Saturday, May 20, 2006

It burnss uss

Another story, this one not so short. Had this idea a long time ago and wanted to play around with it, but only got around to writing it all out today, and I think it became a lot cheesier and clunkier than I had imagined it to be. I was really quite surprised by how monstrous it became, and didn't really want to post it. The idea of writing out a story and throwing it in a corner is too painful for me to contemplate, however, so here it is. I apologise for the cheesy stuff.

Point Number One: Please ignore the medical specifics. I know it's rubbish.

Point Number Two: There's no ending, because I couldn't think of a good enough conclusion (I absolutely suck at endings) and I didn't want to spoil the story (it's already bad enough) with a lousy ending.

Point Number Three: As usual, if you bothered enough to read it, comments are most welcome.

~~~~~~~~~~~

BURNT

THERE ARE CERTAIN TIMES in our lives when we know we're stepping over the threshold of something big, that after this momentous "crossing-over" our lives will never be the same again. The excitement of the change is something exhilarating, at times, and at other times something frightening, and sometimes both, or even more. Most times, however, we never know how huge the change can be.

The Hubby is, at this point in time, standing on that threshold, and a million thoughts are running through his mind even as he feels the vice-like grip of the Wife squeezing the life out of his wrists, as if by some strange method of transference this could alleviate the agonising pain she is going through, but he's too excited to let the pain bother him.

He frets that he does not have the video camera with him, that the Wife didn't pack it in her belongings when the first Contraction started and she made her way calmly to the hospital after giving him a call at the office. He must have reminded her a dozen times to do so. Rather bemusedly, he suspects deliberate forgetfulness, for after all, who would want such a video tape being shown to a bunch of fascinated relatives and friends, if one had the choice? It hardly matters anyway, he supposes. What is important is that he is here, watching this, standing at this point in time looking at that shining doorway into a new phase of life.

Another contraction. The Wife's fingers dig even deeper as she gasps, and she sounds like her life is being pulled out from her bit by excruciating bit. In a way, that is true.


The frustrating thing about momentous events in your life, you realise - once you've experienced enough of them - is that you can never really remember the entire period in clear chronological order, harried as your mind is by the sheer momentousness of it all. When the Hubby tries to remember what happened that night, all he has are snippets of memories, like a field so overgrown with the weeds of memory that only the tallest flowers can vaguely be seen.

Certainly it was a harrowing experience. Nearly nine long hours of exponentially increasing pain on the Wife's part, punctuated with screams that became whimpers and then gasps, as bit by bit the Baby came closer to the World.

There wasn't much blood. He wasn't a squeamish person by nature, and the smell was slightly more upsetting than the blood. But on the odd chance that he was asked, usually by someone who didn't know about what happened after, he would say there wasn't much blood that he could remember.

The wails of the Baby. after slipping out of the Wife a bluish-pink, blood-stained crinkled little wonder of life, made the both of them cry. They were now a Mommy and a Daddy.


The most significant memory of that night, probably the most significant one of his life, was when the Daddy held the Baby in his arms for the first time, after the nurses had washed and weighed and bundled him snugly in baby blue cloth. The Baby lay comfortably, eyes closed, little bud of a mouth pursed petulantly, so like the Mommy's. The Daddy cooed lovingly, his smile so wide it could split his face in halves of joy. The Mommy stretched out her arm languidly from where she was lying on the bed, hair in disarray and damp with sweat, eyes ringed with exhaustion, and lay a finger tenderly on the Baby's cheek, as if to make doubly sure this was real.

The Baby's face crumpled into a grimace so pained it frightened both Mommy and Daddy, and squirming in his tight cocoon of cloth he turned his face away from the Mommy's loving finger. On Baby's cheek, where the Mommy's finger had been, there was an angry red mark, perfectly round, branded into the skin.

It was a memory they both wished they could forget.


The months following that life-changing night was a flurry of consultations that they could hardly remember. From hospital to hospital, one paediatrician to another, they sought for a solution where even a diagnosis could not be found.

It was "unprecedented". An "inappropriately vigorous immune reaction to human epithelium", kind of like "an allergy to skin". The condition "could be genetic, but at this point it's hard to say exactly".

They dared not test the complete severity of the Baby's reaction to the touch of other people, because a paediatrician had suggested that as the immune system matured with the development of the child, the reaction might grow even more vigorous than it was at birth. The Mommy and Daddy took exquisite care not to let their skin come into contact with the Baby's exposed skin, and always handled the baby with a layer of cloth or paper in between.

They endured a lot of things in those months. All those doctors coming to examine the Baby, to talk to the Mommy and Daddy, asking the same questions. The look in their eyes was the worst, as their attempts to hide their excited academic fascination at this freak of nature with a look of comforting empathy failed miserably. Most of them just looked completely confounded. They would willingly endure all that and more, if only something could be done for their Baby, their pride and joy.

Ten months and a considerable pile of medical bills later, all the doctors could tell them was, "Continue avoiding direct contact between his skin and yours, and we'll see you in the clinic. We'll watch and see how the condition progresses." So much for medical science.


Imagine having a child you could not express your love for through touch. You will never be able to feel how soft his skin is with your fingertips, or his tiny face fitting snugly into the crook of your shoulder as you carry him, and you'll never be able to hug him with all your love and kiss him on the forehead and say, "Mommy loves you", or "Daddy loves you".

Cire was that child. And the Mommy and Daddy could not tell you how many times they came perishingly close to mental breakdown, as days became months and then years, always having to take painful care to only touch Cire through a layer of protective covering. The times he fell sick and they couldn't even put their hands to his forehead to check how high his fever was. The times he had first started walking and would totter precariously, arms outstretched, towards them, and they had to take care to catch him at arms' length and not let him fall into their arms for fear that his face would come into contact with their skin. They couldn't even carry him without worrying, and so they tried to touch him as little as possible.

Words could not describe their pain, and it got even worse as Cire grew older and started wondering why his parents would push him away every time he wanted to hug them. Young as he was, he would never understand when his parents warned him never to touch anyone. They tried to give him everything they could, all the toys he wanted, but they never allowed him to play with other children, and hardly ever brought him out, for fear that someone would accidentally brush against him, skin against skin. All they could give was never enough for Cire, who only wanted a proper hug.

It was no better than having a child who had to live in a bubble.


If it is a painful experience to have to raise a child and never touch him, then for Cire, growing up unable to place his hand on any other person's face or hand must be all the more painful. It was impossible to make him understand. A child will never know the danger of fire until he has been burnt.

One terrible night, in the year where Cire was five, the Mommy and Daddy lay sleeping, not peacefully, as they had never been able to sleep peacefully since having Cire, as the boy tiptoed into the room, a fanciful idea taking root in the fertile soil in his mind and blossoming into a flower, as pretty as it was poisonous.

The Mommy was having a dream, a pleasant enough dream to most people but not to her, for she was dreaming that Cire was a normal child and she was hugging him, and even in her dream she knew this wasn't true, that she would wake up to reality and know that she could never hug her son this way. She knew, and she cried in her dream, as she hugged the dream-Cire with all her might, all the might that she had kept away for the last five years. Faintly, she heard her son gasping, whispering, "Mommy, I can't breathe!"

Her dream dissolved into wisps of wishful memory, as she shot back into wakefulness, heart pounding, and feeling that something was not right. For more than a wisp of memory remained, and she found her arms wrapped round a small weight that was lying on her chest, the top end of this weight cradled against her neck, gasping. It took her a few moments to realise what was going on before she started screaming, hands frantically trying to get Cire off her even as five years of controlled habit prevented her from touching where she could not see if it was bare skin or clothed.

The Daddy sprung awake at the Mommy's shriek, and in a few heartbeats had pried the child off the Mommy, flicking on the light to survey the damage, and then wishing he had left the room in the dark.

The half of Cire's face that had lain snugly on the Mommy's neck was a flaming crimson, weeping blood and serous fluid from multiple blisters, a horrible harlequin's mask. Cire's face was itself contorted into a grimace of unendurable pain, tears streaking his cheeks.

The Mommy couldn't stop shrieking. Her nightdress was streaked with blood, her son's blood, her face pulled into a rictus of shock as her hands hovered tremblingly around her mouth, then stretched out towards Cire's mangled face, then withdrew sharply, not knowing where to go. This was not a dream.

Throughout the ride in the Daddy's car to the nearest hospital, Cire did not cry out even though it was evident he was in severe pain. His breaths came fast, and blood continued to weep from the burnt half of his face. There was nothing the Mommy and Daddy could do to alleviate his pain, and while the Daddy drove in silence and determination, the Mommy cradled Cire's head through a towel, sobbing as if her pain could alleviate his.

She remembered all too well the looks of horror on the faces of the people in the Emergency Department as they ran in, as they looked from Cire's face to the Mommy's blood-streaked face and clothes, and wondered how any mother could do this to her child. She remembered all too well.

All Cire had wanted was a hug from his Mommy.

Avaris / 5/20/2006 08:10:00 PM

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