Refined by Fire

by Brian Birdwell

  I wasn’t the most godly woman at that point, I’m ashamed to admit.

  Yet in the course of the questions and anger, God continued to show up. Our church family was unbelievable. We were still relatively new to Immanuel and probably knew only twenty or twenty-five families. Yet the outpouring of love from so many people in the church was overwhelming to my spirit. They visited and prayed with us. They sang for us. They cleaned our house. They brought us food. They drove Matthew to and from the hospital on a moment’s notice. They brought Brian a TV/VCR for his hospital room so he could watch John Wayne movies. They paid my cell phone bill. Whatever I needed, they made sure it was taken care of—even the least little thing. To them it didn’t matter. If it was important to my family, it was important to them.

  And there were others who cared for us. JoAnn Pendry, a friend of Jan Menig’s, visited me. JoAnn’s mother had been burned. She recommended that I read the book Severe Burns. She also brought me a gift package from Crabtree & Evelyn, filled with lotions and soap because she knew I was going to be at the hospital for a long haul. She told me about some of the things I was going to experience with Brian. As the days wore on, I discovered she hit the bull’s-eye regarding surgeries and how everything would be two steps forward and ten steps back.

  Nancy Fox, the social worker I had so disliked at the beginning of our relationship, also became a strong rock of support during those days. One day while we were sitting in the waiting room, she asked how I was doing. Then she confessed, “Mel, on September 11 I was so overwhelmed at the emotion of all the families, I couldn’t let myself get emotionally involved with any of you. If I did, I knew I could not have gotten through one of those conversations, let alone seven of them.”

  We cried together and hugged each other. I realized that even people who didn’t have family members directly injured from 9/11 were still hurting and processing the trauma, too. I appreciated her honesty. It helped me understand some of what she was experiencing and that Brian’s injury affected her as well.

  Brian

  I’m not sure why, but I never thought, Why me? There was never a Woe is me, Lord. Why did you let this happen to me? I never considered any of that. I knew it wasn’t because I was some tough Army guy. More so, it was because I knew evil people had made an evil decision. The Lord didn’t will those planes into those buildings. Evil men made a choice to do so.

  Every once in a while I played the What ifs? mind game. What if I had been running errands? What if I had talked to Mel before then? What if I had died? But I realized how futile that thinking was. The reality was that I was where I was—outside the men’s room. When the plane crashed, I had no capacity to fight back. It wasn’t even a matter of surviving based on any special Army training. It was purely God protecting me.

  The only thing the Army did to help prepare me for this was to train me to be much more matter-of-fact. In the Army you know that everything has a purpose, even if you don’t know it or understand. My Army training taught me to think, Okay, here’s the situation, and this is what we’ve got to do. It may stink, but let’s get on with it. Those of us in the military may say that in a very straightforward, nonchalant way. But it’s not that we’re not concerned about a crisis. We’re just trying to process it, to bring as much order out of chaos without the emotional side taking over. And that same trained thinking helped me when I couldn’t understand the reasons.

  That’s not to say I didn’t ask God questions. I certainly did! I asked God on many occasions and in particular on those many long, sleepless, pain-filled nights lying in that bed, Lord, why didn’t you take me? I was in so much pain physically, and I had a lot of mental anguish because of my inability to communicate other than spelling or mouthing words. Eventually we obtained a dry erase board to write things on—but even that didn’t substitute for being able to fully communicate.

  Mel struggled to understand what I was trying to say or do, and I don’t think I succeeded well at communication. I thought many times about how it would have been better for the Lord to have taken me home when I was lying on the floor burning in the Pentagon.

  I could have asked God, You had the sovereignty to stop the plane. So why didn’t you? After all, I can see all the things he didn’t allow to happen—for instance, the entire building didn’t fall, the plane didn’t hit a fully staffed wedge that would have killed more people—seeing how he knew what was happening all along. It seems as if God said, I’m going to put these certain situations in play so that it can’t be the worst.

  I also could have questioned, If you did all those things, then why didn’t you just not allow that to happen that day? Why didn’t you make it rainy so the planes couldn’t fly? Or bring snow or some other weird weather pattern? Yet I think only the Lord can really answer those questions.

  I’ve had people ask me, “If the Lord saved you, why didn’t he save Cheryle and Sandi?” I guess in some ways people expect me to have some sort of survivor’s guilt. I’ve not had survivor’s guilt. The question is best asked of God, knowing he’s going to answer that the day we get to heaven. But will we really be interested in the answer when we’re already with him?

  My point is that only the sovereign Creator of the universe can tell you why some things are allowed and some things aren’t. I never thought what happened September 11 was the Lord’s disciplining or punishing the nation—or me.

  Evil people chose an evil course—and God allowed them, like all of us, to have free choice. But when that occurred, it brought America, as a nation, back to acknowledging God as our foundation.

  I never thought, Why didn’t you stop the plane? There were others who grew bitter toward God and asked, Why did God allow this to happen? But as Mel and I discussed it, our view was this: We are going through a difficult challenge. We don’t really understand God’s purpose in allowing this to happen. But we will be faithful.

  Were there times when I just wanted it to be over? When I wanted the suffering to just stop? Oh yes. On the eighth or ninth day after coming out of the tank for debridement, I desperately wanted to die. In my heart and my mind I wanted to give up. I thought, Why didn’t you take me, Lord? I begged God for death to come.

  Still, even at that point I didn’t think, Why me? While I didn’t know why God had spared me, I knew it had to be for a reason. And I was determined to find out what that reason was.

  Mel

  The worst day besides 9/11 came the day Brian’s nurse walked into the waiting room and asked me to go to Brian’s room. He had returned from a tank session and had a few moments before surgery. As soon as I cleared the curtain to his room he began reaching for me, sobbing. He begged, “Please, I can’t continue to do this.” He was in so much pain.

  My heart was breaking. All I could say, “You have no choice. You have to do this. You have to keep fighting for Matt and me.”

  Yet even then, while I’m not sure why, I never asked God, Why Brian? Why did this happen to us? I did ask God, though, Why did you spare Brian and not some of the others?

  I thought about those first days, when members of Antoinette Sherman’s family spent hours with their pastor praying for her. Why didn’t God answer by healing her and allowing her to live? Why did God choose to allow Brian to live and not her? Why did Antoinette have to die? Why did she live as long as she did, only to die? I thought, Maybe to spare her the kind of pain Brian was experiencing.

  I thought about the other families who were directly affected by the terrorists’ actions. People who normally would have been sitting right in the impact area, but, for some reason, weren’t there that day. Either they had meetings, or they needed to run some errands. One lady told me, “I just had to go have a Slurpee. I don’t even like Slurpees, but for some reason that day I just had to have one. So I went to get a Slurpee, and that’s what saved my life.”

  There were a lot of days when I had to pray, Don’t allow me to succumb to fear and anxiety. Allow me constantly to renew my mind. Guide me through the day
. Help me to show Christ to others.

  I didn’t have answers. And I may never know on this earth. Sometimes there are no answers. God says in Isaiah 55:9,

  For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

  So are My ways higher than your ways,

  And My thoughts than your thoughts.

  I cannot explain the mind of God.

  But I do know this: Every day I thanked God that he did spare Brian. God gave Brian to me twice.

  One of the greatest ministry tools I had was music. So many times I’d put on my headphones and listen to music to escape my reality. I distinctly remember one day sitting at the end of the ICU hallway, staring out the window at the National Cathedral off in the distance, when my tape started to play the hymn “It Is Well with My Soul.” It was probably the first time in my life that I actually listened to the lyrics penned by Horatio Spafford when his four daughters drowned in the Atlantic Ocean after a freak shipping accident:

  When peace like a river attendeth my way,

  When sorrows like sea billows roll;

  Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,

  “It is well, it is well with my soul.”

  Right then I told God, “This is not well with my soul, and I don’t like the lot you’ve given me.” I wanted Brian healed, home, and NOW! I had a nice little tantrum!

  Through all my anger, I felt God’s loving-kindness come through. I’d always heard people at church talk about God’s loving-kindness—and I’d never quite understood what that word meant until that day in the ICU hallway. To me it meant the never-ending shower of God’s perfect love. God has been merciful to me. He reminds me that this tragedy—9/11—hadn’t been his plan either. But because of people’s free will, they can choose to do evil rather than good. Yet I can choose to trust that he will carry me through this time.

  How could I stay angry with God? I was blessed that Brian was alive. I had seen on television so many people whose spouses hadn’t survived. What did I have to be angry about?

  As time passed and I began to see and understand more of Brian’s injuries, there were times when I’d become angry at the people who had committed this act of terror—cowards that they were, and in the name of their god no less! But ultimately I knew the fate they had chosen was far worse than anything I could ever have dreamed for them. I was able to work through that anger because I knew that the ultimate Judge, God, would be just, and he would hold accountable those who had caused such destruction.

  Twelve

  Pressing On

  * * *

  Journal 9/30/01

  Saying good-bye to Matt was really hard. I cried. I feel so torn when he leaves, yet life is simpler when he’s gone. I went to the waiting room to have some time alone with the Lord. . . . When Brian and I were alone he told me he was scared about what is scheduled to happen tomorrow with the tanking and surgery. He’s worried about feeling the scrubbing they do; he wants to be knocked out. He’s worried about whether he’ll sleep tonight without having to ask for pain medication. . . .

  * * *

  Brian

  Won’t this ever stop? I wondered almost constantly. Nothing seemed to help. The staff eventually put me on a PCA, where I could push a button and give myself pain medication.

  I couldn’t sleep. I could only lie on my back—which was burned. I couldn’t move around because my body was so swollen and bandaged. There was only one position—and it wasn’t comfortable. Nothing I did relieved the searing pain. I was unable to do anything for myself. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t write because of the burns on my hands and fingers. I couldn’t see well because of my infection and because I had lost my glasses at the Pentagon. While I had replacements, I couldn’t wear them because of the burns to my face and ears. I couldn’t walk well. I couldn’t feed myself. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom by myself! I lay in anguish—not just physically, but mentally. And I was scared.

  I needed Mel to be with me as much as possible. I would open my eyes and immediately have to get a sense of my surroundings. Mel was always my reality check. I wanted her in my room when I was awake and when I came out of surgery. Because of the medication and the extreme pain, I couldn’t focus mentally, and I was unable to understand what the staff did to me. When Mel was there she could explain everything to me or would at least hold my bandaged hand or rub my feet. Mostly, I just didn’t want to be alone.

  The times when Mel couldn’t be with me, I could tell it was difficult for her to leave. There was an emptiness within me when she wasn’t there. I knew my advocate was gone. She was the person who knew what worked and didn’t work, what pain I felt and didn’t feel. While the hospital staff changed each twelve hours, Mel was the constant who would always update the new nurse.

  Mel was the one who made sure we continued whatever improvements were made in my treatments, including things I thought worked well for pain management.

  Mel

  I had a nickname. Some of the staff and the social workers from Walter Reed called me “The Pit Bull.”

  I knew I wasn’t the kindest, most godly woman through a lot of this. But I also knew I had to do whatever was within my ability to ensure that Brian was well cared for and was as comfortable as possible.

  One evening after one of Brian’s surgeries, Dr. Jeng came into the waiting room to update me on Brian’s status, then said, “Mel, you have to back off on the physical therapists. I don’t think you should be in with Brian during that time anymore.”

  That frustrated me. I knew Brian was terrified of one of the physical therapists. When she worked with Brian, she seemed harsh and unsympathetic to his concerns.

  I told Dr. Jeng, “I’ll back off if she’ll adjust the manner in which she deals with Brian. And you’re going to have to explain to Brian why I can’t be in with him anymore.”

  When Dr. Jeng left, I sat and stared at the wall. I feel like I’m screwing up, I thought, miserably. I didn’t want to be a pit bull! But my job, as I saw it, was to be Brian’s advocate—to do all I could to help him heal. He needed me, and I was trying to learn to do things for him.

  Maybe I’m trying too hard.

  I prayed again to seek God’s guidance. While I wanted to do everything I could to give him the care he required, I realized I needed to let him progress without pushing him. I also knew that he would never improve if he lost his determination. I wasn’t going to allow that to happen, so I knew I had to take charge. I would try to back off on the physical therapists. But it was a constant tug-of-war.

  Brian

  There was no rest for me. Nightmares took my mind captive as I slept. They typically occurred when there was a change in my sleeping or pain medication, which was often. They always revolved around either being on fire, boiling, or experiencing intense heat. In one nightmare I relived the entire experience in the Pentagon—except this time I died.

  The worst recurring nightmare was that I was swimming in a perfectly blue, nice recreation center swimming pool while someone gradually turned up the heat until I was swimming in boiling water. I was trapped in the center of the pool, being burned and trying desperately to swim to the edge to get out. I splashed and flailed to get away from the burning sensation. But the boiling water became hotter and hotter. There was no escape.

  Mel

  I could tell when Brian was having a nightmare. He would hyperventilate, and his eyelids would twitch.

  As soon as he started breathing heavily and quickly, I would wake him to try to stop the dream. I would say, “Brian, you’re having a nightmare. You’re safe. You’re okay. I’m here.” I would repeat those words while he sobbed uncontrollably.

  I couldn’t hold or hug him because his arms still had no skin. My words were the only way to console him. And that was hard. I could only be so strong for him—especially when just watching his torture was tearing me up inside. I wanted it to stop! I wanted everything to become normal again. I didn’t think that was too much to ask! This was so unfair, so undeserved
.

  I would grab my Bible and read aloud. That seemed to soothe him—and me. So many verses took on new meaning for us as I read. Like 1 John 3:2: “We are children of God, and it has not appeared as yet what we will be. We know that when He appears, we will be like Him, because we will see Him just as He is.” It reminded me that we don’t know what the future will hold for Brian or our family. I spent a lot of time praying that whatever the future held, I wanted it to glorify God. But mostly I wanted it to be easy. What human doesn’t? Even though I knew from what we went through that there would be no such thing as an easy road on this trip.

  And then there was Matt. I was overridden with guilt about leaving my son alone to fend for himself, even though I knew the Vances loved him unconditionally. Matthew had lived with Debbie Vance and her family for seven weeks by now. His family had been completely ripped from his life. He didn’t know if his dad was going to live or die. Plus his dog, Hayley, was taken from him and sent to live with the Boykins. It was tough for him. He was enduring more than any twelve-year-old should ever have to endure.

  I wanted to see him and spend time with him. But I was so torn! During my time with Matt I would think about wanting to be with Brian. I was so eager to be back in his room because I knew how desperately he needed me. And I’m ashamed to say there were many times when I counted the minutes until Matt would go back with the Vances so I could focus solely on Brian again. I had trouble knowing how to divide my time between the two people I loved the most. I asked God to show me how to manage my time with each of them.

  Every time Matt visited he grew a little taller—until finally he was taller than I was. I felt as though I was missing out on his life . . . and that I was a failure as a mother.

  There were also the day-to-day items I had to handle—bills, insurance, and household issues—that didn’t disappear just because we lived at the hospital.

  In late September Brian was ready to start on regular food. He had been fed through a feeding tube all this time, and he wanted Jell-O—and his morning Coke! Well, my old Brian is returning, I thought. I just shook my head. But deep down, I was thrilled.