Read Online After the Fire: A True Story of Love and Survival by Robin Gaby Fisher - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Gaby Fisher
Tags: United States, General, Social Science, Medical, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Biography, Criminology, Patients, Technology & Engineering, Fire Science, Emergency Medicine, Burns and scalds - Patients - United States, Burns and scalds
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out from the passenger seat. The crowd roared. As soon as his feet hit the grass, a marching band struck up a rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” It was one of his favorite tunes. Shawn felt like the king of a pageant. It was good to be back, he thought, surveying the lush, green campus.
There was Monsignor Robert Sheeran, wearing a huge grin. And the Seton Hall cheerleaders, dressed in the school colors, blue and white, turned cartwheels as they shouted out the letters of his name.
s-h-a-w-n. What does it spell?
shawn! the crowd screamed.
Boland Hall sat majestically at the top of a grassy knoll. Like the Pied Piper, Shawn led the throng to the front of the building.
There sat a brand-new red Mustang with gleaming silver wheels. It was the most beautiful car he had ever seen, and it was for him.
Shawn felt warm from the inside out.
Only it was all a morphine dream.
The familiar rhythm of the respirator had come to be a comfort to Christine. There was something peculiarly soothing about it, predictable — a sound she could count on to fill the terrible silence.
For fourteen days and nights, Christine had sat at Shawn’s bedside, looking for a sign that he was still there, under all the tubes and wires and whirring machines. A twitch, a sniff, anything would do. Sometimes she thought she saw him blink, but then she realized her eyes were deceiving her. If only she knew what he was thinking now. Was he afraid? Did he know what was happening to him? Was he hurting?
The truth was, she was suffering along with Shawn. Sometimes she stared at his face until her back ached, hoping for a sign. Her sweet son — the boy who put the joy in her life — lay there in a continuous sleep, a web of IV lines pushing food, liquids, and narcotics into his bloodstream. His eyes were swollen shut and his arms were tied to the bed so that he didn’t unconsciously try to pull out his breathing tube. Day after day, she had nothing to do but watch — and fret about what to do if nothing ever changed.
Shawn had already survived one fire in his young life. He was a month old when their place in Newark burned to the ground. A fire had begun on a stove in the apartment below theirs. Christine had taken Nicole to school and arrived home just in time to see Kenny fleeing from the burning building with their Shawn cradled in his arms. Now she prayed that Shawn’s luck hadn’t run out.
Every time her mind wandered to such dark places — What if he never wakes up? What if I never hear his silvery voice? What if I never get to tell him I love him again? — Christine listened for the whisper of his breathing machine. As the respirator pumped life into her son’s oxygen-starved lungs, it soothed her nerves and washed her mind of all thoughts. For a moment, at least.
Shawn felt as if he were being flung around in a plane as it crashed into the ocean. His face stung from spraying water. Then the blast abruptly stopped.
He opened his eyes to a blurry world. All Shawn could make out were the vague forms of strangers, pushing and pulling at him. Someone shouted, “Breathe! Breathe!”
Shawn was in the tank room, and he was awake, three weeks and one day since the fire. Even the staff were surprised when he suddenly awoke from his coma. There, as they had been cleaning him, Shawn had raised himself up, trying to climb out of his fog. Now he opened his arms and someone embraced him. He heard people crying and applauding. He didn’t hear his mother. He wished she were there.
Christine and Kenny had arrived in the burn unit two hours later. Andy Horvath intercepted them as they headed for Shawn’s room.
“Hey, Andy,” Christine said.
“Shawn’s awake,” Horvath announced. “He woke up in the tank room.”
Christine steadied herself.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“He’s alert but he’s bewildered,” Horvath said. “He can’t talk because of the respirator, but he wants to communicate.”
Christine had been critical
There was Monsignor Robert Sheeran, wearing a huge grin. And the Seton Hall cheerleaders, dressed in the school colors, blue and white, turned cartwheels as they shouted out the letters of his name.
s-h-a-w-n. What does it spell?
shawn! the crowd screamed.
Boland Hall sat majestically at the top of a grassy knoll. Like the Pied Piper, Shawn led the throng to the front of the building.
There sat a brand-new red Mustang with gleaming silver wheels. It was the most beautiful car he had ever seen, and it was for him.
Shawn felt warm from the inside out.
Only it was all a morphine dream.
The familiar rhythm of the respirator had come to be a comfort to Christine. There was something peculiarly soothing about it, predictable — a sound she could count on to fill the terrible silence.
For fourteen days and nights, Christine had sat at Shawn’s bedside, looking for a sign that he was still there, under all the tubes and wires and whirring machines. A twitch, a sniff, anything would do. Sometimes she thought she saw him blink, but then she realized her eyes were deceiving her. If only she knew what he was thinking now. Was he afraid? Did he know what was happening to him? Was he hurting?
The truth was, she was suffering along with Shawn. Sometimes she stared at his face until her back ached, hoping for a sign. Her sweet son — the boy who put the joy in her life — lay there in a continuous sleep, a web of IV lines pushing food, liquids, and narcotics into his bloodstream. His eyes were swollen shut and his arms were tied to the bed so that he didn’t unconsciously try to pull out his breathing tube. Day after day, she had nothing to do but watch — and fret about what to do if nothing ever changed.
Shawn had already survived one fire in his young life. He was a month old when their place in Newark burned to the ground. A fire had begun on a stove in the apartment below theirs. Christine had taken Nicole to school and arrived home just in time to see Kenny fleeing from the burning building with their Shawn cradled in his arms. Now she prayed that Shawn’s luck hadn’t run out.
Every time her mind wandered to such dark places — What if he never wakes up? What if I never hear his silvery voice? What if I never get to tell him I love him again? — Christine listened for the whisper of his breathing machine. As the respirator pumped life into her son’s oxygen-starved lungs, it soothed her nerves and washed her mind of all thoughts. For a moment, at least.
Shawn felt as if he were being flung around in a plane as it crashed into the ocean. His face stung from spraying water. Then the blast abruptly stopped.
He opened his eyes to a blurry world. All Shawn could make out were the vague forms of strangers, pushing and pulling at him. Someone shouted, “Breathe! Breathe!”
Shawn was in the tank room, and he was awake, three weeks and one day since the fire. Even the staff were surprised when he suddenly awoke from his coma. There, as they had been cleaning him, Shawn had raised himself up, trying to climb out of his fog. Now he opened his arms and someone embraced him. He heard people crying and applauding. He didn’t hear his mother. He wished she were there.
Christine and Kenny had arrived in the burn unit two hours later. Andy Horvath intercepted them as they headed for Shawn’s room.
“Hey, Andy,” Christine said.
“Shawn’s awake,” Horvath announced. “He woke up in the tank room.”
Christine steadied herself.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“He’s alert but he’s bewildered,” Horvath said. “He can’t talk because of the respirator, but he wants to communicate.”
Christine had been critical
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