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The Female View - May 2007

When I came home I didn’t cry to my father. He didn’t believe in crying. At least not for me. But I did call up my husband and I cried to him. I cried because I thought I was going to lose the only thing other than my hair (I’m a redhead) that made me special (I was fairly decent looking). Though I’d never seen leprosy, the way the burns looked when the blisters opened, I imagined they couldn’t have been that far off. There was so little skin left. And it was most of the right side of my face.

My husband may not have gone to the doctor with me. He may not have been there when I got home but what he did do after that was get me a great plastic surgeon (a recommendation from a someone he knew).


The next day he sat with me in the plastic surgeon’s waiting room until I was called in. Also in the room was a little girl and her mother. She must have been about 4 or 5. She kept staring at me. Finally she spoke loud and clear. “Mommy, what’s wrong with that ladies face?” she asked. I felt like a freak. Like not only was the world going to judge me for being a bad mother and getting it wrong all the time but now they would all point and stare at my deformed face as well.

By the time the time I was taken into an exam room I knew I’d have to learn to live with it. Like everything else in my life that had not gone as I had hoped and dreamed I’d learn I had no other choice than to accept it. It is what it is. So when the doctor came in and immediately came over to exam me I knew he was going to tell me there was nothing he could do to make it better.

But I was wrong. And so was that other doctor. According to this plastic surgeon, burns to the skin on the face usually heal the best (not the worst like that other plastic surgeon said). I couldn’t help it, I had to cry. Happy tears. Then, like the other doctor he told me I’d have to scrub the wounds 3x a day until they bled to prevent additional scarring and bacteria. And yes it would be very painful, but no I didn’t have to be a complete hero about the pain. Take 900 mg. of Advil an hour before each scrubbing and that would help dull some if it.


Then he smiled, told me not to worry and to make a follow-up appointment. And this time I did.
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The nurse took me into an examination room and told me to put on a paper gown. A few minutes later the doctor came in and started talking about his book. He didn’t even look at me or ask any questions all he did was go on and on about the book he’d written (and that was about to be published).

After about ten minutes I knew all about his book but he knew nothing about my burns. I could see the nurse rolling her eyes behind his back but as usual I said nothing. I never said one word to try to get him to notice me, not once as he went on and on and on about all his amazing credentials. All I did was sit there and listen like I was supposed to. Because who was I? Nothing but a housewife and mother. But he was a doctor who had all these letters after his name. And he was about to be published. So I sat there and felt like I always did. Like I counted less. And I acted impressed by him. Which I was. The truth was that anyone and everyone who wasn’t me was more impressive in my eyes. So I said nothing. And I waited to be noticed.

When at last he did come over to look at my burns this is what he said, “you have deep second and third degree burns on your face, your neck, your breast and your leg.” Then he took a longer look at my face and added, “the ones on your face are going to scar the worst and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

I tried not to cry. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Isn’t there anything I can do?” He could see I was upset but there was not an ounce of compassion in his eyes or his voice as he replied, “of course I’m sure. I’ve written a book on this.”

It was hard to hear the rest of what he said but he told me that in order to stop infection, which would make the scarring worse, I’d have to scrub each burn raw three times a day. I’d have to use a clean cloth and scrub the area until it bled to keep it clean. “And the pain is going to be excruciating,” he told me.

It was so hard not to cry but I knew I wasn’t allowed to bother him with my tears so I didn’t. I did ask if there was anything I could take to help with the pain. He told me no and that I should stop whining like a baby. I could see the nurse trying not to look me in the eye but I still couldn’t bring myself to say anything to this horrible man. Then he told me about another patient he’d had. A woman that had dropped a turkey (as it turns out the foil pans were dangerous to remove from the oven) when she was taking it out of the oven and how she’d burned both her legs and how she’d scrubbed them both with a wire whisk to keep them from becoming infected. And she took no pain medication. And she never once complained.

Then he told me to make a follow-up appointment, reminded me of the title of his book (which I must read because of my burns) and he left, the nurse hurrying out after him.

I paid my bill, got into my car and I cried and I cried. I wasn’t a religious person, I didn’t
even know if I believed in God, but in that moment I prayed. “Please, please if something has to scar, please just don’t let it be the face.”

Then I took a deep breath, wiped the tears from my eyes and I drove home to go take care of the kids.


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The day after the accident I was one open oozing mess from my right eye to my chin, from the left-side of my neck to my breast and from the middle of my left thigh to my knee. That morning my father came over to watch the kids (thank God) so I could go to the plastic surgeon to talk about my wound care without having to use all my energy to concentrate on their care (the hospital had told me this was very important to minimize serious infection). I would be going to the doctor alone since my husband didn’t offer to take off from work and I didn’t think I had the right to ask him to.

Anyway, to segue off the topic for a minute. I chose this particular group of plastic surgeons because a year before they had stitched up Josh after he slit his eyelid open. You see when he was less than two years old my sister mentioned that a well-respected nursery school in our area was looking to add a toddler program (age 2). And knowing how stressed out I was she had suggested I look into it. So I did. And despite the fact that Josh was two months shy of two years old they assured me he’d be a perfect fit for the program. And since he loved playing around (not with) kids and I needed a break from him, I said o.k. The thing I didn’t know – until it was too late- was that they placed him in this experimental class that was a mixture of ages 2,3 and 4 year olds. How did I finally find this out? Well one day I went to pick him up after school and his entire eyelid was slashed open. Apparently, he had fallen into a metal chair when no one was watching (and why would they when so many of the kids were older in the class and didn’t require as much attention as my not quite two year old).

One look at him and I was a wreck. I tried not to cry. On the other hand the women in charge didn’t seem very upset. I mean they hadn’t even bothered to call me when it happened. Instead they waited until I picked him up. I was so mad but I didn’t say anything. Why? Why didn’t I open my mouth and tell them off? Why was I so afraid of everyone else, but no one seemed a bit afraid of me?

Well I rushed him back to the house and called the pediatrician who told me to take him to the emergency room. I didn’t ask and my husband didn’t offer to leave work to come along so my father came along to help. He had to hold Josh down until they put him in this papoose so he wouldn’t move and ruin the stitches.

Bottom line? A year later you could barely make out Josh’s scar. And the slash had been huge. So I scheduled an appointment with another doctor in the group (the one that had worked on Josh was unavailable) and left that morning thinking that everything was going to be just fine. But like everything else in my life, it wasn’t…
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On the way home from the hospital I had started to think about the emergency doctors words. Scarring? I hadn’t thought about scarring. But when I walked into the house I plastered on a smile and thanked my friend for going out of her way to watch the kids. I felt so guilty imposing on her even though she seemed more concerned about me (which in turn made me feel guilty for wasting her time).

Anyway, I told her I was O.K. and that I was still planning on going to class. She told me to give myself a break. But the truth was that the teachers in my program had made it clear that they would accept only one reason for missing a class…death. Besides while I wasn’t feeling a 100% (I’d started to feel a bit feverish at that point) I felt I was good enough to go. So I thanked her again and said good-bye


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On the way home from the hospital I had started to think about the emergency doctors words. Scarring? I hadn’t thought about scarring. But when I walked into the house I plastered on a smile and thanked my friend for going out of her way to watch the kids. I felt so guilty imposing on her even though she seemed more concerned about me (which in turn made me feel guilty for wasting her time).

Anyway, I told her I was O.K. and that I was still planning on going to class. She told me to give myself a break. But the truth was that the teachers in my program had made it clear that they would accept only one reason for missing a class…death. Besides while I wasn’t feeling a 100% (I’d started to feel a bit feverish at that point) I felt I was good enough to go. So I thanked her again and said good-bye


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