Refined by Fire

by Brian Birdwell

  Next the therapist wrapped my hands with Ace bandages to stretch my fingers to their maximum or to force them into a tight fist.

  After fifteen minutes she removed the tape and bandages and began to work with each individual finger and joint. I would bend my fingers down and hold them for a ten-count, which was always painful.

  Then I did exercises with my hands. One of my first days in physical therapy, the therapist gave me a stack of cones. All I had to do was take the cones off the pedestal and then put them back on. It looked simple; a three-year-old could do it. Except I couldn’t.

  The therapist would hold out my arms so I could reach the cones because my elbows were in a bent, locked position. I kept trying to grip the cones, to force my hands to do something I used to be able to do without thinking but now couldn’t do, even with all the concentration I could muster. It was mentally agonizing. Here I was almost forty years old—and like an infant.

  After that we exercised my arms, elbows, and legs. I worked on a weight system with pulleys. I used a stationary bicycle or a treadmill to peddle and stretch my legs. On occasion the therapist would strap a cane to my arms and then strap a sandbag weight around the cane, which I’d have to lift. That was truly painful.

  One machine had screws placed above my head. The goal was to take a shape such as a triangle or a square, twist it off the screws from above my head, and twist it on a screw just below hip level. That way I was stretching my arms above my head and below my waist, twisting my wrists, and gripping the shape. I had to work to move all the shapes. I hated that machine!

  There were also colored clothespins. Each color signified the amount of strength it took to open it. Yellow was easiest, then green, blue, red, and black. Black was the most difficult. I had to grip the clothespin, squeeze it to open, pull it off a metal bar, and set it down. After I removed as many as I could, I had to place them all back on the metal bar. I tried to make it a game so I could measure my progress. One day all I could do was yellow. With each passing day I could add a different color. However, I was never able to add the black until I was discharged from the hospital.

  My worst day in PT was the day Ron, one of the therapists, placed me on a mat to work my right elbow and try to break up some of the scar tissue. I screamed through the entire session. Unfortunately Mel was outside the room, waiting for Matt to arrive, and could hear me screaming. When I returned to my room, I knew she had been crying.

  The therapy sessions typically lasted a few hours. I was so exhausted from them that I would return to my bed and sleep soundly.

  I became tired of being tired and hurting all the time. I became depressed and wondered, How long is this going to take? When am I going to be normal again? When am I going to be able to do this for myself?

  All of this was part of a humility I was forced to endure. Sometimes I was angry with the staff members, who had never experienced what I was enduring. I was a lieutenant colonel in the United States Army. I had been through hell—wars, deployments, bombing, and being shot at. I’d been through more in life than what they’d seen. When they called me a whiner and a moaner I found that insulting. I didn’t need a twenty-five-year-old physical therapist to tell me what a baby I was. I knew what I was going through. I understood very clearly what was happening to me and how rough a mission I had been given.

  Mel

  In late October while Brian was in PT, I saw Dr. Jordan in the hall. He stopped me and said, “Mel, I’m concerned about Brian. He really needs to be working his hands constantly. If he doesn’t, they’ll scar to the point that he’ll never be able to use them again.”

  I assured Dr. Jordan that I would mention that to Brian, which I did. Something in our conversation must have sparked some challenge within Brian. After that he started to turn a corner in his recovery. At lunch he opened his own milk carton! He told me that while he still dreaded PT, he didn’t fear it anymore. He was fighting the fight!

  Now it was time for him to see Matt again. In the twenty-six days Brian was in ICU, Matt had visited Brian once. He would sit in the waiting room every once in a while. But mostly he stayed at the Vances or went to the hotel where I was staying. Brian started to bug me about getting Matt to visit. But every time I would ask Matt, “Do you want to visit your dad?” he would say, “No.” He was afraid to visit because he didn’t know what he would encounter. The first time scared him enough that he didn’t want to do that again.

  Soon after Brian received the cadaver skin graft on his forehead, he told me, “Enough is enough. Get that kid in here. I don’t want to hear any more about Matt not wanting to come. You tell him he’s coming. This is an order, so he can stop sniveling and get down and see his dad.”

  I gave Matt his orders. His eyes almost bulged, he became so terrified. But he could see this time we weren’t backing down. So he said, “Okay, I’ll go in and see Dad.”

  Matthew walked in, took one look at Brian’s forehead covered with the cadaver skin and the infection, and gulped. The sight of Brian’s face horrified him. And Brian was extremely thin, less than 130 pounds, compared to his normal 168 pounds. It was a shock. We cried together. I told Matt it was okay to be scared. Then I tried to joke with him about how much Brian resembled Bert from Sesame Street.

  Matt said, “Dad, whatever you need, you just have your nurse call me. I’ll be over here in a second, day or night.” From that point on, he felt more comfortable visiting Brian—still not every day but more frequently.

  Brian

  I received word from General Van Antwerp during one of his frequent visits that I was to receive the Purple Heart medal. Since I was unable to attend the official ceremony, General Eric Shinseki came on October 24 and presented the medal to me in the hospital. Even in the hospital room the small ceremony was moving. I felt honored to receive the prestigious medal as General Shinseki pinned it to my pillow.

  As with President Bush’s visit, I had just been prepped for surgery to autograft my arms. After General Shinseki left, Dale, the nurse practitioner, found a photo of the Purple Heart on the Internet, printed it off, and pinned it to my hospital gown so Dr. Jeng would see it in surgery. He thought that was great!

  This was one of the toughest surgeries. Dr. Jeng grafted most of my arms with skin taken from my upper thighs. For days I had trouble walking. Every time I moved my legs the exertion caused the blood to rush to the donor sites. It felt as though someone was stabbing millions of needles into my legs.

  At some point I just wanted the pain to stop. I religiously watched the clock for my next round of medication. Then as the grafts began to heal, the intense itching started. A nurse would administer a shot of Benadryl every six hours. I could have one shot every six hours, and I watched that clock like a hawk.

  In the beginning of November I had Z-plasty done to my eyes. My face was contracting and scarring, which was pulling my lower lids down and drying out my corneas. Dr. Jordan cut an incision in the shape of a Z and put a small piece of skin from my abdomen in the incision to release the contraction so my eyes could close. Then he put a tight cotton roll on top of the graft and stitched the roll into the skin. My eyes would be closed completely for eight days, then the roll could be removed. Before that, every night Mel would put a special medicated cream along my eyes to keep them from drying out while I slept, since my eyes didn’t close.

  Mel told me Matt would walk by when I was sleeping and tell her, “Mom, he’s sleeping like a dead person. Go close his eyes.”

  Mel

  November 3. Brian’s fortieth birthday. This certainly wasn’t how I’d imagined spending the milestone day, but I couldn’t complain—he was alive. He looked into the mirror that morning and said, “I think I look pretty good for a guy who just got run over by a 757.”

  Our friends Dennis and Joyce called to say they wanted to visit and asked what food they could bring for the birthday celebration. “Taco Bell!” was the reply. Brian had been craving food from Taco Bell and his usual Coke. So that evening we
crammed into Brian’s room, ate Taco Bell food, and watched a college football game on television.

  There was a missing piece to the celebration, though—Matt. I was tired of Matt not being with us. He was still being shuffled between friends and family, and I knew I could no longer spend my time moving him around. It wasn’t fair to Matt. And I couldn’t focus on helping Brian if I had to continually find somewhere for Matt to live. So I finally decided he would come to the hospital and live in the hotel with me.

  So ten weeks after September 11, Matt joined us as a family again. Everyone in the hospital got to know him. He was the little twelve-year-old running around everywhere!

  It felt good to have Matt staying with me. We brought his Play Station from home and hooked it up to the TV. We were able to work on his schoolwork while I did laundry in the hotel’s small laundry room.

  Brian

  I could see the hospital’s MedSTAR helipad from my window. That’s not a good sign, I thought once—while I was in a good mood and could laugh. I told God, Okay, Lord, my office at the Pentagon overlooked the helipad. Now my hospital room overlooks the helipad. What are you trying to tell me? Those were the moments when the pain would subside enough for me to have a sense of humor. Of course, that, as everything else, wouldn’t last.

  I’d been in the hospital almost two months when Dr. Rhodes, my pain management physician, entered my room.

  “Good morning, Brian,” she said. “How are you doing?”

  “Not bad, this morning,” I told her.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Brian, you’re starting to heal nicely. While you still have a long road, you’re doing much better handling the pain. We’re going to begin lowering the amount of pain medication you are receiving.”

  “Whoa! Hold on,” I told her. “What do you mean we’re going to lower my pain medication?”

  “It’s understandable that anyone on the amount and type of medication you’ve been on, for as long as you’ve been on it, would struggle with an addiction to it.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked, afraid of what her next words might be.

  “That’s where you are right now. Brian, you are addicted to the pain medication.”

  I didn’t like hearing that. My feeling was that I’d already been through enough trauma. I didn’t want to have to tolerate more pain, too.

  “So when I come out of surgery, I have to deal with the pain? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “There are other options we’re going to explore. Drug-free options.”

  I was angry. I could tell the decision had already been made. This was reality—and I was just going to have to deal with it.

  Fourteen

  Waiting on God

  * * *

  Journal 10/12/01

  Lord, you know I’m anxious about what the future holds for Brian. I know he’s eventually going to be fine—I’m just a little scared about the journey there.

  * * *

  Mel

  In John 16:33 Jesus says, “In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world.” It’s a guarantee that everyone will, at some point in his or her life, experience hardship and pain. Those are the moments when we desperately need to lean on God’s strength.

  There wasn’t a day that went by while Brian was in the hospital that I wasn’t praying and trying to center myself in God. Almost every breath I breathed was a prayer. The apostle Paul says to “pray without ceasing” (1 Thessalonians 5:17). That was me. Some people call that a crutch; I call it a lifeline. I think I prayed more in the three months Brian was at Washington Hospital Center than I had prayed in my entire life.

  We went from a normal life to absolute chaos and the unknown. Every step we took felt as though we were stepping off a cliff. We learned every day about stepping out in faith.

  There were so many times when all we could do was trust God. I would hear him speak in the recesses of my mind and heart. He would say, I have this under control. I don’t need your help in this. Just follow the path I lay out for you. Those were such difficult words to hear because I like to have control.

  One night as I sat in Brian’s room listening to a CD, I heard a song performed by the worship leader Dennis Jernigan. It was titled “The Point of Grace.” Dennis captured exactly what I was feeling and experiencing. It was as if God picked out this song specifically for me to listen to during those days:

  When the fire of life leaves you so dry

  that your eyes have no tears left to cry;

  when heartache leaves you wond’ring why.

  Or wond’ring how you will survive!

  When you’ve grown too tired to run the race;

  find your strength is gone without a trace;

  when you’ve reached that lonely desp’rate place;

  you have reached the point of grace!

  I will meet you there where your striving ends!

  I will hold you there in My embrace!

  You will find the place where true joy begins

  when you’ve reached the point of grace!

  When you’ve reached the point of grace!

  When your hopes and dreams begin to fade;

  disappointment clouding all the plans you’ve made;

  feeling lonely, broken, and afraid;

  it seems so long since you have seen the light of day!

  When it seems like ev’ry trial you face leaves you one step closer to the place,

  where you fall away or reach for My embrace . . .

  Child, you have reached the point of grace!

  Just let go and you will see.

  Just how mighty love can be!

  Child, your greatest strength is when you’re weak,

  looking up from your brokenness to Me!

  I knew about brokenness: never leaving the hospital, looking at my precious husband whose body had been so physically devastated, not knowing if all the dreams and plans we’d made for the rest of our lives were now gone. Just being at the hospital all the time was oppressive. There’s not a lot of joy coming out of a burn unit, so it was difficult at times to maintain a positive perspective.

  I learned quickly that the only way I was going to make it through this experience was to depend totally on God. I knew this was way bigger than anything I could control or make better. Those were the times when God would gently remind me of 2 Corinthians 12:9-10:

  And He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ’s sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong.

  Okay, maybe I wasn’t well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, but I was definitely game for depending on God!

  More than any other time in my life, this experience personalized my relationship with Christ. It became a deeper, richer relationship.

  On September 11 when I found out that the Pentagon had been hit, I had gone immediately to the Bible verses that had always been important to me, such as Psalm 91—the same psalm that Natalie read to Brian in the Pentagon. As I read those verses, they took on a meaning I had never realized. Now I read them again. For the first time in the hospital the words of the psalmist caught my attention. The psalmist talks about God’s angels spreading their wings over us to protect us. I couldn’t get through reading it without crying because I realized that God was talking to Brian and me. He had done this for us. He had provided this protection for us.

  It seemed as if every psalm I read talked about being carried in God’s hand. And I knew that was exactly where Brian was—I could visualize it.

  Before every surgery Brian was so afraid. So we would pray together. I felt God’s presence descend upon us during those times. It was such a strong feeling that he was with us, so strong that, deep down, I knew everything would turn out a
ll right in the long run. It would simply take time.

  Brian

  Mel continually stood by my bed and read the Psalms and other passages of Scripture to me. Hearing words from the Bible had become even more important to me in such a time of emotional and physical pain. I wanted Mel to read to me as much as she could. It seemed as if every psalm she read talked about God carrying me in his right hand and protecting me. I felt God was talking directly to us. Through the Bible he was telling us that he protected me from my enemies and that justice would be his. It was comforting and powerful to hear her read, to be reminded of the great God we serve.

  After Mel read 1 Peter 5:10, she wrote it on a dry erase board and hung it in my room so we could be reminded of that promise every day: “After you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself perfect, confirm, strengthen and establish you.” That was not only a promise God made to us spiritually; it was a promise he made for me physically. I don’t know why the Lord kept me alive. Only the Lord can answer that question. But he kept his promise to me. While I may not be physically the same as I was before that day in the Pentagon, I am certainly a much stronger and better Christian after this experience.

  Our marriage is also stronger. I am fortunate to have a spouse who understands the gravity of our wedding vows. She definitely had to deal with the “for worse” and the “in sickness” part.

  We have been through the refiner’s fire as the Bible discusses in Zechariah 13:9. The Lord says,

  “I will bring [them] . . . through the fire,

  Refine them as silver is refined,

  And test them as gold is tested.

  They will call on My name,

  And I will answer them;

  I will say, ‘They are My people,’

  And they will say, ‘The Lord is my God.’”

  We’ve been tempered spiritually by the fire we’ve gone through. We were placed under the heat and the fire, and we’ve emerged a stronger product.