For the past week or so my face has, at times, looked like someone successfully landed a right hook punch to my eye. Or it appears as though a two year old has applied red cream blush to my entire cheek and eye area. These various looks are due to....well it's a bit of a long story. Might want to put the kettle on and settle down with a cup of tea. I suspect this will be a longer than usual post.
It all began way back when, November of my Junior year in high school. I was babysitting for a family just one house up from my home on a Sunday afternoon, while the parents of the four kids in my charge were at a Jets football game. Anticipating dinner preparations, I scrounged around in the their refrigerator for something simple to fix the kids. Realizing that brie and wine were not going to fit the bill, I was pleased to find some left over pizza. I turned their gas oven on and waited for it to heat up. By that time, the two older boys were playing in the woods behind the house, their younger sister was at a friend's and the toddler was being carried to and fro on my hip. Twenty minutes later, the oven was still cold so I called my sister, who was also a frequent sitter at this particular house. When I questioned her as to how to work the oven, she replied that unlike the automatic oven my parents had, it was necessary to light the neighbor's one with a match. I put the toddler down in the corner across the room of the kitchen, opened the oven door, saw the "light here" directive written in red and struck a match.
You've probably guessed what happened next.
The force of the, I suppose you could call it "explosion", knocked me to the floor. Fortunately, I was still on the phone with my sister. I told her to get my father to come over right away because I thought I had broken the oven. It may have taken as long as thirty seconds before the pain started and I realized I had in fact burned myself. Thankfully, when my sister told my parents what had happened, they knew immediately how serious the situation was. They arrived within minutes it seemed and pulled me towards the kitchen sink. They started splashing cold water all over my face and hands, then my mother began searching the freezer for ice. They laid me on the couch, despite my protests that I didn't want to dirty it, found a bed sheet, filled it with what little ice they found in the freezer, and placed it on my face. My sister was sent off to fetch a neighbor to come stay with the children, then my parents packed me off into the car and drove me to the emergency room.
I often find it interesting when you look back on certain experiences in your life, which parts tend to make the biggest impression on you. That particular day, it was what transpired in the ER that I seemed to internalize the most. There was a young male intern on staff when I was brought in and placed on a stretcher in a small room. I can remember the details of the experience vividly, lying there while he looked me over. I answered whatever questions he had, but otherwise remained quite silent. I do recall vigorously rubbing my feet together, as this seemed to help me deal with the pain. And by this time, there was in fact a lot of pain.
The comment he made, which struck me, and truth be told hurt me, was that he said I needed to stop making such a big deal out of it! He went on to say that he had seen people far worse off than I was.
I was stunned. It was if he had slapped me. The fact was, I was working as hard as I possibly could not to show any emotion at that point. I felt completely stupid for what I had done and was very sorry for all the upset I was causing so many people at that point. I didn't doubt there were people who had suffered far worse burns than I had. Forgive me, I thought. This is my first time. And I really am trying to be quiet about it.
The intern applied what looked like toothpaste to the entire area of my face and neck, then wrapped two fingers on my right hand in gauze, smiling that he had made me a "peace sign." He inquired if I had a boyfriend. When I responded in the affirmative, he asked for the young man's name and then drew his initial on my forehead. Bear in mind, I was sixteen, not five years old that day. I was then told to go home and take a couple of aspirin if I felt any pain.
I can see that this tale is going on far too long, so I will try to sum up quickly.
A few hours later, after literally walking the neighborhood with my sister because the heating inside our house made my face too painful, my parents made a phone call, then returned me to the hospital where our family doctor determined I was in fact in shock and was admitted.
(Why, yes, I am happy to report that my doctor had a long conversation with said intern. Rumor had it his voice was raised quite loudly at the time, so there would be no mistaking his meaning.)
When I went to sleep that night, my face, hands and arms were still bright red. The next morning, despite efforts by the nursing staff to hide all mirrors from me, I discovered that the affected skin now resembled that of a burnt chicken. I kid you not.
I stayed in the hospital for one week and did not return to school for four weeks. God bless my mother. The 3x daily process of dealing with the burns fell to her. It was unpleasant, to say the least, but she never once complained or turned away. One of the greatest gifts she gave me during that whole ordeal came several weeks into it. I often had difficulty sleeping and late one night my mother found me sitting at the kitchen table. She began to gently prod me to talk about what had happened, knowing my propensity for holding things in. It took time, and a bit of shouting if I recall, before she finally got me to admit that I had in fact been terrified that day. I also confessed that it was very painful physically.
I am truly blessed. Thanks to the swift action of my sister, parents and family doctor, I was spared from having dramatically noticeable scars as a result of that awful day. Time, and the daily use of some very expensive moisturizers over the years, have kept my burns pretty much a secret. Well, except for what occurs in late winter and started this whole posting in the first place. Every year, generally around this time, the skin on my face starts to rebel against the indoor heating system and lack of moisture in the air. And it turns red, flaky, itchy, etc. I am forever grateful that is the most I have to deal with, but it can be frustrating at times.
And though I have frequently been tempted to hang a sign around my neck which reads:
1. Yes. I know my face is red.
2. No. My husband does not abuse me.
3. Why yes, it does in fact hurt.
I have so far resisted the urge and simply put up with the stares and sometimes rude remarks.
So if you happen to see me in the near future and I look as though Rudolph has left his shiny nose on either side of mine, you'll know why.
Whew! I promise to keep my future posts shorter this week.....
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