by Jack Weyland
It was, more than anything, something she felt, and felt deeply. She had always believed he was the Savior of the world, but, now, she knew something else: that he was her Savior, her advocate, her champion, and, yes, her friend. I want to be his friend. I want to live so I’ll merit that honor. I hope he will always be able to count on me. I know now that I will always be able to count on him.
She found it difficult to explain any of this. She tried once with her mom and dad.
“Jesus is helping me get through this,” she said.
“Of course he is, dear,” her mother said.
“No, you don’t understand. I mean he really is. I mean, personally helping me.”
“He helps everyone,” her dad said.
“He is my Savior and my redeemer. He is helping me get through this.”
“You bet, he is,” her dad said, as if he knew what she meant.
“You don’t understand. It’s like he’s near me. He loves me. He really loves me. I’m sure of it.”
“He loves everyone.”
They still didn’t understand.
Her mother gave a sideways glance at her dad. “She’s under a lot of medication. It might be clouding her thinking.”
Emily gave up trying to describe what she had discovered. What she was feeling was sacred to her, and she could not bear to have other people dismiss what she was feeling or attribute it to the medications she was taking. It was real, but she decided it was also deeply personal.
No one will ever understand what the Savior and Father in Heaven are doing for me. But I know. And I am so grateful. I will always be grateful.
I thought I had lost everything in the fire, but that’s not true. I gained something too. From that loss comes me, Emily–3.
* * * * *
The next morning Brooke was with Emily when Dr. Beiser came by to examine her. When he was done, he said, “You’re making good progress, Emily. Today we’ll be fitting you for a burn scar support garment. Around here, we call them a Jobst, but that’s just a brand name.”
“What does it do?”
“It keeps constant, gentle pressure on the damaged areas, and that keeps the scars from getting thick. Thick scars are less flexible and more unsightly.”
“How long will I have to wear it?”
“Probably about a year and a half.”
“Everywhere I go!”
“Yes, that’s right. I know that seems like a long time, but, believe me, they do help.”
Later that morning, the nurse who measured her for the pressure garment showed her a picture of what it would look like. The model in the picture, a young woman, was smiling. Looking at the brown, skin-tight sleeve, Emily thought to herself how phony the picture was. I’ll bet she’s not even really a burn victim, she thought.
The nurse explained that the pressure garment Emily would be wearing would come in three separate pieces: the top, a sort of tight-fitting turtleneck sweater that would cover her neck, chest, arms, and stomach; a pair of shorts, needed to protect donor sites where skin had been harvested for skin grafts; and a kind of a hood that would cover her chin, cheeks, and most of her head.
Learning to wear the compression garment was just one more thing. It was exhausting, thinking about all that she had gone through since her accident, and it never seemed to end. Every day brought something new: confronting the shock of seeing the damage done to her body, enduring debridement, going through the surgery, having to have her dressings changed, learning to live with a tube that ran up her nose and down her throat, doing the physical therapy, and enduring the daily pain. It was all more than it seemed possible to endure. The best thing about learning to wear the compression garment was that it was one of the last things she’d have to do before getting out of the hospital.
That night her home ward bishop came to visit her. At first sight, Bishop Ingersol, who taught biology at Weber State University, did not appear to be athletically gifted. His slim build and medium height hid his skill at racquetball, which he played nearly every day during his lunch hour. When he was younger, he had been ranked among the best players in Utah. And even now, in his late thirties, he kept open a standing invitation to the youth in his ward, that if they could get over ten points in a game that went to twenty-one, he would buy them a milkshake.
While in high school, Emily had noticed that the most rebellious boys in the ward seemed to get no more than eight or nine points in their first games against Bishop Ingersol. He kept them coming back by saying, “I think a couple more games and you’ll get that milkshake.” With each game came encouragement to live gospel standards. Often they managed to win the coveted milkshake just before they left on their missions.
Bishop Ingersol explained something to Emily that her parents had already told her—that the members of the ward had all been fasting and praying for her that day. He had come to tell her the news as he himself was about to end his fast.
“Thank you, Bishop,” she said. “Please thank everyone for me.”
“And we’ve put your name on the prayer roll in the Ogden Temple. So, every hour that the temple is open, people will be praying in your behalf.”
Emily had heard of that but never thought it would be something she would need in her life. Imagining those prayers made her cry. The tears welled up in her eyes, and she looked toward her bedside stand for a tissue. Bishop Ingersol quickly plucked a couple from the box and handed them to her.
Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Then Emily said, “Can I tell you something, Bishop?”
“Sure, anything. What is it?”
She thought he’d understand, but even so, she hesitated. Finally, she said, “When I pray for help and think about Jesus Christ, it doesn’t hurt as much.”
Bishop Ingersol thought about that for a moment, then said, “There is no one more compassionate than the Savior. In fact, there’s a scripture that tells us that. Have you got your Book of Mormon here?”
“I couldn’t look it up anyway. It’s hard for me to do any reading.”
“I’ll write it out for you,” he offered.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I know, but I’d like to.”
Bishop Ingersol excused himself to find a Book of Mormon and something to write on. Fifteen minutes later he returned.
“One of the hospital service volunteers found me some poster board and a marker,” he explained.
He had hand-lettered the passage from Alma 7:11–12, in large enough print so Emily could read it from her bed:
* * * * *
And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people. . . . and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.
* * * * *
The next day was similar to the day before except one of the physical therapists had her sit up in a chair and then try to walk. She was surprised by how weak she had become and how hard it was just to stand up and move her legs.
“That’s real good,” he said. “But can I make one suggestion? Most people, when they walk, swing their arms. You’re holding them stiff. It makes you look like a robot.”
“It’ll hurt if I do that.”
“I know, but try it just a little bit.”
She tried again, this time with a tiny bit of arm movement.
“Good girl. We’ll just keep working on it.”
Every few days Brooke and Emily repeated the ritual of using a hand mirror to look at the damaged areas. Each time Brooke would ask, “What do you see that looks different?” And each time, Emily would try to point out areas where she thought improvement had taken place. But things progressed slowly, and it wasn’t always easy to see a change. She was discouraged the healing wasn’t going fast
er.
Chapter 8
She decided to talk to Brooke.
“Sometimes I wish I’d died in the fire.”
Brooke nodded. “I bet you do feel that way sometimes.”
Emily was surprised that Brooke didn’t try to talk her out of the way she was feeling.
“But you didn’t die, Emily. So, what kinds of things are you going to do to get through this?”
“I don’t know what it will be like when I leave here. I’m afraid people will make fun of me.”
Brooke nodded. “I can’t tell you that’s not going to happen. Maybe we should talk about how you’re going to cope with it, if it does happen.”
“This never ends, does it?”
“But just look at all you’ve accomplished since you’ve been here.”
Emily was in no mood for a pep talk. “Just leave me alone, okay?”
* * * * *
Later that day Emily broke down a little and confided in her mother her fears that she was going to be scarred forever. Then, after her parents returned from supper, her dad waited only a few minutes before bringing up the subject. He cleared his throat and said, “Your mother says you’re worried about your face and neck and . . . uh . . . chest.”
Emily was mortified, immediately wondering how many people her folks would talk to about her. She could just imagine what they would say—to people in the ward, people at work, people in the check-out line at the store—they’d all know; they’d all be talking about her.
Have you heard about the Latrell girl?
Oh, yes. Isn’t it sad?
Emily couldn’t stand the thought.
“We’ll pay for whatever you need, even if the insurance won’t,” her dad was saying.
She looked closely at him. Tears were brimming in his eyes.
She couldn’t handle it. “I’m really tired. Can you go now?” she said.
“Sure, whatever you want, Princess.”
I’m not anybody’s princess, she thought. I’m a freak show.
The next day, her roommate Molly dropped by the burn unit with a wedding announcement. After visiting for a few minutes, Molly said, “You know, I really wanted you to be in my wedding line, but, uh, . . . I mean, with you being burned . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” Emily said.
“I’d love it if you could at least come to the reception.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Will you be out of here by then?” Molly asked.
“I hope so.”
“Then come. All our friends from college will be there.”
“It’d be better if I didn’t show up.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I wouldn’t want to freak out your guests.”
“Don’t say that, Emily. You’re more important to me than any of them. Please come.”
“I’ll see how it goes,” Emily said, certain though that she would not attend.
Molly was full of cheerful talk about her wedding plans and where they’d spend their honeymoon and where they’d live after the wedding. Although Emily tried to be happy for her, it was like hearing someone talk about visiting a new and inviting country when you know you’re never going to make that trip.
I will never be married, she thought bitterly. Who would want me now?
She remembered how as a little girl, she and her friends would play getting married, pretending to walk down the aisle and dreaming about wedding gowns, cakes, flowers, and photos. In her childish games, she’d never put a specific face to her groom. It was just as well.
Whoever he was to be, I hope he has a happy life. She felt like screaming. Just because I wanted to have a stupid bowl of noodles on a Sunday afternoon, I will never know what it’s like to be cherished by someone. And I’ll never have any children.
* * * * *
Because she was no longer in critical condition, Emily was moved to another room the next day. Brooke showed up to see how she was doing.
“How are things going today?”
“Just great.”
“You want to talk about it?” Brooke asked.
Emily thought about it. She shook her head.
“Would it be helpful to talk to someone who has had a similar experience?”
Emily thought about it. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
The next day was Brooke’s day off, but another child-life specialist, a young woman named Angelica, showed up shortly after lunch with a visitor.
“Emily, this is Elizabeth Gneiting. I’d like you to talk to her. I’ll leave you two alone for a while.”
Elizabeth was an attractive woman in her midthirties. She wore her hair long and was smartly dressed in a navy blue business suit and a white blouse, buttoned high on her throat. She was carrying a day-planner and a cell phone.
She stepped to the side of Emily’s bed.
“Brooke tells me you’re worried about how you’re going to look,” Elizabeth said. She spoke in a businesslike, professional way, and Emily wondered if she were a doctor or an attorney.
“I know how I’m going to look. I just don’t like it.”
“What happened to you?” Elizabeth asked.
Even thinking about the fire made Emily feel ill. She didn’t want to describe it. Instead, she just said, “I got burned in a cooking accident.”
Elizabeth nodded her head. “I was using gasoline to strip some furniture in my basement when the water heater ignited the fumes. Stupid, huh?”
“You were burned?” Emily asked.
Elizabeth bent toward Emily and lifted her long brown hair away from her face and neck. “Take a look,” she said.
Emily studied Elizabeth’s face. The skin was a little red, but smooth and soft-looking.
“It looks good.” Emily said.
“Thank you, but you wouldn’t have said so five years ago. That’s when it happened. I spent nearly two months being treated in this facility—going through all the things you are.”
“But how badly were you burned?” Emily asked. “I mean, look at me. Was it this bad for you?”
Elizabeth nodded. “When I first saw myself, I wanted to die. I didn’t think I’d ever be normal. But that’s the thing about this place. They never give up. They just keep trying to make it better. If they’re willing to do that, then I think you’d better not give up either.”
Emily just stared at her.
“Look,” Elizabeth said. “I know all about the pain and the long nights and the fears you’re experiencing. It’s not easy, and only those who go through it can appreciate how hard it is. But things improve. It may never be as good as it was, but life goes on. Honest. You need to hang in there and not get discouraged. If you’re willing to work with them, they can do miracles in this place.”
Emily looked at Elizabeth, not even daring to hope she could look as good as the attractive and confident woman standing next to her bed.
“Do you really think so?” Emily asked.
“I know so,” Elizabeth said. She took a business card out of her planner and put it on the nightstand. “Listen, if you ever want to talk, call me at this number, night or day. I’ll always have time for you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome. Well, I’d better go. I need to catch a plane. But, remember, call me anytime.”
* * * * *
When her parents came that night, the first thing Emily said was, “I’m not going to be ugly.” She told them about Elizabeth’s visit.
During her parents’ visit, her father sat in a chair and kept dozing off. Looking at him, Emily noticed that his hair had thinned considerably and was more gray than she remembered.
“You look tired, Dad,” she said.
“Just getting old, I guess.”
“You might as well tell her,” her mom said.
Emily had never seen her father embarrassed, but he seemed to be so now. He hesitated before saying, “Well, I’m a paper
boy. Isn’t that something? You’d think I’d have done that when I was a kid, but, hey, I never was very good at timing.”
“You’ve got a paper route?” Emily asked.
“Yeah, but don’t picture me riding a bike from house to house—that’s not what I do. I do rural delivery, so I mostly drive around and put the papers in boxes on the same posts where they have their mailboxes.”
“What time do you do that?” she asked.
“Oh, pretty early.”
“Tell her.”
“Well, I get up at four. I’m usually done by seven, so that gives me time to go home, have some breakfast, and get to work. So it works out real well.”
“But why would you do that?”
He looked uncomfortable.
Her mother answered for him. “We’re concerned the insurance isn’t going to cover all these medical bills,” she said.
Her dad interrupted, “You don’t need to worry. They’ll cover all the basic costs, but, . . . well, . . . I want you to have every operation they say you should have . . . even if the insurance won’t pay for it,” he said.
He’s doing this for me, Emily thought.
Emily had never felt close to her father. It seemed he was always at work, and when he wasn’t at his job at the supermarket, he spent his time doing yard work for other people. In the summer, he had hardly been at home at all, usually working until dark. He did yard work most of the time she was growing up, until he hurt his back and began having trouble lifting his mowers in and out of the bed of his pickup truck. Emily had never given much thought to why he worked so much. All she did was resent his never having time for her and wish that he were as funny and personable as some of her friends’ fathers.
I’ve never appreciated him, she thought. He’s always been in the shadow of my mother. We put him there, and he has stayed there because he thought that was where we wanted him.
He’s always been the weak parent. I’ve known that since junior high school. He was always saying, “Go ask your mother.” So after a while I quit even asking him. And that made him irrelevant.
He’s getting older, and someday he’ll die. And maybe he’ll go to his grave thinking of himself as a failure because Mom and I paid so little attention to what he did for us. I’ve never even thanked him for what he’s provided for us or for him being dependable. And now he’s got a paper route. For me.
