Prior to my parents' divorce, my direct family alongside my extended family would all congregate in a park known as “Fisheating Creek”, for a camping trip the weekend before Thanksgiving. It’s been a family tradition long before I was even a side-thought in the bustling minds of my parents. Being born into this family tradition felt natural considering I was simply brought along without any questions asked. As I age, these memories become a distant mirage of smiles and laughter as children sang and parents roasted marshmallows for us by the huge fire which sat very welcoming in-between us all like a grandfather that I never had. The heat roared from sundown to sun up as uncles and step-brother added more wood and lighter fluid to the already burning flames.
It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and my pigtails were flying high as my four-year-old self bounced from person to person saying “hi” to everyone I could and begging someone to take me to the crystal-clear lake so I could play in the lukewarm water. My mom had just finished making breakfast and the bacon sizzled as it got off the flame. With hunger blossoming in the depths of my stomach, I went rushing to my mother's side but never arrived. I had been devoured by the flames, and as my skin began to scorch I was silenced by the crackle and pop of Hade's wrath around me. I’m not sure who exactly lifted my nearly lifeless body from the heat, but I’m grateful they did. My parents rushed to my side as my aunt had already dialed for 911 and they were on their way.
That year I spent Thanksgiving in the burn trauma center with second-degree deep tissue burns on my hands and much of my arms. After ten continuous days of treatment through both emergency reconstructive surgery and cosmetic surgery directly after. I spent the next year in and out of physical therapy because my hands were so weak they had borderline no use anymore. I had become so accustomed to using my feet and mouth to grab and move things that I had nearly forgotten what it was like to have hands at all. I worked relentlessly to regain full strength in my hands and eventually they were up to par with surrounding kids.
I had a second reconstructive surgery on both hands three months prior to my eighteenth birthday. Scar tissue had developed and was morphing my bones in a way where my fingers were not growing adequately. Once again I was back where I started, back in the hospital, back in physical therapy every week, and back in a position where I felt helpless and was unable to perform minor tasks at will. I don’t think anyone really appreciates the everyday usage of our body parts until they’re no longer able to execute the tasks they were once so proficient at. Even simple tasks like feeding yourself, bathing, and most degrading of all, wiping yourself are all a mission to complete when major parts of your body are not functioning. As cliché as it sounds, I genuinely did not know how much I loved my hands until I could no longer use them.
Although my hands may never be equipped to win in thumb wrestling or even nimble enough to take up a hobby like cross-stitching, I'm forever grateful for what happened to me. I’m grateful that it was just my hands and not my face or the rest of my body. I’m grateful that it was only a severe second-degree burn and not a third degree. And I’m especially grateful for my mother who provided me with constant love and support through every meal she hand-fed me and every set of bandages she changed through my tears of agony.
I received one and a half out of the recommended six months of physical therapy I should have reaped, upon arriving at Florida State. The lack of physical therapy from my most recent surgery has left a lingering cloud of worry over my head because my hands may never regain the strength I already worked for years to improve. I struggle the most with minuscule things, like opening a plastic water bottle. Something about the little ridges of the plastic cap scraping against my newly formed skin makes me terrified that I will end up slicing my hand wide open and wind up back in the hospital. Every evening I return to the makeshift hospital I have constructed in the privacy of my dorm. I use a combination of cocoa butter and oils to massage the areas of my hands that have been severely affected. Apparently massaging the scars are supposed to break them up so they fade away into something remotely less noticeable, but I have yet to see this result. I spend slightly over an hour squeezing a bright yellow therapy putty until I feel myself shaking from muscle exhaustion. My physical therapist left me a sheet of hand exercises created to help me regain strength and coordination, that I currently follow religiously. I also use an elastic band and pull it with fingers extended until it snaps back into place because it has slipped from my grasp. Finally, before I go to sleep I store all my supplies in a drawer away from the eyes of guests and I put on special pair of black mesh compression gloves that have little beige-colored silicone strips on the inside that are supposed to keep the dry regions of my hand moisturized, so the skin does not tear. I am supposed to wear these gloves throughout the day but my fear of being seen as “weird” and the questions of “why are you wearing gloves?” or “what happened to your hands?” prevents me from doing so. At times this hour-long routine seems to last an eternity and occasionally I feel the weight of discouragement pulling me into a pool of self-pity and loathing. However, I seldom let these negative thoughts get the best of me. I acknowledge that pain is temporary and everything happens for a reason. Perspective plays a large role in my personality, I’m always on the lookout for the silver lining, in even the worst of situations, and I pride myself on being someone who consistently looks at the glass as half full.
As the sun rises, I slowly slide my gloves off of my hands and then under my pillow where they can reside in secrecy, ready to start a new day.