My father and I were leaving the flight breakfast when it happened.

The airplane headed straight for the grass runway from 100 feet in the air. Grass fills the view in the windshield then the horrible noise of crashing. All I could think of was how much it hurt and we had to get out. While fighting my way from the twisted wreckage, the fuel that spilled onto us from the tanks ignited. I yelled for my father to get out while I scrambled. I broke free, flopped on the ground, rolled and was pounced on by the first responders who were there for public relations. Is it worth the fight? I've just been injured in a tragic accident and the doctors tell my family, "He's got a two to five percent chance to live" and they're being optimistic. "He has third degree burns to 82 percent of his body, his back and neck are broke. If he might live, he'll never walk". The odd part of this situation is that I was still cognizant. I had to make a decision that not only affected myself but everyone in my family. Would the decision be, to fight for life and trust that God will carry everyone through to the finish and beyond, or the decision to let my injuries win and leave this life behind? What medical obstacles would we face? Was life over? What would life after survival be like? Would I ever walk? Would I have any hands left? It was to be a fight; a long stressful fight.

My wife, mother, sister, daughter, doctors, nurses and I all had a different view of what would happen. My wife is a nurse so she had a pretty good idea of the magnitude of my injuries and was preparing her final good-byes. My mother and sister were dealing with the loss of their husband and father. Their concept was that I just couldn't die and all would be well. My daughter was 15 years old and had already been through a lot. She had a real concept of what she saw and felt. She stayed in touch with reality. The odds given by my doctors were given so my family could have a string of hope to grasp onto. The nursing staff was careful to protect my family's image of me. They didn't want my wife's last memories to be grotesque ones, but knew my chances weren't good and did allow her into the tub room to view my injuries. I didn't have a mirror. I knew what happened and that I was not in very good shape. It really hurt. I didn't want to die yet. I wanted to live on.

My wife told the doctors to let me go, not to play God. This made my mother and sister instant adversaries to my wife. My daughter and wife had not gotten along in the previous years but the young lady seemed to understand the wisdom in her stepmother's decision. The doctor's informed my wife that to keep her from being blamed, they'd do nothing right away and felt that nature would take over to end my life so she wouldn't be to blame. The nurses kept me as comfortable as possible and did what they could to look after my wife's needs. I still didn't want to die!

After four days and I hadn't yet died, the doctors decided they should do something. Here is where the fight really starts. They ask me if I wanted the operation that would remove all the burnt tissue from my body. This would have to happen before any recovery would be possible. "The decision was mine", they said. I told them to get on with it. I survived that surgery and came out with the skin, fat and some muscle removed from 82 percent of my body. They covered me with artificial skin but told us it wouldn't last. That was the first of several surgeries. The skin grafting cycle started. In the ones that followed, they'd remove the artificial skin and replace it with my own from the un-burnt skin. Regardless of my mother's pleading, they still refused to better my chances.

Every morning would start with a load of pain medication then off to the tub room I'd go to have bandages removed, scabs scrubbed and re-bandaged. The painkillers helped to take some of the edge off but it still hurt and was a daily struggle. The afternoon would start out with the same load of pills for the therapist. She had to try to keep my fingers from curling up and becoming useless. This was painful enough to bring tears to my eyes. Then came the daily fever, every afternoon. This was my daily fight.

This routine continued every day for almost three months. As each month passed, the doctors would issue a little more hope. I had won round one in the fight to survive the burn injuries. The battle wasn't fought alone. God still must have something for me to do. My daughter and wife have a new understanding and respect for each other. My mother and sister still had no concept of what lay ahead in the battle for my wife and I. The medical staff seemed amazed we pulled it off. They confessed they might not all be religious but they all believe.

The fight isn't over but I don't have to fight alone. Its time to learn to walk and live again.

By Ken Stubbe