The Burn Journals

by Brent Runyon

  They call the scars over my arms and shoulders bands. And that's what they feel like. Really thick and strong rubber bands that keep me from moving the way I used to. It's sort of like that except that the rubber bands are made out of my skin.

  Dawn, my physical therapist, is coming in the other days now to stretch my legs. She says I'm getting stronger and soon she'll have me up and walking. I don't know about that.

  Alida is on her way over here for dinner and a movie, our big date thing. Tina suggests that they bring in the big blue La-Z-Boy chair and put me in it and then they can wheel me into this other room where there's a TV and a VCR and enough space to sit and have dinner. Dad picks up his newspapers and leaves the room.

  Tina brings in the chair, puts it close to my bed, and says, “Do you want to try to get in yourself or do you need some help?”

  I say, “Some help.”

  She gets Calvin, Reggie, and Mary from the nurses' station and they grab the sheet I'm lying on and lift me up and into the chair. I try to think of something funny to say about Superman, but I can't think of anything. Tina wheels me out of my room and the nurses at the nurses' station are smiling at me and I wave like Queen Elizabeth.

  We go into a room on the left, the playroom, I guess. There's a bunch of toys and a big yellow mattress and a TV and VCR. My dinner is here too, waiting for me. Chicken and potatoes and a carton of milk.

  Alida walks in. She looks exactly the same. Curly brown hair, bangs, and a big smile. She looks happy to see me. I think I was worried that she would be scared or something. Maybe I don't look that bad. My head is shaved from where they took the grafts and I still have a nose tube and I'm covered in Ace bandages, but at least I'm not on the ventilator anymore, and my hands are starting to work better, I don't even have to wear bandages on them anymore. They're still purple but not as bad as they used to be. My dad is cutting up my chicken and says, “Maybe we should get a bottle of wine and some candles?”

  I say, “This is the Burn Unit, Dad.” He laughs and says he'll leave us alone for a little while and come back to see if we need anything.

  Alida leans down to give me a hug, but she barely touches me and then sits down in a chair near mine. She says, “You look great.”

  I say, “So do you.”

  She says, “How are you?”

  I say, “Great. How are you?”

  “Great.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I say, “How's the Thomas Jefferson School for Brainiacs?”

  “It's good. I'm taking Russian now.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah, it's really cool. I never knew how different it was from English,” she says.

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, like, there's a bunch of different letters that are completely different from English. It's so cool.”

  “It sounds cool.”

  “It is.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  “Yeah.” She stops talking for a second and looks at me. I hope she doesn't ask me anything.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  She puts a piece of chicken on a fork and puts it in my mouth. Somebody must have told her that she was going to have to feed me since I can't get my hand up that far yet. It feels like I'm wearing a coat that is way too small.

  I chew slowly. I'm not quite used to this whole solid food thing. I swallow.

  I say, “My dad got a movie.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, it's a comedy. It's called Things Change.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Do you want to watch it?”

  “Sure. Do you want another bite?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Have you tried it?”

  “No, is it good?”

  “Kind of.”

  Neither one of us says much of anything. Then she says, “Have you heard about Stephen?”

  “What?”

  “He's dating Megan.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, they started going out a few weeks ago.”

  “That's good.”

  “I'm surprised he hasn't told you.” So am I, but I don't say that.

  My dad pops his head in the door and asks if we need anything. I say I'd like some ice, and I ask if he'd start the movie. He says sure and goes out for the ice.

  “Your dad is so nice.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So is your mom.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want another bite?”

  “No thanks.”

  My dad comes in and hands Alida the ice, pops in the video, and leaves the room. I close my eyes to try and rest a little while the previews are going.

  When I wake up, the nurses are lifting me into my bed. I try to ask where Alida went, but I'm too tired to talk.

  Dr. Rubinstein is here again with her annoying voice. I really don't like her. I really don't.

  She says, “Brent, how are you feeling today?” I know she doesn't care. She's just setting me up for questions that come later.

  “Brent, how are you feeling today?” she asks again. I see how it works. If I don't answer, she'll be stuck on the first question and she won't be able to work up into the more complicated ones.

  I take the knob that says Dr. Rubinstein and turn it all the way down and now I can't even hear her voice. Oh, there's that card from Aunt Katie and Uncle Ara with a picture of me and all my cousins making a sand horse on the beach in December. Taran rides horses and that sand horse, which is really pretty good now that I look at it, is an almost exact replica of her horse, whose name is, I can't remember the name, but it's some kind of stallion that she owns and tries to ride every day after school. Dr. Rubinstein's still sitting there, but I don't have to talk to her, I don't even have to look at her. Taran told me all about horses when we were making that, about how if you cut off their balls, you call them geldings. Mares are female. Stallions are male, of course. Colts are young males. I was so happy making that sand horse and I kept thinking, If I can only remember how it feels to be this happy, then when I go back home, I won't try to hurt myself again, but it's so hard to remember something like that in a month like February. February is so long. I look so stupid in those pink shorts. I'm never going to wear those ever again. Everything here smells like plastic. Plastic and raisins. Has anyone else noticed that? Doesn't it smell like plastic and raisins? I wonder what movie I'm going to get to watch later, or maybe Mom will read to me from a book. Hey, Brent, what do you call an overfull mental hospital? What? Chock full o'Nuts. That's funny. That's very funny.

  “What are you smiling at, Brent?” says stupid Dr. Rubinstein.

  I didn't realize that I was smiling. Oh well, no harm no foul, as they say. They say that all the time to people who listen. I don't have to listen. In fact, I think I'm one of the better nonlistening types here. What's your favorite color? Oh, favorite color. I would say black, it used to be black, but I'm not sure it's black anymore. Maybe some other color. I like green. I've always liked green. And navy blue. Navy blue is good.

  She closes the door behind her.

  Today's the day I take a bath. They're going to put me on a stretcher and wheel me into the bathroom and use some sort of contraption to lower me into the not-too-hot water. It'll be so much better than the other way we do burn care. No wiping every wound three times and screaming. And they won't have to change the sheets on my bed while I'm still lying on them. That totally sucks, rolling me onto my side and sliding the new sheet under me. I hate the feeling of my back scraping against the sheets.

  Tina comes in with a stretcher and a student nurse named Kerry. They're wearing scrubs and hairnets and masks. Tina's so cute, she can never quite get all her curly black hair into the hairnet. There're always at least a few pieces sticking out somewhere.

  “Ready, Brent?”

  “I'm ready.”

  God, I love her voice, so high and a little squeaky. The way she says my name. God. She make
s it sound like it has three or four syllables. My dad says she's from North Carolina. I think he has a little crush on her, like he does on every waitress that serves him food.

  They lift me onto the stretcher and wheel me down the hall to the bathroom. I've never been in here before. There's the big bathtub. I didn't know it was going to be all metal. I thought it was going to be like a spa.

  They start at my feet, unwrapping the Ace bandages. They can do it fast because there's not usually any skin stuck to that. Next there's a layer of white gauze that they have to be really careful with. Tina uses water to loosen all the scabs and the hard spots and then she pulls the gauze off quick. This is when it starts to hurt.

  When they get all the gauze off, they have to pull off the Xeroform, the yellow dressing that goes right over the wound. This is the worst part. When they put it on, it feels so wet and moist and comforting, but when they take it off the next day, it's dried and stuck to the wound. Tina's good at pulling the old Xeroform off. She knows when to let it sit there and pull it slowly, she knows when to add some water, and she knows when to just rip it off and let me scream for a few seconds.

  Finally they get me completely unwrapped, and I'm lying naked on the stretcher, with all the old burn dressings and gauze and Ace bandages around me. Tina puts a washcloth over my penis, and she and Kerry slide me onto the canvas stretcher. I have to lift my head up a little as I get on the stretcher and I accidentally see my whole purple body down below me. Skinny and purple.

  Tina uses the mechanism to lower me into the bathwater. It stings at first, but then it's so warm, and I guess I'm smiling pretty big because Tina and Kerry start to laugh and Kerry says, “I guess that feels good, huh?”

  I'm so light, I can move my hands and feet around again just like I was a real person. Tina puts some George Winston on the little boom box she brought with her. I close my eyes. There's nothing quite as beautiful as a piano.

  Tina comes over and I open my eyes. She's looking at my legs. “You're looking so much better. Kerry, did you see this new skin? They grew this in a tank in Boston and flew it back here to put on Brent. Have you ever been to Boston, Brent?”

  “No.”

  “Well, part of you has.”

  I laugh and close my eyes again. They both reach their hands into the water and start pulling off the little scabs, like barnacles, on my legs.

  An hour later, Tina says I have to get out and uses the scaffold to raise me up. They put more Xeroform on and more white gauze and then the layer of Ace bandages. They roll me back onto the stretcher and wheel me down the hallway, past the nurses' station, and into my room at the end of the hall. While they get my bed ready, I look at all the cards and pictures on the walls, some from family, some from friends, and a lot from people I don't even know. I don't think I've ever been this happy.

  I got a letter today in a manila envelope, the return address just said the White House. Inside was a letter from President Bush, written on this really nice stationery with the White House seal on it, that said how he'd heard about me from some congressman and was sorry to hear about my accident and that he and Mrs. Bush would keep me in their thoughts and prayers. I've never really liked President Bush. I remember when they started dropping the bombs on Baghdad and my family was watching CNN with Bernard Shaw talking on a telephone underneath a table in a hotel room somewhere and how stupid and sad and meaningless it all seemed. It was just so sad. I went upstairs and changed into all black clothing, socks and everything, and I went to school the next day like that. I found a bullet on the bus that day, a big long one. I don't know how it got there, but it was sitting on my seat when I sat down, like it was waiting for me. I picked it up and put it in my pocket and I remember thinking that I wished I had a gun because if I had a gun, I'd put that bullet in it and put it in my mouth and squeeze the trigger and make it all go away.

  Here's how my day goes. Every morning, I wake up and watch TV, the morning shows mostly, but if it's a weekend, I watch the cartoons. My mom gets here at about nine and brings me my breakfast. I can get anything I want, but I always get the same thing: cornflakes, milk, a banana, and a carton of orange juice.

  After breakfast, Mom usually reads a chapter from a book.

  About eleven, Tina comes in and tells me it's time to get ready for burn care and my mom leaves. Tina slips me a Mickey, like they say in all those old gangster movies, and I fall asleep. When I wake up, I'm usually naked. Before she starts cleaning the wounds, she gives me a shot of morphine. I always ask her to push the stuff right into my bloodstream so I can get that rush and whitewash my vision, and sometimes she does. Mostly she just lets it drip through the IV, which is still good, but I like to feel it all at once.

  That's when she starts cleaning the wounds. Every hole on my body has to be cleaned three times with a sterile cloth. She starts with my feet. Counting each swipe out loud. One, two, three. And I scream because Tina says I should if it hurts too much. One, two, three. Scream.

  She goes all the way up my legs. She does my hands and arms. Then she rolls me onto my stomach and does my back. My back is what hurts the most. She says that's because the burns aren't as deep back there. I wish they were deeper so it wouldn't hurt so much. I don't know why people need backs. I don't think I need mine. I'd be happy if they just removed the whole thing and left me alone.

  When she finishes my back, she rolls me back over, changes the sheet underneath me, and puts on the new bandages. Everything is wrapped in three layers. First the Xeroform, that's the wet yellow stuff that helps the skin grow. Then the gauze, a thick layer of white, and then Ace bandages, thousands of feet of Ace bandages wrapped all the way up my legs and up around my chest. I try and think of new jokes every time about the Mummy or the Invisible Man or something. I think Tina's heard them all before, but she laughs anyway.

  After burn care, I rest. Sometimes I take a nap. Sometimes my mom comes in and holds my hand while I sleep. She's gotten really good at reading a book with one hand and holding my hand with the other. When I wake up, even if I don't move, she's always looking at me when I open my eyes. Sometimes I try and trick her by opening only one eye, but she always catches it.

  We have lunch together, Mom and I. She brings a salad from home and I get chicken soup. If I want a glass of juice or some ice chips, she goes and gets it from the nurses' station.

  After lunch, Mom gets the VCR and puts on a movie. Some Hitchcock thing or a goofy comedy, and I usually fall asleep in the middle.

  Becky and Dawn come in the afternoon and stretch my arms and legs for me.

  When it starts to get dark, Mom goes home to make dinner for Craig. But pretty soon after she leaves, Dad comes from work and has dinner with me in his suit. He still smells the way he used to when he came home from work, like he's been smoking his pipe.

  When the good stuff comes on TV, Dad goes home and then they take me in to have my bath and change my bandages again. By the time I get back in bed, Arsenio Hall is already on and I fall asleep while he interviews Wesley Snipes.

  My buddies Adam and Jake just sent me a cool present. It's a gigantic ace of spades, about as big as a movie poster, that they must have gotten from a magic shop. They sent a card with it that says, To the one true god, the Ace of Spades. Get better soon, Jake and Adam. That's cool.

  Mom and Dad ask me what it means. “It's hard to explain,” I say, “it's just a joke.” They look confused, but they let it drop.

  Dawn, the physical therapist, is here and she says I'm going to stand today. She says, “I'll help, but you're going to stand.” It's been almost two months since I walked and I can barely even sit up in a chair. But she seems determined, so I decide not to argue with her. She gets some nurses to come and move me from my bed to the blue chair. I'm starting to get nervous.

  Dawn puts the brake on the chair and lowers my legs so my Ace-bandaged feet are hovering above the ground. I've never really looked at the floors in this place. They're a weird olive color and they're shiny. D
awn squats in front of me and tells me to scoot forward in the chair so I can get my feet on the ground.

  I say, “How do I do that?” I'm not being difficult. I really don't know how to.

  She says, “Lean your weight to the left and push your right hip forward.” I do what she says and it kind of works. My right leg is a little closer to the floor. “Now do the same with your left leg.” I try, but my body is stiffer on that side or something.

  I say, “I'm trying, but it's hard,” and my voice sounds really whiny and babyish, even to me.

  I think she can tell that if she yells at me, I might start to cry, so she says quietly, “Okay, just do your best and I'll help. Lift your arms up as high as you can.” I do it, but the bands are so tight it's hard to lift them very high. She leans forward and slips her arms under mine and puts her hands on my hip bones.

  I say, “Be careful, I've got some open spots back there.”

  She says, “I know,” and sounds kind of annoyed when she says it.

  She's really strong, stronger than she looks, and she picks me up and slides me forward in one quick movement to the edge of the chair so that my feet are really on the floor. “How does that feel?”

  “Cold.” I look down. My toes are uncovered, and for some reason the toenail on my big right toe is completely black. Also, I can only feel the floor with my left foot.

  “Are you ready?”

  “No.”

  She waits about ten seconds and asks me again. “Are you ready?”

  “Okay,” I say, but my voice is shaking.

  “I'll count to three and then we'll stand up together. One, two, three.” She pulls me up by the hips and I put my weight on my feet and I'm standing. She's still holding on to me, keeping me from falling over, but I'm actually standing.