Time marches on with laughter

Time marches on and brings me to this photo.  Over the course of my 11 years since the "accident" as I call it, many things have happened in my life.  Not only did I get married and have 2 children, my sister and my brother both had 2 children of their own as well. My niece Kaylie is still hiding in her mother's belly in this picture!  I'm there in the back holding my daughter Sydney standing behind my mom, seated in front.  The reason for this photo is to remind myself that as I sat in that hospital bed 11 years ago and cried for a life lost, I never realized how much I would be able to find to love in my "new life".  These people here, with the exception of my youngest brother who is not present in this photo (he will be an entire story in itself), gave me my life back.  They have no idea that with each tear that fell as I sat feeling sorry for myself, the "tissues" they each gave me brought me slowly back to life.
 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.