Growing up, I always had a queer fascination with fire. Not the kind that ever worried my parents so much they thought I had a problem, mostly just the kind that every little kid with wonder in their eyes had. I can remember on many occasions in my teenage years my parents would tell me to stop playing around with fire. I was raised in a family of smokers, and although I never became one myself, there was always a lighter or matches hanging somewhere to be found in the house. My hands were like magnets to them.
I can remember exactly my first "burn". I was 12 and playing with a lighter and a straw leftover from a McDonald's cup that we had gotten earlier in the day. Straws seemed to burn so interestingly because of how the plastic so easily shrunk once heat got anywhere near it. As I was holding it up to watch it drip off the flame, a small piece of hot liquid plastic fell onto my inner left thigh. The pain from the quarter-inch area of melted flesh was so intense I quickly dropped the lighter and straw and rubbed what was left of the plastic off of my leg. That mark is obviously still there on my leg and although it has healed with time the memory of that day and what it felt like will never go away.
My first burn, as you know since you are reading this, would not be my last. And as I get older, I realize physical burns obvioulsy hurt yet only for awhile. It's the burn that affects me mentally every day as I stuggle to accept what hand I was dealt and how each day I regain the strength to get up, face reality, and love myself for who I am.
May 10, 2011
May 09, 2011
What a perfect beginning
He said it was "lust" from the beginning, not love, and to know my husband, that is his sense of humor. That very sense of humor, surprisingly, was what stole my heart forever!!
It was January, 2003 and I went into my interview thinking all I wanted to land was this head coaching job. I was 22, green as could be, and ready to start embarking on a world I was brand new in. My head could hardly wrap itself around the idea that this was full time job so I would be able to stop eating spaghetti noodles for dinner every night. Now I could stop sneaking into the school's cafeteria to eat like I was one of their students. For the time being though, I was still young enough to pass as one of my players so saving money on food that way was always a blessing.
Standing in the doorway, half way through my interview I looked up and there he was. "Say hi to our volleyball candidate, Coach McGuire" the assistant AD Cheryl insisted he do in her very southern voice. He didn't stare very long before realizing that I wasn't married. But then he stretched out his hand and welcomed me in a manner that simply said, I'm not that impressed!
"She's from Illinois" Cheryl said. Very quickly I was informed that Coach McGuire was from Ohio so we had something in common. But last time I checked Ohio and Illinois were worlds apart to me and I'm sure the look on my face was all she needed to see to know what I was thinking.
I'm pretty sure at that very moment, the interview with her was over. She had succeeded in playing matchmaker and one could often wonder if that wasn't the real reason I got the job at all!
A few weeks later I received a phone call that would change my world forever. When offered the head coaching job one of the first thoughts that ran through my head was "how would I explain my burns to these people?" It was never about being able to bring success to this program or am I old enough to garner respect in a profession that is not only dominated by males but mature, respected professionals. It's still sad to me to this day that when I meet new people or when summer time rolls around, my gut reaction is think of ways to hide my arms so that they talk to me, not get distracted and stare at my burns.
But, as I was moving into my new office, relishing in my new accomplishment, there he was again. He was standing at the copier which stood directly outside my office when he stuck his head in and congratulated me on becoming part of the staff. And to this day, what I remember the most was that he looked me directly in the eyes when we spoke. I was comfortable around him and that hadn't happened in the longest time. I knew in that moment, Cheryl may have just be on to something when she introduced the two of us so many weeks before....
It was January, 2003 and I went into my interview thinking all I wanted to land was this head coaching job. I was 22, green as could be, and ready to start embarking on a world I was brand new in. My head could hardly wrap itself around the idea that this was full time job so I would be able to stop eating spaghetti noodles for dinner every night. Now I could stop sneaking into the school's cafeteria to eat like I was one of their students. For the time being though, I was still young enough to pass as one of my players so saving money on food that way was always a blessing.
Standing in the doorway, half way through my interview I looked up and there he was. "Say hi to our volleyball candidate, Coach McGuire" the assistant AD Cheryl insisted he do in her very southern voice. He didn't stare very long before realizing that I wasn't married. But then he stretched out his hand and welcomed me in a manner that simply said, I'm not that impressed!
"She's from Illinois" Cheryl said. Very quickly I was informed that Coach McGuire was from Ohio so we had something in common. But last time I checked Ohio and Illinois were worlds apart to me and I'm sure the look on my face was all she needed to see to know what I was thinking.
I'm pretty sure at that very moment, the interview with her was over. She had succeeded in playing matchmaker and one could often wonder if that wasn't the real reason I got the job at all!
A few weeks later I received a phone call that would change my world forever. When offered the head coaching job one of the first thoughts that ran through my head was "how would I explain my burns to these people?" It was never about being able to bring success to this program or am I old enough to garner respect in a profession that is not only dominated by males but mature, respected professionals. It's still sad to me to this day that when I meet new people or when summer time rolls around, my gut reaction is think of ways to hide my arms so that they talk to me, not get distracted and stare at my burns.
But, as I was moving into my new office, relishing in my new accomplishment, there he was again. He was standing at the copier which stood directly outside my office when he stuck his head in and congratulated me on becoming part of the staff. And to this day, what I remember the most was that he looked me directly in the eyes when we spoke. I was comfortable around him and that hadn't happened in the longest time. I knew in that moment, Cheryl may have just be on to something when she introduced the two of us so many weeks before....
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| Taken almost 8 years to the day he proposed! |
April 18, 2011
Time marches on with laughter
My first "tissue" came from my oldest brother, Bill (2nd from the left). To this day, I'm sure he has no idea that a single picture HE took, which may surface one day on this for all to see, gave me back my sense of humor in only a few short days after surgery. Humor as you will soon learn, gets me through my roughest days.
With almost 4 years between the two of us, I knew Bill and I didn't always look at things the same way. He always had a "calm under pressure" influence on me. He was outgoing, popular, and "cool". I felt "cool" because I was his little sister. He spoke Shakespeare while I spoke Dr. Seuss. He wrote Lit papers 2 hours before they were due and pulled "A"s. It took me weeks to get mine done and then I barely passed. He protected us like a big brother should when we were younger and continued doing so those during some of those lonely days I sat in the hospital.
Bill tried to ignore the term "visiting hours" on most days and although he did end up having to leave, when time came for visitors the next day, he was right there, waiting. Sometimes we didn't talk. Sometimes the medication I was on was so strong I could barely stay awake. And sometimes, we just sat.
But then there were the moments that "serious" was scary. When quiet moments ushered in reflection and decisions and for two kids, facing that reality and the past wasn't something either of us wanted to deal with. And so, when words weren't there to find and the silence was too much to bear, he handed me a "tissue" and we laughed.
In those few days of just the two of us sitting together in that hospital room, I learned that my brother was in my life to make me keep a light-heartedness about circumstances in which we have no control. I also learned in time that no matter the distance or silent phone calls, or the days we go without speaking to each other as our lives continue to move forward, we would always have a closeness that words could not describe. He taught me that serious could also be funny and even today, as I stare at my scars that take me back to those days, I think about those "tissues" he gave me and without even knowing it, he is right there reminding me to laugh again!
Love you big brother...
"The person who can bring the spirit of laughter into a room is indeed blessed."
"Living in my own skin"
I often dream about that day when I realized my life was forever changed. I was a college volleyball player and having the time of my life living the college life. Untouchable, or so I thought I was, and that was how I lived. Little did I know, months shy of my 21st birthday, I would be lying in a hospital bed questioning what I had done wrong in my life to deserve something as terrible as this. It was March 3rd, 2000.
The sirens blared as they moved me out of the first ambulance and into another that later my mother would tell me was a LifeLine ambulance. One that transports critical patients. In a brief ride to St. Joe's Hospital in Bloomington, Illinois I was cared for by former high school classmates and parents of my childhood friends. It was surreal. Having been examined at a hospital with no burn unit, another ambulance ride would take me on what I thought was the longest journey of my life.
"3rd degree burns from a grease fire" I kept hearing them say as we rode the 50 minutes to Springfield, IL. All I kept thinking was "How would I ever pass a volleyball again or put on my uniform without being made fun of?" The only thoughts possible from a 20-something athlete's mind. When I reached the quarantined burn floor I saw things that I thought only happened in movies. Children behind glass doors with no flowers, no balloons. No stuffed animals only doctors in sterile gloves, masks and white coats. It was a dream I kept telling myself. At least until I saw my name on my room and those same doctors in those same white coats, waiting for me.
I will say I had incredible nurses that gave me incredible pain killers and the next thing I knew, I was wrapped from head-to-toe with a distinct feeling that it was Halloween and I was a mummy. (Had to have been the meds). Un-introduced doctors rushing all around and then finally, familiar faces appeared as my larger-than-life mother and usually stoic father entered the room. I won't cry I kept telling myself, I won't cry... Surgery they said. It was the only way to give her back what skin she had lost.
But at 20, tears don't come from pain. Tears don't rush out from agony. Tears don't fall from fear.
At 20, my tears fell from loss; the loss of a life I would never know again.
The sirens blared as they moved me out of the first ambulance and into another that later my mother would tell me was a LifeLine ambulance. One that transports critical patients. In a brief ride to St. Joe's Hospital in Bloomington, Illinois I was cared for by former high school classmates and parents of my childhood friends. It was surreal. Having been examined at a hospital with no burn unit, another ambulance ride would take me on what I thought was the longest journey of my life.
"3rd degree burns from a grease fire" I kept hearing them say as we rode the 50 minutes to Springfield, IL. All I kept thinking was "How would I ever pass a volleyball again or put on my uniform without being made fun of?" The only thoughts possible from a 20-something athlete's mind. When I reached the quarantined burn floor I saw things that I thought only happened in movies. Children behind glass doors with no flowers, no balloons. No stuffed animals only doctors in sterile gloves, masks and white coats. It was a dream I kept telling myself. At least until I saw my name on my room and those same doctors in those same white coats, waiting for me.
I will say I had incredible nurses that gave me incredible pain killers and the next thing I knew, I was wrapped from head-to-toe with a distinct feeling that it was Halloween and I was a mummy. (Had to have been the meds). Un-introduced doctors rushing all around and then finally, familiar faces appeared as my larger-than-life mother and usually stoic father entered the room. I won't cry I kept telling myself, I won't cry... Surgery they said. It was the only way to give her back what skin she had lost.
But at 20, tears don't come from pain. Tears don't rush out from agony. Tears don't fall from fear.
At 20, my tears fell from loss; the loss of a life I would never know again.
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