July 5th, 2000

Even the fallen can serve a purpose

The First Anniversary of a Really Bad Day

Photo by Luigi Pozzoli on Unsplash

Dick places a glass of water on the nightstand on my side of the bed. It’s missing ice and as I scowl, he gives me a knowing look and retreats because he knows better. In his absence, I explore the obsessive need to have ice water at my ready before I can sleep. I chalk it up to intense thirst when in the burn unit.

I really didn’t need to drink water at the time; I was watered intravenously but the mouth was dry. The nurses often came into the room with tall icy drinks. I feel once more the sheer torture of the slushing sound of ice, the kind of ice chipped small for sodas, taunting and cruel. Didn’t they know?

My dry mouth created this dichotomy of need and want. Need and want; I mull this over: What I want is not always what I need and what I need is not always what I want.

I remember the pink star-shaped sponge on the tip of what looked like a lollipop stick. Honestly, who invents these things? The sponge was dipped in water, the excess squeezed out before rubbing over my lips, gums, and inside the cheeks. A total rip-off, a gigantic tease jeering my parched mouth.

Dick returns with two ice-waters and sets them on our respective nightstands. My soul relaxes, and I find sleep on the eve of the first anniversary of our unfortunate day.

THE EVENTS OF THE DAY

The morning of July 4, 2000, arrives with the sun promising triple digits, but we have planned to escape to higher ground. I pack lunch––salami slices, Swiss cheese, sourdough French bread, Chianti, and of course plenty of bottles of Arrowhead spring water. I stack lunch neatly in a newly acquired picnic basket, purchased in anticipation of this outing. The set came with red plastic plates, glasses, and eating utensils. I toss in the red gingham tablecloth I hemmed up yesterday. It was my first attempt at sewing with no full fingers on the left hand and I conquered the job, albeit it was taxing.

Goodies are loaded up, I start my tiny red truck, a Nissan dubbed The Little Red Wagon, I glance at the namesake swinging from the rearview mirror–– a miniature Radio Flyer wagon. Dick orders me to wait. He jumps out, runs into the garage, and returns with two fishing poles and a large tackle box.

“Just in case,” he says with a grin.

I nose the truck toward the National Park closest to home where we plan to hike the short, but all uphill trail leading to a large meadow. The drive is uneventful (the best kind of trip), and I’m grateful we made the choice to spend the day in weather 20 degrees cooler than in our town in the valley.

We find the meadow to be lush and green, divided by a small stream. I muse this must be the beginnings of the long creek famous for trout fishing. Dick, who knows everything about everything, agrees. We both find it odd that we passed many people coming and going but were now in complete solitude. We joke maybe our burn garments freak people out, fearing we are aliens from outer space.

We walk the perimeter of the meadow, admiring the few wildflowers sprouting sporadically, the fauna, and find beauty from the treetops to the fallen log, rotting, yet houses ants, bugs, and spiders. I note even the fallen have a purpose.

We settle near the creek and soon we’re munching and drinking. “You know,” I said to the frogs, tadpoles, and wildflowers and Dick, “I think this is the first time in a year, that I feel thankful to be alive.” But I know I’m lying. I feel pressure from society, friends and family how to think and feel––to say what they want to hear. Yet I don’t think or feel any of these things, so what on earth drives me to comply? Am I not supposed to have thoughts contrary to “should be” about anything?

“I have a surprise for you,” Dick says. His lips form a twisted grin or smirk; I can’t tell.

“Yeah? I like surprises.” Another lie. He knows better, or pretends to know.

He produces a miniature tape recorder from the fishing bag of gear .He asks if I remember our first phone conversation while I was still in the burn unit. He was released weeks before me. A rhetorical question but I nod yes as he presses play and my voice airs. Utter shock permeates my bones. It is complete gibberish; I’m stunned.

“That is freakish. I remember saying words that in my mind were well articulated with proper syntax and followed a logical order.” This must be what it’s like to be elderly––the brain works, but the body refuses to cooperate. Angry and dejected he would do such a thing, I wonder if that is the reaction Dick had hoped for.

We pack up and practically slide down the trail to the Little Red Wagon. Dick suggests we find a fishing hole, but I decline, still angry. The hour and a half drive down the mountain to home is silent.

Once inside the house, the answering machine is beeping like a winning spin at the slot machine. All our children have called to see how we are. We return calls, me to my girls and Dick to his son and daughter. Turns out, they are all making individual plans to attend the annual 4^th of July fireworks display and beg us to join. We explain the 105-degree weather is intolerable for us, but they are welcome to stop by.

Just as Dick and I settle to a dinner of BBQ pork ribs, potato salad, and ears of corn, there is a knock at the door. Stephanie, my second-born enters without waiting for an answer. I’m thrilled to see her, even if she left the grandchildren with a sitter. We set an extra plate and dive in.

Dick offers to wash up the dishes so Steph and I can visit. We head to the covered patio, turn on the misting system, and within minutes the shady area cools by fifteen degrees.

Steph says she has something for me, something she had forgotten she was supposed to give me by the AirMed flight crew. She presents a t-shirt, pictured with a helicopter and signed by the entire team of medics.

“Mom,” she says her voice quivers. “There’s something else you should know.”

I listen intently as she tells me that she and her family were sitting on the beach area of the lake for a day of picnicking and swimming when they saw our huge pillar of smoke in the air. She instructed her family to pray for those people, which they did. She didn’t find out until late evening that it was me.

“When and how did you know?” I asked her hesitantly, not wanting to upset her further. Tears were already pooling in the corners of her dark brown eyes.

“Antonia [her younger sister] called and she said I should sit down. She said you were bad off and we all needed to get to the hospital to say goodbye.”

She further explains that Antonia had just returned to town from an overnight trip to Sacramento when my brother had called her. She adds she and her two sisters piled into her car and headed south. But they had never been to UCDavis Hospital before and drove directly to the Sacramento suburb of Davis. She looks embarrassed.

“That makes sense to me, if you didn’t know. How did you finally get there?”

“We stopped in a parking lot trying to figure out where we were. A security guard approached us and questioned our being out so late. She could tell how desperate we were to find the hospital and had heard about the fuel tanker exploding. She drew a detailed map to the hospital, said she would pray for all of us, and sent us on our way.”

“What about Jackie?” Jackie lives a full 1,000 miles away from my house. “When did she get here?”

“My husband called her. She threw her three children in the car, so upset that she didn’t pack anything. Her husband had to run back in the house for diapers for the baby and clothes for everyone. Jackie told me she cried and prayed the entire 18-hour trip. She was really freaked out that she wouldn’t be able to say good-bye.”

As if on cue, she wipes the tears, gathers her things, and heads out for the 4^th of July shindig. I walk her to the door to find Rhonda, the youngest of the family, standing at the door, hand poised to knock.

“Come in, you don’t need to knock, silly girl, this home is your home.”

Rhonda smiles, we hug, and she heads to the kitchen to survey the contents of the refrigerator. “In that case,” she says without turning around, “I’ll help myself to din-din and ’tater salad.”

REALITY HITS

It is the 5^th of July, and I awaken to the sun already blistering through the bedroom window at the head of the bed. With all the hype and build up in emotional preparation to successfully conquer the first anniversary date, I am caught off guard with the enormity of it all. I stay in bed with drapes and blinds closed, mirroring the darkness of my mood, alternating between crying jags and sleep. The heaviness permeates my entire being thinking this is the way things are going to be for the rest of my life.

I realize the sun is sinking behind the mountains to the west and wish I were sinking out of sight too when I remember a scripture memorized in childhood: His mercies are new every morning. But does that mercy cover me?

I think about the bugs, ants, and other small creatures making a home in the fallen, rotting log and my mental note that even the fallen have a purpose. I am that log.

A glimmer of hope rises.

Photo by Tania Malréchauffé on Unsplash