by stuffinb
My son asked me the other day why my arm looks like a cheetah.
Yes my arm does look sort of like a cheetah. I have what can best be described as spots on my right forearm, upper arm and side. It’s quite the conversation piece, especially if you know a lot of 6-10 year olds. They ask questions. Most adults don’t ask these questions, most are smart enough to know there’s often a tragic story behind such an injury, and that they will be unable to control their laughter. That doesn’t bother me.
Of course as with any tragic tale, involving mind-numbing pain, there were valuable lessons to be learned. For ease, I’ll point these out.
Never attempt auto repairs when you’re angry.
In fact lets just broaden that. If you’re going to be doing anything that involves scorching hot water, moving machinery, fire, gas or chemicals you may wish to avoid these activities until you’re level headed and alert.
I had just gotten back from Virginia. I was just a bit out of sorts. Maybe it was the delayed flight, or maybe that missed connection in Kansas City, or quite possibly the hour I spent circling aimlessly around SFO, but suffice it to say that I was not a happy camper. My mood wasn’t going to get any better. As I’m waiting with the other stiffs for my bags I get paged to the white courtesy phone. My wife (now ex) can’t pick me up from the airport. Her car keeps over heating. Great! If you’ve never tried to take public transportation home from SFO lets just say that “It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure”.
So I arrive home at just after 12pm. I drop my suitcases in the middle of the living room floor and collapse on the couch not intending to move before Thursday. I fall asleep. Sometime later (felt like 15 seconds) I am awakened by an odd sensation of moisture on my nose. I open my eyes to see my two-year old son attempting to bite my nose again. His face is covered in what I hope is chocolate. A quick glance around the room reveals my 4 year old helpfully unpacking my luggage. Of course my clothes aren’t usually scattered haphazardly around the living room, but he’s only four and he’s trying. My wife is standing over me with an expectant look that essentially says she want me to do something I won’t like.
“Can you fix my car, it keeps overheating”? This is exactly what I want to do after my trip so I say “Can’t you take my car?" "It’s too small," she says. “But I’m tired,” I say. “But I might not be able to get parts”, “The elves will fix it” and “A cab couldn’t be that expensive” likewise all fell on deaf ears. So out I go and I’m ticked about it too. I’m grumbling to myself. I kick a tire. I yank the hood up with all the force I can muster. I make a critical mistake.
Important safety note: The mistake I made could have been prevented with the following steps.
1.Before removing the radiator cap, make sure the car has cooled off.
2.Or make sure the engine is running.
3.Or take it to a professional.
If you do not wish to follow the steps above, you may wish to consult your yellow pages to ensure that there is a quality burn unit in your local vicinity.
Ok where was I, oh yes the mistake. I skipped steps 1 thru 3 above and began to remove the radiator cap. If you’ve ever looked at a radiator cap, you may have noticed the following message. “CAUTION: Contents under pressure and may be extremely hot”. This message should be heeded, as they were quite serious. I’ve never found that cap, not that I was concerned with it at the time. Instinctively I shielded my face; the rest of me wasn’t so lucky.
I’d like to take this moment to say that I took it like a man. I calmly assessed my injuries and placed a call to 911. I’d like to say that. What really happened is that I screamed like a Banshee, broke the land speed record running through my house and jumped into a thankfully waiting bath of cool water. (As luck would have it, my wife was about to give the youngest a bath). My wife runs into the bathroom.
“Are you all right”? She asked.
“Yahhhaargharhhhhhh!!!!!" I said
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
“Yahhhaargharhhhhhh!!!!!" I said again.
“Should I call an ambulance?" she asked.
“Yahhhaargharhhhhhh!!!!!" I said.
“I’ll call an ambulance” she says, leaving.
At this point, had I been a clearly thinking individual, instead of a sobbing mass of burned flesh, I might have noticed that my now ex and I had a bit of a communication problem. I mean I’d quite clearly said “I fear that I am mortally injured, please call an ambulance” three times, and she stands there making inane conversation.
Waiting on the ambulance gave me time to ponder my circumstances. The first thing I wonder is why my wife has neglected to clean the tub, before running the bath water. There is this brown film floating in the tub. The realization that this is skin from my arm and side does not instill confidence. Some of you must be wondering what this felt like. Have you ever seen Ricky Henderson do one of those headfirst slides into second base? Ok imagine you Ricky and you’re sliding; now imagine the dirt as shards of glass; last instead of sliding you’re being dragged by a truck. That about covers it.
The paramedics were very professional. They took my vital information, doctor’s name, and stuff like that. I didn’t mind, the bureaucratic machine must have its pound of flesh, or paper as the case may be. They of course asked me how it happened. “The cararghhh radahhhhhh....” “Oh you’re lucky, we had a guy last month catch it right in the face”.
They started an I.V. and promised morphine once I got to the ambulance. This was the most promising news I’d heard all day. They gave me a dose, then later another, during the interim they poured sterile water over the injured area. Halfway to the hospital, one of the medics informed me that “we” were out of morphine. I’m not sure where he got the “we” crap. I had not planned on a trip in the ambulance and certainly had nothing to do with its stocking levels. I didn’t bother to correct him. Mind numbing pain can give one a great singular focus.
Somewhere between my house and the hospital I passed out. I woke up after dark in a hospital bed. Someone nearby is moaning pitifully. “Steve.” It’s my mom’s voice though I can barely hear it over the moaning. “Huh?” My wife just left, she informs me, and the doctor has said he’ll be back in a few minutes. I belatedly discover that I was the source of the moaning. I wish someone had thought to record it; it would have made a great haunted house background. The doctor returns and tells me that I am suffering form 2nd and 3rd degree burns. They’ll assess me for a few days, but at present it doesn’t look like I’ll need grafts. I spend the next three or four days in and out of consciousness.
Underneath were all white, or an angry shade of pink.
Warning: Slightly Icky Stuff Ahead
During my third or fourth day in the hospital I met Joe. Joe is just too plain a name for this guy. Joe is the bath guy. He showed up in my room during a dressing change and introduced himself. He tells me when I’m ready for a bath; he’ll be handling it. Well I’d just spent 3-4 days in bed and feel icky, and then there’s the smell. I tell him I’m ready. He says I’m not; my wounds aren’t ready.
By now the pain has fallen from Hell on Earth to a mere Constant Agony. When they change the bandages I see white and pink skin and here and there these ugly little yellow eruptions, as well as some flakes of skin that can’t let it go. It’s not pretty. Did I mention that the ex has pictures of this? Some people can’t be trusted with cameras.
Anyway back to Joe. Joe should change his name. Maybe Joe the Horrible; or Joe the Torturer; or maybe just Painman. Joe does the baths on the burn ward. He came to me on Saturday morning, exactly a week after I’d been admitted. Joe escorts me to a little room off the common area. The door is marked “Debridement”. At the time, I had no idea of what that meant, but I think its Latin for “Torture Room”. Inside there are these stainless steal tubs like athletes use. He helps me into one. He gives me my own sponge so I can clean my private parts. Good man this Joe, protecting my dignity.
Ten minutes later I wished Joe dead. Joe is a horrid person, a hurtful cruel bastard. Joe is torturing me. I’ve gotten ahead of myself. It began well. Joe is using some kind of spongy thing to help me get cleaned up. “Then he says lets get those bandages off.” He removes the bandages and squirts my side with this solution. He then says: “This’ll probably hurt some.” He takes a sponge thing and wipes down my injured side. Not one to let my side of a conversation lag, I said: YAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! Then he did it again.
I hear dogs as far away as Fremont began howling. Joe wisely avoided me for the rest of my stay.
There are worse things than pain.
When I departed the hospital I was given three prescriptions: one for a pain reliever, another for some kind of silver ointment and the last for benadryl. The doctor told me that as I healed I’d begin to itch, and that’s what the benadryl was for. Itch? Well I can take that, I thought.
Wrong. Two day later the itching began in earnest. Itching is underrated. I believe itching would make a highly effective torture method. If you’ve ever had an itch that you couldn’t reach you have at least a small inkling of what I mean. Magnify that itch by a factor of 20,000 and now you may be in the ballpark. Because I was growing new skin, I couldn’t scratch. I could easily cause myself infections by scratching.
Like I was saying the itching began in earnest. My lower side itched. Then itched some more. It spread. It itched. It hurt and it itched. I couldn’t sleep for more than two hours at a time. Still I itched, and itched and itched. Near the end of a week later, I was mad. Not angry mad. Stone cold crazy batty mad. I had visions, my kids were afraid of me, I became a recluse, and my dog began to give me orders. Itchy and Scratchy were featured everyday on The Simpson’s! This is HELLLLL!!!!
Eventually I healed. I would go on other business trips, fix other cars. That reminds me; on a previous business trip she ruined another car. That time she shot a rod in her mustang. Seems the oil light had been on a few days but had noticed it right away. Of course, that time I blamed Ford Motor Co. I mean really isn’t a light saying simply “Oil” just a bit too vague to indicate that something may be amiss?