After a little bit of a break I will now return you to the ongoing saga that is my personal story of a burn victim.
If you will recall, I had blown myself up in 2 seconds...and lay on the ground for 20 minutes awaiting 911. The first responders came and loaded me on to an ambulance and then a helicopterand I was flown to the Westchester Medical Center Burn Unit.
They wheeled me into a holding area that was kind of like a basement waiting room. They propped the stretcher up and I sat and waited. By this point I was pretty drugged-up and still in shock so I didn't feel much except a burning sensation that gnawed at my arms, stomach and the left side of my face. The Doctor came in followed by two graduate interns. We did the usual hospital formalities:
"How are you feeling on a scale of one to ten?"
"Oh, I'd say about a 9," - (it's trulu only a 7 but I REALLY want more morphine!).
"OK," says the Doc, "We can take care of that for you...now, how did this happen?"
I explain the whole thing and I've already altered the story slightly so I don't sound so stupid. Then the Doc starts asking the interns what they think of the burns. They point to my stomach and use terminology that I don't quite understand. I interrupt and would like to know if they will have to graft any skin? I am terrified of the way grafted skin will look. They say they're not sure and tell me I have to wait two days for the "burns to set." But, really, they know they are going to be grafting skin. The Docs' leave.
Along comes the Hospital minister. He's a strange older man who asks me if I need anything. I tell him that I would like a bible. He says he'll see what he can do. He leaves. He comes back 10 minutes later and says that he can't find a bible. I say "OK" and he leaves again... (hmmmm...I wonder why religion is dying?).
There's a lot going on down here. In the next room there are about 10 people, three cops, two orderlies, two nurses, two EMT's and someone else, arguing with a lady who is clearly out of her mind. They want to give her a shot, she goes back and forth between saying she'll let them give it and then pulling away when they try. The cop tells her a dozen times he'll have to restrain her if she doesn't take the shot. Where the hell am I? It's like something out of a Kafka novel. My training in behavior kicks in and I really want to yell out that the cop needs to just tell her once that he'll restrain her and then do it or else she'll never comply because she's getting to much attention AND avoiding the shot.
Finally, two nurses come in, a young man and young woman, and introduce themselves. They are very nice and seem like they really enjoy their job. They make me feel very comfortable. They tell me they have to "clean me up" and then they will take me to my room. I'm thinking I'd like to be cleaned up.
They wheel me on the stretcher down the hall and transfer me to a HUGE metal stretcher with plastic on it. I'm thinking that this stretcher is awfully large. I can lay on it with my arms and legs sprawled completely out. I'm wondering why I need such a large stretcher and why there is plastic on it?
They then wheel me into what I can only describe as something that looks like a Jiffy Lube garage...complete with nozzles and hoses hanging above the "bay" they wheel me into. Then they explain:
"This is probably the worst part"- (I would find out later that though this part sucked, it was not the worst part)-
"We have to scrub the wounds with a brush, water and soap."
Did she just say they were going to "scrub" me where I am burned?
Holy Shit.
I can't really get my head around that...
...meanwhile, they assure me I can have as much pain medication as I need "But," they add on, "no amount of medication will completely take the pain away."
I really don't remember the scrubbing that well. I was in a lot of pain and screaming to be sure. It was the kind of pain that goes beyond tears. The tears come as a natural part of what your body does but you're not sad or even scared. It's just that sensation is such a weird combination "searing" and "hot" that you can only scream. I imagine that this is what being stabbed with a knife is like.
As I am screaming I start to wonder what kinds of things different people who have been in this very room have screamed before. The nurses keep telling me I can scream and call them names if I want to. I found it interesting that they said I could call them names. I had no interest in that and it didn't seem to me that doing that would make me feel better. I kept screaming "Oh Fuck," and "Motherfucker." But it wasn't like I blamed them. They gave me assurances every few seconds, "You're OK," "You're doing great," "Almost done," "I'm sorry, I know it hurts," etc..
They finished up and then they immediately wrapped me in towels. I was lifted into a wheelchair and then they dressed me in gauze bandages from my waist to my shoulders and on my arms. Then we were off to my new room...a single.
XXX
Next time: Read about the worst pain you will ever have!
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