After seven weeks in
the burn unit I was finally released to go home. It
surprised me that I was frightened by this prospect.
All those hours in the Burn Unit, wishing for home,
wishing for fresh air, wishing for an end to the pain,
wanting nothing more than a taste of normalcy, and now
I could go home? Home means you are going to live. Home
means you will not have nurses, or a call button.
I still had open wounds, places where
the grafts healed a little slower. The burn unit wanted
isolation. Keep him away from the risks of infection.
How was it ok to go out into the big dirty world?
On the morning of my last day the nurses
had a baby grand piano wheeled to the door of my room.
I had told them over and over how I played in a band,
and that I was really good.
I couldn't quite believe they had arranged
for this huge piano, so I could put my money where my
mouth was. My hands had been grafted, and I had lost
all the nails on my fingers and thumbs. I remember sitting
there looking at the other burn patients they had wheeled
into the hallway. After all I was a success story, I
was alive.
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I bounced the keys with
my fingers, careful not to use my thumbs because they
hurt too much. I sang Fire and Rain by James Taylor.
Not a dry eye in the place.
When the evening of October 7, 1992
came around, my wheel chair ride ended in the lobby,
and eventually back home. People helped me into the
car, out of the car, and up to the steps of my house.
Music floated out of the doorway, and there it was,
the living room. My house. I cried. I couldn't believe
all the details, the mundane things I never noticed
that weren't so mundane anymore. The smells, the textures,
I hope I never forget
Emotional
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