Journey of a Survivor

The evening of June 17, 2002, was one of those fine late spring nights. It was cool, with a light breeze and it had been a productive one. I had pretty much finished creating the material for an volunteer risk-management policy booklet that I had been contracted to publish by a local non-profit. A fundraising and volunteer management plan, part of another new consulting gig, had been well received by the Executive Director of a crisis shelter for homeless youth. The previous weekend had featured spending time at the cottage and attending a Bat Mitzvah with my girlfriend. She had recently bought a nice bungalow in an up-scale Toronto suburb and there was casual discussion regarding us becoming roommates. We were both very excited about the plans to renovate and decorate her new home to our tastes. I was happy.

I worked until just after midnight and retired to my recently created loft bedroom. The past year of renovating and decorating the top-half of a century brownstone had left me with a comfortable and beautiful space that I loved to spend time in. I couldn’t sleep, so I returned to my downstairs office to tire myself out with on-line games. That didn’t do the trick, so I decided to finish removing the paint from an 80-year old table that was going to make a nice housewarming present for the girlfriend, Sharon. I grabbed a can of my favourite brand, a non-flammable chemical that is gentle on antiques, and got to work on the last layer of stubborn paint. After about 30 minutes, I stepped back to examine the progress. I lit a cigarette and dropped into the chair, barely noticing when my hand grazed the chair leg. I was puzzled by a sudden pain in my left thigh. The sight of flames didn’t register until the heat on my forehead caused me to look up at a tabletop that had sprouted fire.

I stood and turned to discover flames erupting from the hundred year chestnut floorboards. The door was fully engulfed, as was most of the span separating us. The only oasis was the area immediate to the window. A quick glance about the room failed to find some device with which to shimmy down. I crossed to the open window and became concerned about dislodging the quart-sized mason jar prop, so I lowered the window and proceeded to break the window frame (yeah, okay, it wasn’t the most brilliant idea, but my thinking was a tad addled by being on fire. The original idea was to grab clothes from the abutting closet and throw them onto the ground as a cushion. A quick glance over my shoulder convinced me that precious time was left with which to avoid the advancing flames. I pushed the screen out with my head as I checked for anything that would impede my freefall, placed my hands on the outside ledge and pushed off. I became disoriented during the decent and landed on my back. The neighbours asphalt driveway managed to break my fall (and a few bones). My first thought was utter amazement that I had not hit my head. I was startled by a loud bang emanating from the room, quickly followed by the shrill beacon of the fire alarm. Trying to stand up sent waves of surreal pain through my body. Some bones were obviously broken so I dragged myself onto the grass and laid as quietly as possible. I mercifully lost consciousness a few minutes later, not long after I had been found by some neighbours.

I woke up 38 days later in Room 1 at Toronto Sunnybrook’s Ross Tilley Burn Centre. I was very confused and highly agitated at first. I had no memory of the fire; being shown my scars and hearing the stories made no sense whatsoever. I was informed that I had sustained deep 2nd to deep 3rd degree burns over 65% of my body and suffered severe smoke, heat and toxin inhalations injuries. Further, there were multiple fractures and a nasty gash in my neck that had penetrated to the spinal column. A feeding tube snaked through my nose; there was a trach and 4 separate IV lines. It took me about 5 days to remember the fire. I had experienced one very long, chronological nightmare while in the drug-induced coma that I mistook for reality until the fog lifted.

The prognosis was not inspiring. I was informed that I was still considered to be medically unstable even though I was awake. A severe sacroiliac fracture would leave me bedridden until further notice. The optimistic hope was that I would be discharged from the hospital in time to celebrate Christmas at home, but most likely still confined to a wheelchair. My feet were very badly burned - there was still some concern that they might both have to be amputated after all – and the lower spinal and pelvic fractures would make relearning to walk again quite the drawn-out struggle. It was opined that I would need special care at least 2 years and would need at least 5 years in order to approximate my pre-burn condition. However, there were some motivating positives as I had surprised the surgeons several times to date. The skin on my back had inexplicably regenerated on its own, an extremely rare occurrence, reducing the amount of effort & surgery needed. My feet had somehow managed to remain viable despite minimal blood flow. The most important was that I had survived the fire.

After seeing the amazing level of support and an inspiring conversation with my primary plastic surgeon, I became extremely motivated and committed. I also became fully engaged in deep-seated denial. I firmly believed that I would fully recover quickly with only a few scant scars to show for the experience. My expectation was that 1 year of full-time, hardcore rehab would be more than enough. All lines were disconnected within the first week and I was soon trying to use a walker and toilet on my own. Three weeks after waking, I was sufficiently strong and independent enough to be transferred to a rehab hospital. St. John’s Rehabilitation Hospital has the only dedicated burn rehab program in the province. I was frail and in need of a lot of help. My hand strength was a paltry 5-PSI and walking 40 feet, using a walker, was still a goal. I quickly became immersed in the 4 hours per day of aggressive one-on-one therapy. This included physio, walking coaching and occupational therapy and speech training. Hours were spent flexing limbs while massaging litres of skin lotion into the scars. I was almost constantly doing exercises on my own while watching TV or reading. I slept a lot and ate a lot, adding badly needed strength to a body that was an emaciated 120 pounds at check-in. There were a number of visitors who kept me in good spirits and bought many tasty treated. My friends and family often helped with rehab while visiting.

The results were measurable. All ranges of motion were significantly improved. The scars had seen a 27% improvement and I was up to a hefty 138 lbs. I was finally allowed to weight-bear on my right leg and tested positive for M.R.S.A. a few days before discharge. On September 27, after spending 6 weeks in the rehab hospital and exactly 100 days overall, I was discharged to the care of my father. A limousine whisked me off to a welcome home party/fundraiser with some 300 people in attendance. It was held in the hotel where I used to manage a martini lounge and the management laid out a lavish party. The entertainment came via a group of female and male impersonators singing some of my favourite songs. It was a very emotional evening.

I moved into my father’s bungalow that evening. He is a retired businessman, so he could tend to my needs. I started daily physiotherapy the following Monday. I was amazingly lucky to have found a therapist who had 8 years of burn unit experience in my hometown hospital. My regiment quickly became set. I awoke at 8 a.m. each weekday and started with some light stretching while still in bed. This led to an hour of calisthenics and massaging a strange concoction of lotions, ointments and other liquids into my skin while eating a light breakfast. A shower followed before being driven to an hour+ with Denise. I would return to the house for a heavy lunch and a nap. Afternoons were spend with more stretching, light workouts, a long soak in a hot bath and 3 applications of lotion to anywhere that I could reach. Dinner was usually a large fare of healthy foods. I had several junk food snacks daily and my last meal of the day provided the opportunity to balance the needs between weight gain & health boosting. There were usually visitors at night, but I still found time for more push-ups, stretching and lubricating. My nightly treat was a few cookies while a large cup of tea followed by an application of heavy lotion to my back and a good back scratch. Overall, rehab was my full-time 40-hour+ job. The internet was always a nice alternative to the boob tube so I spent hours each day learning about burns and rehabilitation. The weekends were my reward. I drove to Toronto every Friday afternoon for a weekend with Sharon. My regiment was cut to about half-capacity on the weekends. We tended to be homebodies and pampered ourselves with leisurely brunches in bed and long soaks in the Jacuzzi. I usually returned with lighter spirits and a refreshed body.

Living at home provided some challenges. My father and I had never been close and tempers flared on a number of occasions. We had never gotten along well and he tended to be a nasty drunk. However, I did grow quite close to my stepmother. I managed my first unassisted step in early November. I applied to teacher’s college and prepared for an amazing Christmas. Sharon & I really went overboard that year. We hosted the traditional Christmas Eve party at my father’s house with a feast that cost $300+ alone. Our presents were equally extravagant. We had a lot to celebrate that year & managed to visit the burn unit with gifts for all the staff and patients on Boxing Day.

I continued to grow stronger and more independent. Quite a bit of my furniture and personal effects had survived. I lost all of my clothes, tools, electronics, mattress/box spring and fabric covered furniture. I had lost thousands of dollars worth of things, but still had quite a lot left. I managed to clean everything and rented the top-half of another century house a short distance from where I moved in mid-February. It was great living on my own again in a city that I had come to consider home. My social life surged as I connected with my old group of friends. I joined a gym and started weekly private physiotherapy. After I had trouble finding a massage therapist, I approached a local college of massage and hydrotherapy. I had read a lot of positive material about the scar reduction effects of massage and was eager to get it a try. I lectured the students on burns, massage techniques and the emotional issues involved in treating a trauma survivor. In exchange, I received daily massages so that the students could learn the practical techniques. I was accepted to the University of Windsor and took a summer course to prep for the upcoming adventure. I was starting to feel like my old self and enjoyed many of things that I had before. I still had some trouble walking, but was working up to an awkward jogging gait.

I started to spend a fair bit of time at the lake front cottage during the week. Sharon and I were experienced troubles and were limping to an tacit breakup when I moved away for teacher’s college. I was quite nervous about this next chapter. I would be moving away from my comfort zone to a city that I had last lived in 9 years previous. I would also need to undertake a much more structured lifestyle of studying and attending classes. I managed to suffer a major setback in mid-August, when I fractured my right tibial plateau. This required surgery and a minimum stint of using crutches for 10 weeks. This made the move, and the transition as a whole, much more difficult.

September was a very emotional month. In addition to all of the life changes, I also attended my first World Burn Congress and spoke at a symposium as the “Survivor of the Year” for the 10 hospitals involved with the Great Lake Burn Study Group. These events had a powerful and highly positive impact. It was so nice to spent time with like folk, to feel understood and to be honoured for my efforts. A very troublesome situation developed at teacher’s college. Overall, the vast number of people that I came in contact with seemed unphased by my scars. However, there was one student who somehow came to believe that no woman would be interested in me romantically so that I would eventually pose a sexual predator risk to children. It was an appalling deduction that hurt me a lot. I tried to not let it bother me, but it did.

One of the most important things that I finally realized was this: people could only hurt me if I gave them permission. At that point, my emotional strength surged. I managed to finish teacher’s college with an A- average. It was a struggle at times, but I did it. I was most proud of achieving a mark of 98.7% in Science and two other A+. The D+ in Music really hurt the average. Not bad considering that I lost marks in virtually every course due to time missed for rehab and morning when the knee was too painful to get out of bed. I also found that I was right in my choice to become a teacher. Practicums had been a whack of fun and I truly enjoyed working with the younger, not seriously traumatized yet children.

My reward was to spend the summer at the cottage while we figured out the knee surgery. The one from the previous August had not been successful and further work was needed. There was even casual talk about a full knee replacement. It was a great summer of quiet regeneration. School had seriously drained my physical resources. There was some miscommunication with scheduling the operation and it got delayed. I became restless and began considering my next move. I decided to accept a teaching position with the Ministry of Education in Taiwan. It was quite the adventure. Taiwan was literally and figuratively on the other side of the earth. However, I did managed to build a decent life with good friends, no shortage of work and a fine Philippino girlfriend.

After 9 months, it became time to come home so I jetted back to Canada. It has been a lot of fun catching up with friends/family and all the junk food that I had missed. I am still jobless even though I have sent out almost 100 resumes. The summer of 2005 has been spent getting into shape and looking after my father, whom recently had his left foot amputated due to arterioscrosis and stubbornness. I remain hopeful of landing a teaching job in Ontario, but I have started to consider working overseas again. One big plus has been that the knee was finally taken care of. The surgeon reported a successful operation and a surprise over how healthy the joint is. I am very hopeful that after a short stint of 4 weeks on crutches, I will be walking normally for the 1st time in over 3 years. It is almost time for the “Phoenix” to fly again.

By Mike Hodgkinson