The Dragon and the Church

There was this dragon, and he was big. Big and green. And there was this friend of mine who dared me to stick a feather up the dragon’s nose. Not being one to shy away from a dare, I accepted. I got a feather. A big feather. When you are dealing with a big dragon, you must have a big feather. I crept up to the dragon and slowly, carefully extended the feather toward his nose… and then inside.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. When the feather was nearly forty-six percent of the way in, the dragon sneezed. Now, when you or I sneeze, things come out of our noses no matter how much we pretend we are always clean and cannot be associated with filth such as snot, boogers, Fruit Loops or whatever else we may have up our noses. When a dragon sneezes, however, it is much worse than snot, boogers, or Fruit Loops. Dragons sneeze fire, and this one was no exception. He sneezed fire… and he sneezed it right on me.

I am quite tall, so the fire did not affect the bottom half of my body, but my arms, chest, and face were instantly scorched. What does one do when one has been scorched by a dragon sneeze? The only logical thing, of course. I sneezed on him. You may think I look a mess, but seriously, you should see the dragon. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that I won that dare.

Some people have been circulating an alternative story that seems to revolve around onion rings. In that story, so I’ve heard, I was deep-frying onion rings in my kitchen when the oil caught fire. I made a series of poor panicked choices in which I tried to move the flaming pot, only to trip and fall and pour hot, flaming oil on the top half of my body (as well as on my verandah, my curtain, some books, a guitar, and my floor).

Believe what you will. Either way, here is what I looked like two or three days after the incident:

In a matter of seconds, I had more people trying to care for me than were helpful. They showered me with cold water for nearly half an hour, during which I regretfully evaluated my arms, which were blistering in a way I had never before seen. The left side of my face stung and I felt as if my left eyelid had grown flabby and was drooping over my eye, making it difficult to see. After the shower, I forced myself to look in the mirror. It appeared as if someone had melted the left side of my face. I prayed that somehow, in whatever way possible, it would not look like that for the rest of my life.

The medical staff at Noah’s Ark gave me some initial pain medication and hooked me up to an IV to get fluid in me, and then we hopped—gingerly, of course—into the ambulance and made our way to International Hospital Kampala. There they evaluated, cleaned, and bandaged my wounds as best they could. From their approximation, twenty-five percent of my body was burnt and the worst ones were second degree. The doctor wanted to admit me to the hospital, but we convinced him that the doctors and nurses at Noah’s Ark could provide adequate care and I could come back to the hospital the next day. That night, I went home. My left eye was swollen so badly I could no longer see out of it, but the rest of my body only stung as if I had gotten a bad sunburn.

I saw a lot of the Noah’s Ark nurses over the next few days, which was fantastic because they are a joy to be around and I usually don’t have any reason to spend much time with them. I went back to the hospital two more times after that, and it was not until two or three days after the incident that someone mentioned going back to America for treatment.

My initial reaction was to say no, that the burns were not bad enough to need to go halfway around the world when there was already a hospital in Kampala who could care for me. However, after some thought I decided that when all was said and done, I would want to know I had done everything I possibly could to have a full recovery, and it was clear that the care I could get in America surpassed that which I could get in Uganda. Within twenty-four hours, I was on a plane for Seattle.

My parents met me at the airport and we immediately drove to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle, which I later discovered has the second best burn unit in the country. I explained the dragon incident to the workers in the emergency room, and they gave me a bed and nurses looked and interrogated and poked and prodded and did other things nurses tend to do. (Side note: If you ever plan on getting burnt, try to avoid your arms. You will need an IV at some point and the easiest places to put them are all in your arms and hands. If they cannot use your arms, they will resort to less comfortable places like feet, legs, or in my case, your neck.) It came as a bit of a shock when, six hours later, they informed me I would be going to the ICU that night. To get off a commercial flight five days after the incident and then get admitted to the ICU made it all seem like a much bigger deal.

Fortunately, I only had to spend one night in the ICU before they transferred me to the regular burn and plastics floor. For the next three weeks, my daily routine looked something like this: The nurses woke me up in the morning with a small plethora of medications for pain and pooping. Midmorning was wound care, when they removed all my bandages, cleaned everything and peeled off any dead skin, and then bandaged me up again. This was by far the most painful part of the day. Try peeling off the outer layers of skin on your arm, then having someone hold a washcloth around your arm and not-so-gently slide it from your shoulder to your wrist. Multiple times. Every day. The rest of the day I hung out with my mom and any other family who was there. We mostly walked around the eighth floor (the only place I was allowed) while I stretched.

I loved going to the gym and working on the arm bike and the pulleys. Because scar tissue tends to contract and tighten everything around it, I was instructed to stretch anything that felt tight—which was everything. Every waking moment was (and is) spent stretching my arms, chest, and face so as things heal the scars do not inhibit my range of motion.

In the evenings, we watched movies in the lounge-ish areas to get out of the room. My family and I are a bit loud, so in order to not disturb my roommates we had to find other places to watch… and talk… and dance.

Thriller... ish. 

My mom and I created a game where we go back and forth and have to list good things about what has happened to me. The first and biggest one was that I have been able to spend time with family whom I have not seen in a year. So far, I have seen my parents, two out of three sisters, two aunts, one uncle, one cousin, and several friends. Talk about a good support group. I had been hoping to come back for a visit sometime soon anyway, so in a way it worked out perfectly.

Crazily, we had some really good times in the hospital. I never expected it to be so fun! The nursing staff was fantastic—one of my nurses even crocheted me a headband for my birthday to cover the front of my head they shaved in the ICU. One afternoon, my dad and I spent two hours playing with one of the greatest toys ever invented: flickin’ chickens. We had races, made games with point systems, and hid behind walls and flicked them at the nurses at their stations. This was all before we got them stuck to the ceiling. Even the custodian made my day every time he cleaned my room, with his huge smile and Ethiopian accent. I could not have asked for better care.

Nurse Jeff, one of my regulars.

Dr. Mandell flickin' a chicken at me during wound rounds.

While some of the burned areas were healing nicely, some stalled out, so on June 12^th I had skin graft surgery on my left arm, which they determined were all third degree burns. They basically took a cheese slicer to my left thigh and used a special tape to attach the strips of skin to the top of my left arm and hand. The surgery went very well, but I would not recommend it to anyone—waking up still intubated is not a fun ordeal. I had to stay in bed for the next two days, which is the longest I have ever stayed in bed in my life. I was hooked up to one nerve block in my neck to numb my arm (which worked a little bit) and one on my hip to numb my thigh (which worked for a day or two), plus a normal IV with a button so I could give myself morphine every six minutes as needed. That part was kind of fun. But not too much fun, so don’t worry.

The donor site after ten days of healing.

Three days after surgery I stood up for the first time and gingerly began walking again. I went a little farther everyday. The donor site was much more painful than the graft site, which would have been surprising had they not told me that several times before the surgery. We went back to normal wound care and gym routines for the next week and my arm slowly began looking less like Frankenstein’s monster and more like… well, a more evenly toned Frankenstein’s monster. 

My arm before surgery. I know it is my arm, but this picture makes me want to throw up a little.

The graft a few days after surgery.

My arm yesterday. I won't go so far as to say it looks pretty, but compared to what it was... wow!

My mom snuck me outside three times in the course of the three weeks, and my therapist got me cleared for one therapeutic outing, where we went outside to get fresh air for about twenty minutes. Then, on June 22^nd, they set me free!

Therapeutic outing with my physical therapist, Sarah! This was the closest I could come to a jumping shot.

Now my parents and I do my wound care from home in Morton. Fortunately, there is less and less to do everyday. Unfortunately, healing burns are quite painful, but I can see my skin improving, which is encouraging. The full healing process will take up to a year or year-and-a-half. For the next year, I will wear a compression sleeve and glove on my left arm and hand to keep the scars from rising, and I will continue stretching to make sure I maintain full range of motion. After a year, the scars will have matured and I will have nothing else to worry about. I expect to spend another three or four weeks in the US before returning to Uganda. It is wonderful to be home, but I am itching to get back to the children there!

This is what therapy looks like at home. It stretches my wrist and fingers.

Since the dragon incident, I have had numerous people tell me they cannot believe my positive attitude, how well I am handling all this, and other such niceties and amazed compliments. The truth is, none of that would be possible—and I am convinced the healing would not be going half as well—if it were not for the hundreds (yes, hundreds) of people I know who are praying for me throughout it all. Of course, there are the usual prayer suspects: my church at Noah’s Ark, my church in Morton, friends and family. On top of that, however, I have had a handful of people telling me their churches are praying for me, and I have no idea which churches are theirs. I have gotten cards and emails from people I had to ask my parents about because I didn’t recognize the names. I had visits in the hospital from people I have not seen since college graduation.

The one that blows my mind the most, however, is even bigger than that. On Sunday, my aunt informed me that she shared my story with a friend of hers from Cambodia. I have met him once when he was in the US, but he and I are no more than once-met acquaintances. He works in a YWAM base in Cambodia and since he found out about the burn, he and his team have been praying for a full and miraculous recovery… one in which I am fully healed, aside from one scar to serve as a reminder of what happened.

To be lifted up in prayer by people in Washington, Nevada, Iowa, Wisconsin, Uganda, New Zealand, Cambodia, and wherever else these prayer warriors are… it brings me to tears thinking about it. That, my friends, is the church: people from all over the globe joined together for one mission and one purpose. We are temporarily joined by my accident, but the mission that unites us more permanently is much greater than this. What I see right now is only a small taste of what we are called to do every day of our lives, and let me tell you, it is beautiful.

The circumstances may be awful and awfully painful, but I am convinced I have never been more blessed.