Change? It can come in the blink of an eye

Over the last four weeks I have been dealing with a horrific accident that disfigured my right hand, potentially threatened to end my writing career, and sent me spiraling into depression and a state of denial.

A freak accident in the kitchen with a smoking cast-iron frying pan with hot oil left me with thirddegree burns over twothirds of my right hand.

It was one of those hectic mornings when I was running late and I had too much going on, particularly when you are someone like me with an attention span that flickers.

I had put the cast-iron pan on the stove to loosen a layer of grease so I could wash it, something I do three or four times a week.

But I turned my attention to other things and, by the time I got back to it, it was billowing smoke. I didn't want the smoke alarm to go off so I opened the window and set the pan on the sill so the smoke would blow out. Instead, the wind blew it back and seemed to make it worse, so I picked it up to put it in the oven.

But before I could blink, the pan ignited and flaming hot oil splashed across my right hand and crackled up my arm, searing skin off my hand and dotting my arms with burns.

There are moments in life that seem surrealistic. I stared in shock at my hand, which was now a mass of heated white flesh curled in protest with brown skin cringing and hanging between my fingers like bat wings.

In a panic, I did all the wrong things — first thrusting it into the ice maker, where ice stuck to the skin before I ripped it out and raced for the Vaseline, which I piled on, thinking it would soothe the burn as I wrapped it in a white towel.

Instead, it sealed the heat in. I later learned I should have run it under cool water.

I must have screamed because my upstairs neighbor, Iris Lozada, was at my door asking if I was OK. Trying to hand her my phone, I asked her to type in our address to request Uber but she said, “Let’s not wait. Let’s just go.”

We jumped in her car and flew to the hospital with me trying to be “manly” and hold back tears. I arrived at Bridgeport Hospital, where an impressive emergency room team sprang into action. Within minutes, I was surrounded by burn specialists.

And while he cut away dead skin that had been part of me for decades, a doctor delivered news I expected but didn't want to hear: I would need a skin graft to ensure my hand healed properly.

I am a realist but shock

had me into that spectrum where denial ran interference for what I was mentally and emotionally unprepared to deal with.

Against medical advice, I left the hospital, opting to come back the next day when the doctor again urged me to enter the hospital and have the graft to prevent potential further damage.

But even though I couldn't take my eyes off the white flesh and burned fingers that stared back accusingly, I just couldn’t accept the fact my hand was so badly damaged and I would be visibly disfigured.

But for me, this meant a lot more than being disfigured.

My fingers had become my voice.

I have had readers since my first column about America’s hypocrisy when it comes to marijuana appeared nearly four years ago. But it wasn’t until my column about responsibility and single-baby mamas that I garnered a legion of readers from across the United States, who call, write or text me weekly.

It gave me great personal satisfaction to be a black voice that a diverse group of people from all walks of life and from different parts of the United States looked forward to reading on Sunday.

All of this was in my head as I sat on my couch for more than a week staring at my hand, hemorrhaging selfpity with life in review — or maybe I was simply going through the necessary healing stages in order to restart.

I commanded my hand to heal as I unwrapped it and treated it with the medication I was given. I had the “why me” moments as I cursed and railed against misfortune. Mostly, I cried.

But sometimes, you have to cry away the anguish to really see the obvious. For me, what locked into place was that I had never lost movement in my fingers. They were burned but moving. I could make a fist. I felt pain. Most of my palm had escaped injury. My hand was still alive and ready to go.

It was my mind — and vanity — that had taken the real blow and pixelated my view. And once I accepted that, I made an appointment with the burn center. I was ready to heal.

But to heal, I had to get back to the people who are part of my life and whom I had isolated myself from since the accident. Because they are the real healers.

Doctors may provide the expertise and hospital staff the patient care, but it is family, friends, neighbors and co-workers who will provide the healing power.

They’re the ones who will brick the path under your feet and escort you back into the fold when something bad has interrupted your life.

They’re the ones who will help bring back the smile, help return the laughter and help lift the spirits.

I bandaged my hand so nothing was visible and returned to work Tuesday, my spirit immediately lifting as I walked into the newsroom and was greeted with a hug. On Wednesday morning, I went to the wound center at Bridgeport Hospital, where many of the burn specialists had their first look at my hand since the day of the accident.

And I got the shock of my life when one of them cut away the bandages, looked at my hand and gasped in surprise.

What I thought was soft, damaged flesh that was going to scar and harden over time without a skin graft was actually a rosy pink layer of new skin.

What I thought were flecks of burn damage were actually my fine brown skin roaring back.

I was told not only would I not need a skin graft, I would not have scars and a year from now, no one would be able to tell my hand had suffered such damage.

As one of the specialists who was there that day said as she rubbed my new skin and had me perform certain tasks: “I can’t tell you how amazed I am.”

And I can’t tell you readers how grateful I am as I write this column.

When you’ve had the skin burned off your body, you go seeking information and experiences from those who have been there. I am one lucky son of a gun, particularly when I recognized that the last splash of hot oil on my upper arm landed about 5 inches from my face.

We always rejoice in the good but sometimes forget: There can be reason to rejoice in the bad.

It’s going to take a while for me to heal, but heal I will. And as the burnt skin continues to fall off my fingers and the top of my hand, they will serve as a grim reminder:

Change? It can come in the blink of an eye.

In a panic, I did all the wrong things — first thrusting it into the ice maker, where ice stuck to the skin before I ripped it out and raced for the Vaseline, which I piled on, thinking it would soothe the burn as I wrapped it in a white towel.