, and then it seemed to disappear. But when it came back four years later, it was so big and so powerful, and it seemed like it ate up my whole brain and it was the only thing I could think about.
I just keep wondering, What if I'd never heard that word? I wonder what would've happened.
Dawn's taking me down to the cafeteria for a little exercise. She says if I can walk all the way there, then she'll buy me a Coke, but she's bringing the wheelchair just in case I get tired.
I can do pretty well getting around, but my right foot is still kind of hard to walk on. Dawn says it's because when I had to lie on my stomach for ten days, the muscles contracted and that's why I can't stretch out my toe anymore. She's designing a special strap that I can wear to stretch my toe while I walk. That'll be cool.
It's a long walk, so I entertain Dawn with stories. I tell her about the time I was in the cafeteria at Kilmer, my junior high school, and everybody was supposed to clean up all the trash before we could be dismissed, and the janitor came up to me and told me to pick up this fork that was on the floor. I said, “It's not mine,” but he didn't care, he just told me to pick it up and don't talk back. Anyway, by the end of lunch I still hadn't picked it up and he came back to check on me and the fork. I saw him coming and I put my foot down over the fork. He said, “Where's that fork?” And I was like, “I threw it away.” And he said, “I didn't see you.” And I said, “Well, I did.” And he said, “Scoot back your chair.” And I did, but I kept my foot over the fork and slid it back at the same time. He said, “Lift up your foot.” And I did, but I lifted up the one without the fork under it. And he goes, “No. The other foot.” So I did, and I got three days of eating lunch in the Box, the room for in-school suspension.
Dawn says I'm a good storyteller. And now she has to buy me a Coke. I made it.
Reggie, the tall skinny black guy who used to help me out of bed, says that when I leave here, I'm going to forget all about him. That's not true. That is so not true. First of all, the people here are my best friends in the entire world and they love me for who I am and they don't care about anything I did before, they just love me. Reggie bet me that I won't invite him to my high school graduation. I said, “Reggie, that's only four years away, of course I'll keep in touch with you, man.” He said, “We'll see.” He's so wrong.
There's less than a week left here at Children's. Less than a week. The twelfth of June, that's next Wednesday. Then Mom and Dad are going to drive me up to duPont.
Mom asked me if I wanted to make a trip home before they take me to Delaware, and I had to say that I didn't really want to. I think she was disappointed because she knows that I'm going out to the movies and ice cream with Tina.
I told her I didn't want to come home yet because I didn't feel like I was ready, which is partially true, but also partially untrue. I don't know, I just can't really imagine going back there with the bathroom, and my old room and all that stuff, and the neighbors outside welcoming me back home. No, I don't want to do that.
Dad asked me if I thought I'd ever want to come home, and I had to lie and say, “Sure, sure I will. Of course I will. I just need a little more time to get better.” The truth is that I don't know when I'll be ready to go home again.
They're having a telethon downstairs in the atrium for the benefit of Children's Hospital. Rosemarie, one of the social workers, asked my parents and me if we wanted to be featured on it. I said yes.
But then I thought about it, and I didn't want to walk all the way down there and stand up under the lights and have someone shove a microphone in my face and ask me what happened. So, anyway, Mom and Dad have gone downstairs to do it by themselves. I'm staying in bed and watching it on TV.
It's pretty boring actually, the whole TV show thing. They just keep talking in circles about how important the hospital is, and then they tell you how much money they've raised, and how important everything is, and how much money they've raised.
But there's Mom and Dad, oh God, they look nervous. That's so funny. Dad's so stiff and Mom looks like she's going to faint. The woman's asking them something. I turn it up.
“Your son's name is . . .”
“Our son's name is Brent and he's a burn patient up on the Burn Ward.”
“And how long has Brent been a patient here?”
“About four months.”
“And how has his care been?”
“It's been absolutely tremendous.”
God, this is cool. I wonder if anyone I know is watching this.
“And how did Brent get burned?”
Oh shit.
“Brent was burned in an accidental house fire a few months ago.”
“And how is he doing?”
“He's just doing great. He was burned over eighty-five percent of his body and he's had numerous skin-grafting procedures and he's doing so great now and he's going to be released from the hospital next week.”
An accidental house fire. Right. Okay. Okay. We can say that. We don't have to tell anyone what really happened. An accidental house fire. Why did they lie? I mean, I don't blame them, but did they have to? But I'm glad they didn't say the truth. I don't know.
“That's great. Thanks very much, Mr. and Mrs. Runyon, for talking with us today.”
Oh God, I have this sudden tightness, this sticking feeling in my chest like I've been breathing Krazy Glue.
This strange woman with a tackle box is knocking on my door. She comes over next to my bed and starts talking to me. She says she's a representative from a cosmetics company and she helps people like me, who've suffered severe injuries to their face, overcome their self-consciousness and go on to lead happy and healthier lives. She says that with just a little bit of base, chosen especially to match my particular skin tone, something between Light Olive and Lady Fair, I'll look as good as new.
She has this little girl with her who's been burned by some hot oil or something, and she shows me how good she looks. She looks fine, and she's smiling a lot. The woman also has the little girl's parents with her, and they tell me how the girl's self-confidence has already started to increase. She feels so much better about herself.
The woman gives me a big smile. She's pretty in the way mannequins are pretty. She asks if I'd like to try a free sample. I say, “No.” She asks if I'm sure because the products can really make a difference in your self-confidence
and make social situations that much easier. I say, “No.” She asks if I am sure. I say, “Yes.”
I'm not going to cover anything up. This is me.
Becky and Dawn and I are making a video today for the people up at duPont, describing all the things we've been doing in OT and PT so they know what my limits are.
Here we go. Becky says, “Hi, my name is Rebecca Bernhardt and I'm an OT here at Children's National Medical Center. This is Brent Runyon. Say hi, Brent.”
“Hi.” I give a little wave.
“Brent is a fourteen-year-old patient who has received second- and third-degree burns to over eighty-five percent of his body, of partial and full thickness.”
She's not going to say how I got burned, is she? God, that would be terrible. She wouldn't do that.
“As you can see, Brent has been wearing pressure garments on his head, torso, and hands. At this time, Brent has trouble with the range of motion and strength needed to put on his garments, but he's done well getting them off, with just a little help.”
Becky's voice sounds tight and nervous. She seems like a different person.
“Brent, why don't you show everybody how you can take your garments off.”
I'm wearing a Magic Johnson T-shirt and a loose pair of shorts, with some red, white, and blue boxers on underneath, and all of a sudden, I realize I look like an idiot.
“I can't,” I say.
“Yes, you can. Just start with your shirt like we've practiced.” My shoulders are up near my ears and all my muscles and my skin feel really tight, but I can reach up with my hands and grab the shirt at my shoulders and pull it slowly over my head. The shirt gets stuck with my head in it and the lights are dim and I can't see the camera anymore. This is nice in here. I could live like this.
Becky pulls the shirt the rest of the way over my head and keeps talking about my range of motion and about how the scar tissue over my joints restricts me. She explains that the scar tissue forms these things called bands, which are really like thick rubber bands, that make it really hard to move my arms and hands normally. She helps me unzip my Jobst garments and takes off the jacket.
I look down at myself. My skin is so purple. So gross. I look like I'm made of raspberries. God. I'm so disgusting. I can't do this anymore. Let's stop for a while. Let's just stop.
“Becky, can we stop?”
She's ignoring me. I can tell she's not going to stop, no matter what I do. I feel sad and sick and tired inside, and I'm crying, I don't want to be crying, but I am. I just can't do this anymore. I just can't go on doing this anymore. I just want it to stop. Please stop. Please.
She goes on for another twenty minutes, and I still can't stop crying. The people in Delaware are going to think I'm a baby.
Tonight's the big night. The big date night with Tina. Our night on the town. She's picking me up at six, and we're going to Ben & Jerry's, then we're going to the movies.
I've got my outfit all picked out. I'll be wearing my black Hard Rock Cafe London T-shirt. There was some concern that black would be too hot, but it's my favorite color, or it used to be, I'm not sure if it still is, and we're going to be inside for the whole time anyway.
My pants are those loose stretchy pants that you see on weight lifters and football players, not that I'm like those guys. They're just comfortable for me to wear, and also, they cover up the bandages on my legs.
Shoes. That's complicated, my feet are still too sensitive for anything too nice. I guess I could wear tennis shoes, but they might scrape against my skin and open up another hole, and then I'd have to stay in the hospital for three more months. I'll wear the shoes Magic Johnson sent me in the mail. Yeah, those have to be lucky anyway. I have to wear my stinking Jobst garments on my arms and chest. The part for my chest slips on like a jacket, but there are zippers that go up the arms, and when I'm all zipped in, I feel like I'm being swallowed by a boa constrictor. I'm not wearing my gloves tonight, they say my hands will be okay without them, but having the jacket on without the gloves makes all the blood push into my hands and they itch. I try to shake the itch out of them, but it doesn't really work. At least I already have my gloves off in case I get to feel her up or something.
I also have to wear the stinking face mask made out of the Jobst material, that's supposed to flatten out the scars on my face. Besides the fact that it sucks that I have to wear a stinking mask the first time I go outside, it really sucks that it makes my hair stick up. I put on my Lakers cap. That's better.
Tina's here. It's time to go, but Mom and Dad want to take a couple of pictures. One of me and Tina together outside my room, like we're going to the prom or something, and one of Calvin leaning down to tie my shoes for me because I'm not flexible enough to do that yet.
So, here we go. On our way. We're taking a wheelchair just in case, and since we're taking it, I might as well ride in it, at least to the car. “To save your strength,” says Tina. Hmm, save my strength for what?
At the elevators, I look around at the signs, trying to think of something funny to say. “Spina bifida, that sounds like some sort of Greek food.”
Tina doesn't laugh. She says, “You wouldn't say that if you knew what it was.”
Okay, parking garage, please. The elevator drops fast and I feel my stomach go into my throat. Being in an elevator in a wheelchair makes that feeling twice as bad.
Here we are in the garage. I've never been down here before. God, it's hot. It's like a hundred and twenty degrees down here.
“What kind of car do you have?”
“Mazda.”
“Miata?”
“No, I wish. There it is.”
“Oh, it's nice.”
“Yeah.”
Tina wheels me up to the passenger side and opens the door for me.
I can get myself in the car, but Tina puts her hand on my back anyway. I think she's a little nervous or something, she doesn't quite seem like herself.
She puts the wheelchair in the trunk and I look around for something to talk about. There's a bunch of tapes. I guess we can talk about music. There she is. Sweet Tina.
She starts the car and pops a tape in the stereo. It's rap. That's okay—I like rap.
I say, “Who's this?”
“Tribe Called Quest.”
“What?”
“A Tribe Called Quest.”
“Oh, I thought you said, ‘A Tribe Called Quest.'”
“I did.”
“Oh.”
We're pulling out of the parking garage. It's hot. I should roll down my window. That's a little better. Oh, look, the flowers are blooming. God, it's so humid and the air is so thick, but I'm outside and I can smell the cherry blossoms.
I forgot what this was like, being in a car, with the wind in my face. Tina rolls down her window and turns up the music.
She says, “I can't wait to see this movie.”
“I know. Bill Murray is so funny.”
“I love Ghostbusters.”
“Me too.”
We're out here and we're driving around and we're going to get ice cream at Ben & Jerry's, just like we planned, and then we're going to the movies. God, I'm lucky.
I look over at Tina. The sun is on her face. Her hair is coming out of her ponytail. I should reach over and push it behind her ear. No, I shouldn't do that. I shouldn't do that.
Ben & Jerry's is a little ice cream shop right on the corner. Tina finds a parking space right away and pulls in. Okay, here we go, the moment of truth, as they say. Out in the real world.
“Do you want the wheelchair or are you okay to walk?”
“I'm okay to walk.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
I'm opening the door and it's just a matter of pulling myself onto my feet with the door and the side of the car. I can do this. Okay, here we go. That's good. Now we're walking. Tina puts her hand on my back and steadies me. She's so sweet. It's easier once I get going.
She opens the door for me and we go in
side. It's so much cooler in here. And the smell, I've never smelled anything so good. It's like waffles and syrup or something.
Okay, the first problem is that I look like a total freak right now. People are looking at me and trying to figure out what happened to me and why I'm so burned up. I'll just keep looking out the window and pretend that I'm looking at something across the street.
We sit at a table next to the window and Tina goes up and gets a menu. I'm still looking out the window. God, my back is starting to itch. I try and scratch it by rubbing against the bench.
“So, Brent, they've got this sundae, which is enormous. It's got twenty scoops of ice cream, ten scoops of chopped nuts, brownies, cookies, M&M's, and whipped cream. How does that sound?”
“We're really going to get that?”
“You want to?”
“Can we? We can't eat it all.”
“We'll order it now, come back after the movie, and take it back to the Unit for an ice cream party afterward.”
“Oh God, that sounds great. Twenty scoops.”
“Yeah.” She's laughing. This is fun.
“So what should we get?”
“I don't know. Twenty scoops is a lot. Let's just get one of everything.”
I laugh and say, “Okay, but a few extra of New York Super Fudge Chunk.”
“Yeah, that's my favorite too.” We have a lot in common.
I think I see the people behind the counter looking over every couple of seconds to see what's wrong with my face. They're whispering too. What are they saying? I can't hear them, but they're definitely talking about me. They keep talking and looking back over to try and see what's wrong with my face and why I'm wearing these weird clothes. I shouldn't have worn these clothes, I just realized that they look really stupid, and I shouldn't be wearing a Lakers hat because nobody around here likes the stinking Lakers anyway. God, I'm an idiot. A stupid burned-up idiot with a big purple face and a bunch of bandages on under his clothes. I hate myself.