Excerpts from 1000 Deaths

I am posting an excerpt from writings I began several months ago. It is a true story, written in the present tense, of life after burns, yet the story in its entirety does tells of the accident,  subsequent hospitalization and such. The title 1000 Deaths is a temporary, working title at this point.

 

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Dr. Greenhalgh, my burn doctor next to me in August 2012 at UCDavis Medical Center, Sacramento, California.

            1000 Deaths

I stand proudly before the oven in our newly constructed house. We’ve moved into it three days ago and this is our first home-cooked meal––roast beef with roasted carrots and red potatoes. I secretly gloat at the memory that as a licensed Real Estate agent, I earned a commission for buying my own home.

I open the door for a peek at the goods and I wheeze from the heat-blast, and I’m shaken and tossed. Like a soldier with PTSD, I am standing in the blaze screaming for Frank.* He tells me my hair is smoldering, but it is my hand I notice, melted and deformed.

Someone yells, and I about-face to find off-duty firefighters suiting-up––but they stop, frozen. The fuel tanker explodes, and they shed their gear. They tell me to lie down on the sizzling asphalt.

Once there, they douse me with saline. I am howling, animal-like for more. They say they are out and I plead for water. But they say they can’t because water might cause the burns to become infected.  I yell that I don’t care.

I see the treetops burning as I lie on the asphalt, waiting for my seven-winged bird.   I’m reassured the Medi-Vac helicopter is on its way and I hope. Black smoke floats higher and higher above the flames.

I see Frank on the ground to my right. He has arms in the air and my stomach churns at the sight of the skin falling from his forearms. Rows of vehicles line the road, watching, waiting for the danger to clear, gawking at the unlucky ones. I turn my face to the left and a camera is inches away.  Behind the camera, a woman is crouching and flashes light the air. I yell for her to stop. How dare she?

And I begin to yowl.

The sound of Frank’s footsteps on the hardwood floor and his worried cry catapults me into my world of roast beef, carrots and potatoes.

“What happened?” he demands, “Are you alright?’

It’s nothing dear, wash up, and please, set the table. Dinner is almost ready.”  I turn to smile at him then turn away and wipe the tears away with a dish towel.

*This character’s name has been changed.

 

 

My Little Town––My Earworm

My father, 81, still lives on the property he acquired from his father in the mid 1950s. I visit him on a weekly basis, typically Sunday afternoons.

On my most recent Sunday visit, I decided to listen to some oldies, via Pandora, on the Simon & Garfunkel station.  My current town is about 20 miles from my childhood home, so I was enjoying quite a few oldies and the pleasant memories associated with each song.  As I turned into the long drive way, “My Little Town” (Simon & Garfunkel) began to play. That song has earwormed its way into my head for the past week.

A midweek visit was necessitated–– Dad needed my help with some banking back in my little town. Coincidentally, “My Little Town” repeated in splendid reverie, as I turned onto his little lane.  As I wailed the lyrics of the chorus, “nothing but the dead of night back in my little town,” my curiosity compelled me to Google the lyrics to the full song. (I’m a lyrics kind of girl.)

I was stupefied to learn that for the past 43 years, I’ve been belting out incorrect words. According to lyrics.com, the correct lyrics read “nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town.”

My bad.

Dead and dying seems to be more appropriate of late, as in the past two years my little town has lost my mother and three aunties, two of whom I was especially close to.

The lyrics of the song seems to imply nothing productive comes from their little town: whereas, my little town has lost four bastions of strength, grace, faith and character.

I prefer to keep my version. Maybe its born from habit of 43 years. Maybe it’s plain stubbornness.  So, I’ll keep on keening “nothing but the dead of night” safely within the confines of my little black car on my way to my little town.

Font Nerds

One of the things I enjoy about Brick on the television comedy, “The Middle,” is his love and knowledge about fonts. On “The Goldbergs,” Adam had a font showdown recently.   I don’t know why I chuckle at the idea every time, but I do. I’ve concluded that I’m a closet Font Nerd. Surmise this admission as my coming out.

While I am not nearly as knowledgeable as Brick, I do enjoy an occasional migration from the typical Times New Roman required by most professors.  I applaud unabashedly when instructed to use a font of my own choosing.

However, I quickly become overwhelmed with the plethora of font choices listed, and then there is the dilemma of what font transfers between programs and applications best, if at all.  Audience should be considered ––I want to provide the smoothest reading experience as possible for my audience, especially a professor.

 

FYI­–On Microsoft Word 2016 for Mac –– this is Adobe Arabic (10)

 

Saturday Mornings

I’m here.

I’m on pins and needles: reading over syllabuses and textbooks 📚 for the upcoming semester.img_2487<<<<

On the plus side, only three more semester remaining until I will have completed requirements necessary for that coveted Bachelor’s in English and a minor degree in journalism (provided I survive a full four months of Math.)

So here I am on pins and needles while biting my nails at the daunting task ahead. I’m thinking of playing a Scarlett O’Hara and putting off these thought for another day .

It’s time for a Saturday morning walk in the sunshine. And contemplate my future.

 

Introspections and Cracked Pots

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Back in the day, I made a dinner dish that my mother-n-law had dubbed “More Casserole.” With four children and a husband to feed, it became my go-to dish because it was relatively cheap to concoct, and I love preparing one-pot dishes.

The crowd was divided in their opinion, mostly because it calls for frozen peas, peas that often littered the dining room floor.

Since my mother passed away it has fallen to me to make sure my father has nutritious meals. My sister lives out of state and my brother doesn’t cook.

Thankfully, my father loves More Casserole. I was preparing a massive batch of this casserole for him a few days ago, when I noticed something about the baking dishes––one was shiny and new, the other obviously had seen many turns in the oven, The other boasted a few tiny cracks and dents in the metal.

I’ve watch enough cooking shows to know presentation is an important component to whetting appetites. Remembering this fact got me thinking: Although the same casserole filled each dish, how would each dish’s presentation be received? Shiny and new vs. tiny cracks and dents.

I relate to the vessel marred with dents and cracks; I’m a burn survivor. In 1999, I was burned over 58% of my body, including my face. I required much skin grafting, and multiple reconstructive surgeries to my nose, ear, eyes, and mouth. While I look much better than I did in the beginning, things are not quite symmetrical.

images-4Living in a culture in which beauty and youth are prized (and fleeting) cracked pots, such as myself, are overlooked, and devalued. (I can now add aging woman to that list). And while, I am thankful to be on the survivor end of the ordeal, I face social devaluation everywhere I carry my dented vessel.

My exterior contains the same casserole as it did when the pot was shiny and new, albeit the flavor ––time and experience marry––has only enhanced. Some people think this casserole is pretty dang good¬––peas and all.

Those that judge me by my presentation are shallow, and I don’t want shallow people in my life. Still, it smarts a little to be judged only for my presentation. I am much more that my shell.

Rant of the day √

images-5
Back in the day, I made a dinner dish that my mother-n-law had dubbed “More Casserole.” With four children and a husband to feed, it became my go-to dish because it was relatively cheap to concoct, and I love preparing one-pot dishes.

The crowd was divided in their opinion, mostly because it calls for frozen peas, peas that often littered the dining room floor.

Since my mother passed away it has fallen to me to make sure my father has nutritious meals. My sister lives out of state and my brother doesn’t cook.

Thankfully, my father loves More Casserole. I was preparing a massive batch of this casserole for him a few days ago, when I noticed something about the baking dishes––one was shiny and new, the other obviously had seen many turns in the oven, The other boasted a few tiny cracks and dents in the metal.

I’ve watch enough cooking shows to know presentation is an important component to whetting appetites. Remembering this fact got me thinking: Although the same casserole filled each dish, how would each dish’s presentation be received? Shiny and new vs. tiny cracks and dents.

I relate to the vessel marred with dents and cracks; I’m a burn survivor. In 1999, I was burned over 58% of my body, including my face. I required much skin grafting, and multiple reconstructive surgeries to my nose, ear, eyes, and mouth. While I look much better than I did in the beginning, things are not quite symmetrical.

images-4Living in a culture in which beauty and youth are prized (and fleeting) cracked pots, such as myself, are overlooked, and devalued. (I can now add aging woman to that list). And while, I am thankful to be on the survivor end of the ordeal, I face social devaluation everywhere I carry my dented vessel.

My exterior contains the same casserole as it did when the pot was shiny and new, albeit the flavor ––time and experience marry––has only enhanced. Some people think this casserole is pretty dang good¬––peas and all.

Those that judge me by my presentation are shallow, and I don’t want shallow people in my life. Still, it smarts a little to be judged only for my presentation. I am much more that my shell.

Rant of the day √