After hearing my husband tell me that he had me, my mind immediately switched from accepting my fate to finding a way to survive
As soon as I no longer felt the flames dancing on my back, at least a foot high, I jumped up from the ground. Literally JUMPED. I ran inside to check my face in the mirror. It appeared to be okay. I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t know that it takes a couple of days for the skin to blister, blacken, peel and ultimately die.
I ran back outside. My husband had called 911, but had also backed his truck into our fence and was telling me to get in – he would get me there faster. Ummm, no. He had burned his hands and arms to the elbow and he was almost frantic. He had a look on his face that I never want to see again. He was doing his best.
Within seconds two ambulances, two fire trucks and a police car arrived. They walked up our extremely steep driveway and there I stood, with my hair and clothes literally smoking, while holding a conversation. I looked at one of the paramedics and he had that same look as my husband! This can’t be good.
I briefly spoke to the policeman so there would be no questions about what happened in case I did still die. Another paramedic asked if I could walk partially down the driveway. “We have to go now,” I said yes and kissed my husband with my possible final goodbye. I asked him to get our adult kids to the hospital. I knew I could hold on until I saw them again.
I got into the ambulance. My husband had to ride in his own ambulance. I was on my own. There was a Paramedic working frantically. He was placing an IV. I asked him if I was going to die. He said no. I asked him if he would say that even if he thought I was. He said yes. Then he spoke the last two words that I consciously heard for two months. “Push fentanyl.” And the darkness that would be my prison for two months came.