Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  When Monday rolled around, Joe had to go back to work. Now I had no choice but to manage by myself.

  At lunchtime, I felt a bit hungry. Using my crutches as a hoist, I lowered my legs to the floor, and heaved myself up. The room spun as I waited for equilibrium, and then, one tiny step at a time, I maneuvered to the refrigerator. There, the dizziness reappeared, and fearing I’d collapse, I made my way back to the couch, hunger now gone. I slept away the afternoon.

  Simply taking care of basic necessities filled my entire day. Personal hygiene took up most of the morning. At least the Velcro closures allowed me to remove the leg braces so I could bathe, although getting in and out of the tub proved quite challenging. By week two, I had a hard time securing the braces tightly enough to keep them from falling down. Four weeks later, I couldn’t keep them up at all. What’s wrong with these things? Are they stretching out? I stepped on the bathroom scale and stared in disbelief: I’d lost twenty pounds.

  After six weeks, I was allowed to walk without the braces and to start physical therapy. Liberating! But my reflection in the mirror made me feel a little ill: my legs had thinned so much from atrophy, I wondered if I’d ever get those lost muscles back.

  The physical therapist sent me home with some “easy” home exercises. Easy for him to say, I thought the second day, scooting onto the bed so I could let my legs hang over the edge. Fortified with a deep breath, I again tried to relax and let them fall naturally, but stretching the frozen muscles felt like they were tearing off the bone. Panting and sick to my stomach, I pulled my legs back onto the bed and sobbed. I can’t do this! But I knew I had to; and I did, over and over again.

  Instead of having Joe take a day off work to drive me forty miles to ride a stationary bike at therapy, I purchased one. Every day, I pedaled miles, keeping my legs flexible with less pain. A friend offered me a swim-pass to her apartment pool.

  Unable to drive yet, on a chilly December day, Joe dropped me off at the heated outdoor pool. Slipping into the warm water gave me back some of my lost freedom as I swam back and forth for an hour. I almost felt normal, moving pain free, gliding effortlessly through the silky water. I decided to do this as often as possible.

  We needed groceries, and although outings were hard for me, I insisted on accompanying Joe. At the grocery store, a woman in a pretty dress and a bounce in her step selected an item off the shelf. I stood in the aisle, using the grocery cart to hold myself upright, feeling ugly and crippled, eyes brimming with tears. I used to walk like that, will I ever again? Right now, I had to think about how to walk: Lift leg, bend knee, step forward. My doctor had told me I could return to work in six months. Six months? I’d be lucky if I walked normally in six months, much less hike again. For sure my firefighting days were over.

  At last, in January, I regained enough flexibility to drive my truck’s standard transmission. All I wanted to do was check the mail and pick up the newspaper at our convenience store down the road. Once behind the wheel, I had an odd, disorienting moment. Had I forgotten how to drive? None of the motions felt familiar. However, I managed, and soon parked in front of the store. I opened my door, extracted my crutches from behind the seat, and made my way to the entrance. Just as I reached the door, a man cut in front of me, and let the door shut in my face. My face burned with shame and anger—shame that my injury had made me reliant on others, and angry that many now treated me like I was invisible.

  Another a whole year slipped away, with pain a daily reminder that I wasn’t recovering the way both I and my doctor had planned. Afraid of addiction, and frankly never a pill believer, I had quit taking pain medication after the first day home.

  “I don’t want to mask the pain,” I said to Joe, adamant. “I want it to go away.”

  At one follow-up visit, Dr. Percy suggested acupuncture. Game for anything, I went.

  An oriental man of slight build explained that if the procedure could help, I’d know within two sessions. I climbed onto the exam table.

  “This shouldn’t hurt,” the man said.

  Each time he tapped a thin needle around my knee, I winced. After the needles were in place, he left the room. Afraid any movement would dislodge them, I stayed motionless, trying to focus on anything but the needles sticking up out of my skin.

  When he finally removed the needles, I tried to stand, but my legs wobbled uselessly, like they were made of Jell-O.

  The acupuncturist frowned. “This won’t work for you, I’m sorry.”

  Joe carried me to the car, where I stared out the window on the drive home, feeling just that much more helpless than ever.

  Alone, limping around, trying to stay busy, but hurting every minute, feeling lost and worthless—my thoughts turned dark. Who was I now that I couldn’t do the work I loved? Filled with pain and resentment at the forced major life change, I withdrew from life, and slowly sank into a dark, deep hole.

  My marriage also suffered.

  Joe didn’t know what to do to help me, and I didn’t know what to ask for. We fought bitterly, especially when he got called to a fire. Those calls reminded me I’d never fight fires again. It didn’t help that Joe rarely contacted me while he was gone, sometimes for as long as six weeks. Late at night, sick with worry, I envisioned him injured and maimed, or dead, never coming home again. Rational thinking? No, of course not. But I wasn’t rational about anything anymore.

  One night, the phone rang just after dinner, and Joe answered.

  My stomach twisted and turned. No! No, no, no … don’t let this be a fire call. I can’t take being alone again …

  “Okay, I’m on my way, “ Joe said, hanging up.

  “Please don’t go,” I said, pleading. “They won’t miss you just this once.” Tears streamed down my face. The phone rang again. I barricaded the phone with my body. “Please, don’t answer it …”

  Frustrated and angry, Joe ripped the phone from the wall, and threw it so hard at the closed bedroom door, it left a hole. Now hysterical, I sank to the floor. Joe marched into the bedroom, packed his fire gear, and left.

  My meltdown continued throughout the night, followed by waves of guilt all the next day. I knew it wasn’t fair to interfere with his job, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. If only he understood how hard it is for me to see him go to fires when I can’t go, I thought. That would make me feel better. But would it? I wasn’t sure anything would make me feel better. In fact, I believed I had nothing to live for. That night, I prayed I wouldn’t wake up in the morning. That will surely make Joe’s life easier, I thought viciously.

  The telephone became a stealthy enemy. Each time it rang, my stomach turned over. Another fire call? When it was a fire call, I watched Joe pack, angry, resentful, and hurting.

  Then, one horrible day, after Joe and I’d fought yet again, I blurted out, “I wish I was dead!” Which was quite true. I did.

  Joe’s face turned crimson, and he yelled, “The rifle’s in my shop. Go for it!”

  At that moment, I died inside. If he didn’t care if I lived or died, why should I? Why couldn’t he say things like: I love you and don’t want to lose you. Things will get better. You’ll see. But no, Joe never was good with words. When we’d met, I’d been attracted to his strong, silent-type personality. That very trait was now destroying us.

  EIGHTEEN MONTHS AFTER surgery, I hobbled into the exam room for another progress evaluation.

  “How’s the pain level on a scale of one to ten?” Dr. Percy asked, pen poised over his clipboard.

  “Nine,” I said. I wanted to leave room for the really bad days.

  He lowered the clipboard. “I think you’re worse. We can try a second procedure …”

  More surgery? No! I burst into hysterical tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Eyes startled wide, Percy turned to his intern. “Get this woman on anti-depressants, now!” The intern sped out of the room. “I won’t operate on you until we get your depression under control. I’ll have my office recommend a counselor.”r />
  Several weeks later, Joe and I fought again, about what, I don’t know. He sat in front of the TV, not wanting to deal with me any longer, and I opened the junk drawer in the kitchen. I removed a straight-edge razor blade from its box, and oddly calm, took it into the bathroom. There, I shut the door, and sat on the toilet seat. I began to sob—deep, guttural sobs that hurt my chest. I opened my hand and stared at the razor blade in its cardboard safety cover, then at my wrist. I wanted to slice my wrist open, end the emotional pain, but I couldn’t make myself do it.

  The bathroom door flew open. Joe stood in front of me with his hands on his hips.

  “Give it to me, now.”

  I clenched the blade tighter and shook my head, no.

  “I said give it to me!”

  I handed the blade over and sobbed.

  He sighed loudly and left me sitting there.

  I wailed, rocking back and forth, until exhausted. Then I crawled into bed and slept for twelve hours to avoid thinking about what I almost did.

  At my first counseling appointment, my therapist explained depression and a treatment plan. At the second one, he checked on my progress. “Has Joe locked up his guns, hidden razor blades, and removed all prescription drugs from the house?”

  I nodded. At least Joe had taken my counselor’s initial request seriously.

  “Are you taking your meds? It’s very important that you continue. We can talk about your feelings here, and we will, but you need more than just talk therapy. Okay?”

  Again, I dissolved into floods of tears. Would I ever stop crying? Would I ever feel better? Although I was at my lowest weight since I was a teenager, I felt heavy, like I carried an additional twenty pounds.

  “Do you realize this is not your fault? The injury? Joe’s anger?” my counselor asked.

  No, I didn’t. I blamed myself for being unable to cope, for venting my mad frustration at Joe and for my body falling apart. But, talking did help. And soon, the weekly sessions became my lifeline.

  FORTY

  GROGGY, I PEELED my eyes open to look around me. A steady hum from the machine sitting next to my hospital bed, the only sound. The room gradually came into focus: my legs were strapped to a machine, which slowly bent and straightened them. Minutes later, Dr. Percy and a group of residents stood by my bedside.

  “My oldest living patient,” Percy said, stone-faced, in the way of an introduction. A joke (at least I hoped so) I’d heard often since he first operated on me two years ago. Was that a good thing?

  “You’ll be out of here in no time,” he added, glancing at me, then down to his clipboard. He was right, too. I left in just a few days.

  Six months later, though, my knees still hurt. Incredibly discouraged, I couldn’t believe I went through all that torture only to continue to suffer. Lost and still depressed, I sat in front of my counselor.

  “I want my old life back!” I cried, frustrated tears again falling.

  “What’s holding you back?” he asked. “You could go to college, start a new career.”

  I dabbed a sodden tissue at my eyes. “I’ll be thirty-four by the time I graduate.”

  “You’ll be thirty-four in four years whether you go to college or not,” he said with a grin.

  I gave him a pained smile.

  He suggested that I take a career test.

  Hundreds of questions later, I held a computer printout of careers that might be a good fit for me. I smiled wryly when forestry technician (my firefighting classification) came up below sanitation engineer. Garbage man? Oh, give me a break. Fourth down on the list—landscape architect. The Forest Service often hired landscape architects—my heart lightened at the possible way back into the agency, where I longed to be. After two years in limbo, I’d finally found new direction and new hope.

  That Christmas with my family, I announced my plan to enroll in the University of Arizona’s landscape architecture program the next fall. Cheers and claps surprised me. I would be the first in my family to attend college.

  Dr. Percy, in the meantime, had retired, and at my final appointment with his replacement, I lamented how I had no relief from daily pain. He heaved a sigh, and told me that maybe someday I would wake up and the pain would be gone. Is he serious? That’s it? Annoyed by this cavalier remark, I figured I’d have to learn to live with pain the rest of my life. No big deal: I was used to it.

  THE DECISION TO go to college was the easy part. But when I found out I had to take an entrance exam to get in, I worried. Could I pass an entrance exam? I decided I’d better take Algebra and English over the summer. I passed the exam. Now to fill out paperwork and register for classes.

  “You’re in the wrong building,” the snarky woman snipped at me. “The department you want is in Student Services.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. I’d just come from Student Services—clear on the opposite side of campus. Emerging into the blistering July heat, my knees weak and throbbing, sweat pouring down my face, I trudged along, thinking, What in the hell am I doing here? Why am I doing this? Again at Student Services, I stood in yet another long line, where they told me I was in the wrong place, and directed me back to the Administration Department—the very building I’d just left. Furious, I limped across campus, cursing under my breath at my counselor: “Dammit! Look what you got me into!”

  At last, though, I was down to my final task—buying textbooks. The minute I walked inside the campus bookstore, I felt something I hadn’t felt for years: excitement. I scoured the shelves and lifted a hefty, oversized book filled with full-color photos. This looks interesting … Landscape Architecture. Then another one, with its distinctive new book smell … the cover crackled when I opened it. This one’s optional, but I really want it. Loaded with more books than I could carry without discomfort didn’t matter. I couldn’t wait to get them all home so I could start reading.

  MAY OF 1990: I graduated at the top of my class. Convinced that working for free would eventually pay off, I volunteered with the Coronado National Forest, full-time, in their landscape architecture department, commuting sixty miles per day. My hopes soared when they advertised a real, paying job in that very department. I applied, confident the position was mine.

  Weeks later, on the phone with the Forest’s HR department, I thought the voice on the other end must have called the wrong number. They’d given the job to someone else. Despite my degree, three months of volunteering and my on-the-job injury, they’d picked a man—a man with an undergraduate degree, in English! I’d sacrificed my knees and my health for the Forest Service, and they’d dumped me. I slammed down the phone and screamed at their indifference—Damn you!

  Frustrated with the slow economy and no jobs, two years later I returned to the University for a masters degree in recreation planning. In my heart, I still wanted a Forest Service job, and maybe this degree would finally get me there. But, no. Instead, I found myself in the world of land development. Not quite working in nature, but it paid well. I advanced quickly in my new career, and within several years I held a high-paying position. Although my knees still gave me problems, I continued exercising, and graduated to hiking the gentle Nature Trail in Madera Canyon once a week.

  Joe had never liked firefighting as much as I did, and when the Forest Service offered him a position in a different department, he accepted it. Settled into my new career, and with Joe’s job no longer a source of contention between us, I thought our conflicts would end—that we would no longer fight.

  I passed on the Forest Service party that Joe wanted to attend, not interested in socializing with people who didn’t give a damn about me. Yes, I knew I disappointed him, but I thought he understood. He said he’d be home by eight. When I awoke at two a.m. and he wasn’t home, I paced the house, worried sick that something bad had happened. Just then headlights swung into the driveway. I ran out, concerned. One look at him and my concern evaporated. Drunk to the point that he couldn’t even stand, I raged at him for worrying me as well as for dri
ving drunk. His eyes blazed, and he grabbed me by the throat, squeezing until I choked. Terrified, I pried his hands off my neck and ran into the house. Sinking to the floor, in between heaving sobs, I told the 911 operator what had happened. They said help was on the way. Joe stood over me for a moment, and then, resigned, calmly walked into the bedroom and lay down on the bed.

  The next day he returned, angry at me because the sheriff’s deputy had removed him from our home. He blamed me for setting him off in the first place. But this time, I refused to accept the blame.

  “You must go to anger management counseling, or we’re through,” I said.

  To my surprise, he went. After a few months, he invited me to attend a session with him.

  “Joe has something he wants to say,” his counselor said.

  For the first time since Joe had told me to get his gun if I wanted to die, he took my hands, and apologized. “I’m sorry. I know that hurt you terribly. I didn’t mean it.”

  Could I accept this? Deep down, I thought his apology had been offered way too late. How could I ever forget? However, he continued to see a counselor and made an effort to change, and that impressed me. For the first time, I didn’t feel alone in wanting our marriage to work. Over the coming months, things between us improved. Encouraged, I hoped that all would continue to be good.

  AS I DID every Saturday in cool weather, I buzzed up the Nature Trail, clearing my mind of work stresses. Just being here raised my spirits. I passed a family, and the father grinned at me, saying, “I’d recognize a power-hike anywhere.”

  I smiled. Moments later, his comment got me thinking. Maybe this trail’s getting too easy.

  A week later, I hiked five miles up a steeper trail with ease. Standing in Josephine Saddle, I read the junction sign: Mt. Wrightson 2.5 miles. Motivated, I decided next week I’d go to the top.

  I left early. A little snow and ice challenged me on this cold and blustery day. When I reached the summit, my knees trembled from the precarious exposure. It’d been years since I’d stood on this volcanic pillar, with expansive views in every direction. I shed my daypack, huddled out of the wind as best I could and opened the old Army ammunition box to sign-in. With my frozen fingers grasping the pencil stub, I wrote: