This picture was taken before they grafted my hands. As you can see the white parts of the hand was skin that was left, but it was so damaged, it actually was just barely attached to my hand. Look closely at the middle finger and you can see how the skin was just split and the doctors removed all of this skin, on both hands so that they could apply the grafted skin.

        In the surgery, skin was removed from my upper thighs and lower abdomen with a machine called a dermatone. These areas of my body where the skin was removed are called donor sites. If it were not for that wool jacket that I was wearing to protect those parts of my body, it would have been difficult to have good skin to graft from. I often wondered what would have happened if I had not chosen to wear that coat that night. Or if I would of worn my gloves would my hands of been so horribly burned?

        The dermatone takes off a very thin layer of skin. This thin skin was then stapled to my hands to hold it securely. I had over 150 staples in each hand. The doctors speculated that it looked as though the grafts were going to take 100 %. That was my first bit of good news.

       Donor sites themselves are just like second-degree burns. They were just as painful as the burns I received from the fire. They covered them with a protective sheet called Scarlet Red. This was like a bandage that was wet, red and gooey and helped the donor sites heal faster. This dressing would not be removed for one week along with the staples in my hands. Every night the donor sites would have to be exposed to a heat lamp. This was to help dry up the scarlet red so that it could be removed easier without harming the skin and to keep the scaring to a minimum.

        One of the most horrible experiences I encountered from being burned were the dressing changes. They were changed three times a daily. Once in the morning after breakfast, once in the evening after visiting hours, and once again around 2:00 a.m. When they would remove the bandages it would pull on whatever little bit of skin that remained on my legs, stomach and butt. They would bleed terribly. Blood would run all over my sheets and they too would need to be changed three or more times a day. Yellow pus would collect which was called eschar. It was a form of infection and this too would have to be removed.

       Sometimes the eschar would stick to the bandages, and that was good. It had to be removed anyway, so that the skin could start growing. If the eschar did not stick to the bandages then it had to be removed by hand. This procedure is called debreeding. This was also done with each dressing change and was extremely painful. I don’t think that I could of screamed any harder or louder than I did when they debreeded my legs. It is really impossible to explain how much it hurt. It was so awful in fact, that many times I would rather let the infection and dead skin remain, then to have the nurses remove it. I would beg and plead for them to stop and they tried to assure me that if they did they would only be hurting me, not helping me. I really didn’t even seem to care.

        After all of the bandages were removed, and the debreeding was done; they would try to rewrap the burns as quickly as possible. The air stung them and it felt much better once they were wrapped again. The gauze dressing were soaked in silver nitrate. This was a solution that would turn everything it touched black. It helped to fight off infection, and to keep the dressings moist, so they would not adhere and grow into the new skin that was trying to form.

       I didn’t eat much the first few days in the burn unit. In fact I don’t think I ate anything at all. I couldn’t open my mouth because of the swelling and it was difficult to even get a straw into it. I drank mostly juices and pop. Then eventually I was forced to drink the burn unit’s famous milkshakes. They were made with chocolate ice cream, Hershey bars and Hershey's syrup along with some protein powders. They were very thick and horrible tasting, even being the chocolate freak that I am I could hardly get them down. When you are burned it is important to consume huge amounts of calories a day. These calories help your body with the healing process. It is fighting so hard to fight off infections. Most people who die of burns, it mainly due to infection. Burn victims loose a lot of water and plasma, and your body cannot regulate temperature well either. I would often get awakened in the middle of the night, once I would finally manage to fall asleep, and be forced to drink one of these shakes. It would really make me furious.

        The burn unit was a really neat place, and I tried to make the best of it considering that I had to be there. It was divided into two sections. Each side had four beds; each bed was in its own individual room so you had some privacy. They all connected to a joining room. In this community room was a television, some chairs for the patients and visitors, and cabinets of medications and charts. Outside of this room was a corridor, which lead to the supply room, the kitchen, and the tubing area. Also down this hall was the other side of the unit. This side was exactly like the one I was in except that it was called step-down. The only differences here were that each patient had his or her own television along with the community TV and their own telephones. Both sides were considered intensive care. Many nurses were on duty at all times, as many as two per patient were.

       My parents took turns coming up to visit and help me. It was nice being able to see all four of them every single day. My father and my stepmother would come up in the mornings from 11:00 until 1:00. My mother and stepfather would come up in the evenings from 4:00 until 8:00. These were the visiting hours designated by the hospital, but sometimes they would allow them to stay over a little. It was the times between their visits that were so lonely, scary and depressing. I needed constant care and could not do anything for myself. It was much easier asking one of my parents for help than to have to ask a nurse, even though that was what they were there for. They didn’t know me and I felt uncomfortable asking for their assistance with anything.

        One afternoon not to very long after my surgery, Tiffany came in to see me. She was my first visitor other than my parents. She was over on the step-down side of the burn unit. I was lying in my bed when she entered the room. She held her hands high in the air as to help relieve the throbbing, which didn’t really work, and they were all bandaged. Her face was burned; it looked very red something like a really bad sunburn, with a few scabs on her nose. Her hair had gotten singed and parts of it stuck up because they also had to cut hers a little. She only stayed a few minutes. When she saw me she had to sit down. She was so shocked at my appearance. After she left I asked my mother if that was what my face looked like and she said, "Yes, only mine was just a little bit worse." She did not want me to know the truth. There were no mirrors anywhere in the burn unit. Not even in the bathroom.

       I carried a fever from the time I was admitted. It would range anywhere from 100 to 103 degrees. I could never seem to get warm enough and normally was not allowed any covers, just a paper sheet. When I was given a blanket the fever seemed to always go up so the covers were immediately removed. The fever was caused by some kind of infection in my body. The doctors could not do anything about it until they found out the source of this infection, even though I was on antibiotics.

       Four days after my first surgery, on October 11th my bandages were removed for the first time on my hands. They looked so good to me compared to my legs, which were all red and bloody. My hands actually had skin on them. The skin was difficult to see because it was black from the silver nitrate, but there was skin there. They were extremely swollen, almost twice their normal size and I could see all of the staples holding the skin into place. My fingernails were black and on my right hand they seemed very loose. When I tried to move my hands the staples stuck into them like pins. My hands were then rewrapped and the staples left in. The skin was "taking" just as the doctors had speculated and the staples would be removed at a later date.

       When I didn't have any of my parents up in the burn unit with me, I would lay in my bed and watch the old woman in the room across from mine. She never seemed to have any visitors, and I felt sorry for her. One day I noticed that she wasn’t there and the nurses had told me that she had passed away during the night from pneumonia. They told me that if I didn’t get out of bed soon, that I too would get pneumonia too. I did not care. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I was to afraid to try and walk. I knew that it would be very uncomfortable. Eventually within a day or two the nurses made me get out of bed. I hated them all for making me do things that would hurt me more. They were all so mean and didn’t have any consideration or feelings for me. They were not the ones in pain I was. How would they know what was best for me? How would they know how much it hurt unless they too had been burned? They would say things like I know what you’re going through, yet none of them really had a clue. It was a long time later into my recovery that I realized that they really did know what they were doing and everything that they did for me really was for my own good, even though they had not experienced being burned themselves they were experienced with burn patients.

        Before I got out of bed for the very first time my legs had to be wrapped in ace bandages over the existing bandages. This was to help give them some support. They sat me up on the edge of the bed and lowered it all the way down. They realized I could not reach the floor so they had to get me a step stool to get out. There was a nurse on each side of me, holding me up because I was so weak and extremely dizzy. It seemed like it took forever to just get out of bed, and then they made me walk into the center community room and sit up in a chair. Every part of my body ached. I walked all hunched over like an old woman with a bad case of osteoporosis. I just hurt thinking about moving. It was this first day, when I was sitting up in the chair that I had some kind of idea of what my face must have looked like. My mother came into see me and walked right by me. She went into my room, noticed that I wasn’t there. When she turned around it was then she realized I was sitting out in the chair. She didn’t even recognize me. My face was so swollen it looked like a basketball. It is not uncommon for a burned head to swell up to three times it's normal size. She was very sad seeing me that way, and I was too, knowing that I didn’t even look anything like myself before the accident. I still had not seen my face at this point.

       It was just so hard to get any rest, let alone sleep in the burn unit. Not only from the constant throbbing pain that would never subside, but also because of all of the nurses picking at you, taking your blood pressure, your temperature, applying silver nitrate, administering medications, dressing changes, milkshakes, etc. It seemed you were interrupted constantly by someone.

        Almost every night, one of the 3rd shift nurses would come in just after I would doze off and start her ritual work on my face. I believe she was a black woman named Delores, although I never opened my eyes to see her. She would turn on all the bright florescent lights and prepare everything she would need to start her tedious task. My face had begun to scab over now, and it was her job to debreed it nightly. She took strips of gauze soaked in saline and would place them all over my face. They were very cold. She would then leave the room for a little while so that the scabs had time to moisten and get soft. I felt very claustrophobic. When she returned she would start the debreeding process. Delores would take tweezers and forceps and pull off all of the scabs that were loosened. Burned skin heals from the outside in so the scabs had to be removed. She would pick and pull and tug and tear for what seemed like hours. My face would bleed all over the pillowcase and sheets just as my legs did. Just as she would finish one area, she would replace the soaks, and start on another. When she would tear at my face the pain was unbearable. This was very essential though for the healing process of my face.

       With every piece of scab that was torn from my face there was pain. A sharp tearing pain that felt like she was tearing off parts of my flesh and I guess that was what she was really doing. I wanted to die. I didn’t like some strange women ripping up my face in the middle of the night. I felt as though I was a Thanksgiving turkey being carved and sliced. All that I wanted to do was sleep and to be left alone. Soon I realized that no matter how hard I cried and screamed and begged Delores to stop she wouldn’t. This was something she had to do. I wanted this all to be a dream, or a nightmare I should say. I wanted to wake up and have it all be over. But no dream could bring such pain. This was very real. I would tell myself over and over again the sooner she does this the sooner it would all be over and she would leave me alone, at least until the next night. But as soon as one scab would start to heal over, it would be ripped off again. There were even times when Delores would almost make a game of it, by saying things like "Oh boy that was a big one." It seemed trivial to me but I guess she was trying to make a bad situation seem less serious and more like entertainment. Delores helped make my face what it is today. I could have been left with a lot worse scarring if it weren’t for her nightly depreeding. My face never got dressed (wrapped in bandages) like my hands and legs were. I never understood why.

        Also, along with this nightly ritual of debreeding my face, I had to have the dressings changed on my legs. After the dressing changes, every couple of hours one of the nurses would take a bottle of silver nitrate, and pour it over the dressings on my legs and hands. This was to fight infection and to keep the dressing moist. The nitrate was so cold. It felt kind of good at first, but left me shivering and my bed wet. This along with still being allowed no covers made sleep impossible. I could never get comfortable or warm. The paper sheets were used I think so they could be disposed of since they were soiled so badly from my bleeding oozing body. Many times I would awaken and the pillowcase would be literally stuck to my face.

        Photographs were taken of my legs and hands almost every morning during my dressing changes. This was when the doctors made their rounds and looked in on the burned patients to see how they were progressing. The pictures were taken from the first day I arrived until my release. The doctors had decided that the burns on my stomach, butt and legs were healing fair and they would not need skin grafting at this time. I was so glad. The donor sites were just as painful as the burns themselves and I thought that taking off that skin was doing more harm than good.

        It wasn’t too long before I was moved to the step down side of the unit. My mother and Tiffany’s mother each stood on either side of me and held my arms to help me walk. We went out into the corridor and I walked all the way. It seemed like the hall was never going to end, even though it was really only a short distance. I felt as though I had run a marathon. I didn’t think that I was going to make it. I sat in a chair next to Tiff as all of my things were moved over.

        I liked being on this side for many reasons. For one thing I knew that I was improving. This side of the unit brought many changes. I was no longer catheterized and had to start using the bathroom myself. I preferred the bedpan whenever the nurses would let me get away with it. It was a lot easier than getting in and out of the chair or bed. I hated using the bathroom, but it was difficult not to because of all of the fluids I was forced to drink. I had burns on my butt and between my legs and would need help in the bathroom. Everytime I would go, urine would get all over the dressings and sting the burns there. I felt so helpless. I could not even wipe myself because I didn’t have any hands to use.

        Soon the staples had to be removed from my hands. I sat in a chair next to Tiffany. Mrs. Hummel the head nurse sat next to me and began removing the 300 some staples. Some of them had to be dug out because they were embedded and the grafted skin had started to grow over them. It was extremely painful. I screamed and cried with each one she removed and Tiffany had to leave the room for awhile because of all my screaming. I hated Mrs. Hummel very much that day for doing this to me. When all of the staples were removed, my hands were not dressed any more. They wanted me to start using them. They wanted me to use them to eat with, to wipe myself in the bathroom, cover myself up with, and to wash myself. How did they think I was going to do this? I couldn’t use them, they hurt to much. They were still dressed at night to cut down on the chance of infection but for the better part of the day they were not and I was forced to use them. I totally refused at first. I would have rather starved to death than to have to feed myself with them. Sometimes one of my parents would feed me and the nurses told them they were spoiling me, and that I should do it myself. After that I had no choice. I am sure it was very difficult for my parents not to give in and help me as much as they wanted to, but as they were told numerous times it was supposedly for my own good.

        Occupational therapy had made me a black spongy rubber gadget to place over my utensils and this did make holding on to them a little easier. I couldn’t move my hands very well. It was so hard and frustrating trying to get the food from the plate to my mouth. Then if I was lucky enough and the food didn’t fall off of the fork or spoon I had a difficult time getting it into my mouth because of the swelling and burns.

       That very same day that my staples were removed Dr. Kennedy removed the scarlet red from my donor sites. He saw that it was dry and ready to be taken off. He grabbed one corner and slowly moved it away from the skin. It only hurt a little, kind of like a Band-Aid when it’s stuck to a sore. But then he just ripped the rest off as fast as he could without any warning. It hurt very much. I also hated Dr. Kennedy. He didn’t have any consideration for my feelings. His bedside manner was terrible.

       I didn’t like to many people those first few weeks. It seemed everyone was trying to hurt me in some way or another. Do this, do that, move your fingers, get out of bed. I hurt to much and I didn’t care about anything that anyone told me to do. I thought by lying in bed and keeping perfectly still I would heal faster and be as good as new. I was so wrong. When burned skin does start to heal it is tight and stiff and if you don’t move it and stretch it, it will never be able to be flexible. The scars would then heal very tight, and you would loose all mobility.

        Along with Tiffany and I on the step-down side of the unit there were two other boys our age that we got to know pretty well. Their names were Greg and Jim. They had been in a similar accident the night after ours. They were from Findlay Ohio. Their car had been hit and had burned also. Greg and Jim were very nice. It made it a little bit easier having others there your own age who were going through the same experiences. We talked a lot and it wasn’t as lonely as the other side of the unit. One thing that did bother me though was that the boys were allowed to smoke cigarettes right outside the hall and I didn’t like that very much. How could they even think of using a lighter, or lighting a match? I was scared to death of anything that associated with fire.

       The dietitian would come in every couple of days. She would give us patient’s menus to fill out with our food choices. My dad would always be there when she came and would read off the choices for me and select them. I could not hold a pencil, so he did it for me. The food at the hospital really wasn’t that bad. I just didn’t have much of an appetite. Who would trying to feed themselves with burned ugly hands?

       I still wasn’t allowed any visitors, except for family. It was not that the doctors and nurses had not wanted me to have visitors it was my parent’s decision. They didn’t want a bunch of people coming up just so that they could say they saw me. There were so many rumors going around the high school about my condition that they didn’t want to have kids starting any new ones. I really was not in any mood for visitors and was glad that my parents had made that decision. It took every bit of energy just to sit up in a chair let alone visit with people and try to make small talk. I wasn’t really ready to have people look at me. I myself had not even seen my face yet.

       On October 18th (twelve days after my accident) I was finally ready to see myself for the first time. Sure I had seen my legs and hands, and I thought I was ready to see my face by now. I asked my mother if I could, so she got me a mirror from her purse and held it up to my face. I was shocked by that first initial look. My face was still so swollen. It was black in some spots, and also had a lot of scabs everywhere. My nose looked especially strange because it was one big huge scab and looked as though it was about to fall off. Some parts were starting to heal pretty well, and were really red like a bad blistering sunburn. It was all dry, peeling and ugly. I didn’t have any eyebrows or eyelashes and my lips were twice their normal size and scabby also. My ears were big huge scabs too. My hair stuck out all over the place and looked like the beginning growth of a man’s beard. The first thing I said was "It’s not as bad as I thought it was", and that was the truth I guess. I did not look good or anything, yet I was not expecting to. I knew that it was not going to be easy looking into that mirror but I did it and I was glad. I am thankful that I did wait awhile though. I certainly did not look like the Laura I was used to seeing everyday in the mirror. My once smooth soft skin was now something like a horrifying Halloween mask. It was a very traumatic experience for any young girl to have to endure.

       The next day I was given a blood transfusion. This was normal with burn victims because of the healing. They didn’t want to wait until my own red blood cells could rebuild themselves so they gave me blood to help speed up the process. It was on this day that I had my first real visitor, besides Tiffany and my immediate family. My brothers and sisters had all been up but I can’t say that I remembered their visits. Steve, my ex-boyfriend was my first visitor. I still cared for Steve very much, and I am sure that he felt the same way about me. Not only was he my ex-boyfriend but he was also my brother’s best friend. I was glad that he wanted to see me and I knew that he would understand the way that I looked. He knew the inside of me and that is all that really matters in a person. I have learned that from this experience.

        I will never be able to forget the look that was on his face that day when he walked through the door. It is hard to describe, but shock and scared are two words that would explain it well. I didn’t want pity from him but I saw that look as well. I don’t know if it was my face that scared him so much or if it was the combination of the blood transfusion equipment, all the bandages and just the smell of that place would make anyone sick. His visit was very short and touching. He had brought me a card and on the inside he had drawn a flower. He said he would have liked to have sent me some real flowers, but I wasn’t allowed any real flowers in the burn unit. After awhile he felt faint and had to go outside to sit down for awhile. I was told that it was from the heat, at least that is what they wanted me to believe. They do keep it very warm in the unit and with the gown and caps that the visitors have to wear for the burn victim’s protection, I did believe them when they said it was just because he was really warm.

       After Steve’s visit I didn’t have any more for awhile. I was glad. I didn’t want anymore. If he could hardly handle it how could anyone else? At the time he was the one person I had been the closest to and it was up to him if he wanted to see me again. I knew he would probably be back, but how long it would before his next visit I didn’t know.

Chapter 3 Home Away From Home

Back to Title Page