Your explanation of how you are usually aware of reaching across the flame, but weren't because of your distressed emotions, sounds so familiar to me. I don't think there is any blame involved - but it's good that you are aware of your awareness, and aware that you weren't as aware when this happened. I believe that sh_t happens. We need to extend kindness and compassion to ourselves at these times. (Words from my teacher) Yet, we often get caught up in should have, could have, blame...
I've done this to myself, when I've cut a finger while slicing vegetables, forgetting to remind myself that my knife was dull, like I usually would. Or even when my finger and a little scissors held by a little boy, as he waved them about and I came towards him to warn him to be careful, somewhat randomly connected. I ended up missing a chunk of skin and had to keep my finger wrapped for weeks. Another little child told her parent the boy had cut my finger off.
I hope your shopping trip was your way of being kind to yourself.
Sunltcloud wrote:
I have to come to this from the other end. Words make my life real. At least my very private life. I live alone and there are days when most words only swirl around in my head, drop into my journal or get sucked into the computer screen. I do have a self-imposed rule to speak to somebody at least once a day, be it on the phone, at the grocery store, on my walk, or to a neighbor, this is to make sure isolation does not depress me, but remains the joy it has always been. Sadness and fear, put into words, lose their sharp edges. For instance aftre the big earthquake in 1989, when we all needed to talk about our experiences. Hugs and words. Again and again.
I’ll give you a specific, timely incident. This happened last Sunday and maybe it is the writer in me who needs words to make it real. I did not want to bother anybody at the time; there are things that are personal and not meant to be discussed casually at the grocery store; there are things that can’t be changed and would only worry our friends; there are times when we feel vulnerable and to admit to any kind of failure, be it in perception, in behavior, in judgment, would make a situation worse. Of course, all this is different if somebody stands next to you and witnesses your distress.
I was alone and for two hours after this happened I was in shock, but finally I wrote myself an email, read it, and then, belatedly, I made myself a cup of coffee. I was fine after that and today I was able to tell friends about it. We even joked about the dreaded Alzheimer’s question that must loom in all older people’s minds. After meeting with friends I went on a Barnes and Noble shopping spree, bought a doll magazine, a book on brain power, one on herb gardening, and Anthony Bordain’s “Kitchen Confidential.” More words, I guess, but then, I love words and they are my healers. Here is the email I wrote to myself:
I set myself on fire today, at around 2:30pm. As usual, I was going to have my afternoon coffee, sat the water kettle on the front burner, stuck a piece of zuchini bread in the toaster, then reached for the coffee maker and coffee in the cabinet to the right above the stove. I've done it many, many times, always aware of the fact that I am reaching across the kettle, sometimes feeling the warmth, occasionally wondering if the flame from the gas burner could set my clothes on fire.
Well, I always thought, as long as the kettle covers the flames, as long as my clothes don't hang straight down, as long as I am aware of what could happen, I'll be safe. But two things turned against me today. First, the new kettle, the one I bought before Christmas because the old one sprang a leak when I cleaned it, the new kettle is much smaller than the old one and therefore doesn't cover as big an area as the old one did. Secondly, I had just come home from my walk to Safeway, had taken my outside coat off, had pulled on my favorite black velour jacket, but hadn't zipped it up.
I had read my emails and discovered that one of my writing buddies had died the day after Christmas. Lois Kittle had been in a convalescent hospital and I had intended to visit her as soon as the holiday season had come to an end. Right after my doctors' visits this coming week. I was sad about Lois' death, felt guilty about my procrastination; I should have gone to see her before the holidays. Anyway, I didn't pay attention, reached for the coffee pot and coffee, sat them on the counter, felt something warm on the left side of my back, smelled something burn, Then I felt a sharp pain on my left side, turned; suddenly there were flames shooting from my back. Without hesitation I pulled both, my green top and the black velour jacket, over my head and dumped them in the sink and turned the faucet on.
All around me little flames sailed to the floor, most of them went out immediately because they were very small; some kept on burning and I filled the little coffee maker with water and threw water on the flames. Then I stood in the middle of my kitchen, mostly naked from the waist up, surveying the damage. Smoke was coming from my tops in the sink and I turned them to expose all sides to the stream of water. I ran to my closet to put on another top before I began to clean up the kitchen floor. I had to use a scrubber to get the soot off. There are still three spots with what looks like permanent markings, the pieces of clothing have burned holes into the linoleum. Or maybe I have to scrub a little more. Not today though; I'm still upset about the whole thing.
For the last two hours, since the incident, I have been watching my kitchen for "hidden embers." One always hears about this on television; a piece of material hides and ignites fully later, only to burn your house down. I will be up until late and will walk through the kitchen periodically. I did smell something burnt when I cleaned the floor, but found out that it was my hair. Apparently that happened when I pulled my clothes over my head. I also detected two places on my body that have burn marks. One is on my back. below my shoulder on my left side, the spot that first felt warm, then hot. About a three inch area looks red. The other one is a bumpy two-inch red streak just to the front of my left arm pit. I feel lucky, feel fortunate that I was able to react so quickly and that not more harm is done. My burned clothes are drying outside before I toss them. The green top has several brown burns, the black velour looks all fringed and melted on the back. I suppose I should consider using the back burner from now on when I heat water for coffee. I should probably be more careful when I reach for the coffee pot. I should not complain, not feel sorry for myself, because I am just fine.
(Now that I read this again, I laugh. In a good story one does not give the punch line away; suspense is important to keep the reader engaged. This was obviously not a good story; it was meant to relieve the pressure. Like blurting it out to somebody. In the very first sentence!)
