Alan Russell - Burning Man

When I look at my naked body in a mirror, the patchwork designs from all the skin grafts make it appear as if I am wearing a harlequin suit. I am told that with time and more therapy the scarring will fade, but that for the rest of my life I’ll be tending to what the burn people refer to as my “scar management.”

I am not the only one dealing with scars and physical issues. Love me, love my scruffy dog. All during my rehabilitation my partner has been doing his own physical therapy alongside of me. I do my stretches and then help him with his. He thinks it’s a great game; I wish I did. Both of us are working on achieving our optimal range of motion, or ROM, as our therapists call it. Sirius and I have both come far, but the fire and being shot took a lot out of us. Sometimes I think we’re the Humpty Dumpty twins, and that neither of us can ever quite be put back together again. This is an opinion I keep to myself, and it’s not something Sirius talks about either. Everyone thinks that Sirius is the perfect patient, and that I’m not far behind. He’s the real thing; I’m the fake.

The mantra of my burn therapist, whom I call the Iron Maiden, is “rehabilitation, reconstruction, and reintegration.” Those are apparently her code words for torture. Whenever I see the Iron Maiden I do my best Monty Python imitation and yell “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” She thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. Every time I see my inquisitor, my heart races and I get cold sweats on those parts of my body that still sweat, which are those places where I didn’t receive skin grafts. You don’t sweat where you’ve received grafts, which is why burn patients are always mindful of overheating.

The Iron Maiden and I both share a laugh when I call her “my torturer.” Around her I’m upbeat and put on my happy face. I know she’s worked me as hard as she has for my own good. Her torture is necessary so that my tendons don’t shorten, and my ligaments and joints will have the best possible function. Her therapy has worked for me; I now have full range of motion in my legs, arms, and hands. I can flip someone the bird as good as I ever could.

I let Maureen lead me through the hotel gauntlet. She chattered the whole time, and rarely needed me to join in the conversation. “That’s a great suit,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

Jen had bought the suit for me years before, but I’d only worn it a few times. The last time I’d worn it, I remembered, had been at her funeral.

“It was a gift,” I said.

Maureen took up her monologue again. Under the suit she had complimented was a not-so-sharp-looking compression garment; what I called my hair shirt. I usually wear my compression garment twenty-four hours a day. It is a skintight layer of clothing that extends from my feet to my neck that’s supposed to help improve my hypertrophic scarring. The Iron Maiden describes hypertrophic scarring as skin that exhibits the three Rs of being red, raised, and rigid. In my case there’s a fourth R-the right side of my face. It’s that which shows my trial by fire more than anything else. There’s an angry red patch of elevated skin that extends from my cheekbone almost to my chin. When I catch people staring at the scar I say, “You should see the other guy.”

Fake it.

My surgeons and doctors seem annoyed by this particular patch of scarring, perhaps because it’s so visible. Nowadays, after more than a few operations, there’s nowhere else on my body with as much hypertrophic scarring. Around my facial scar there are even a few nasty keloids. One cosmetic surgeon wants to try lipo-filling my face, while another thinks I might be a good candidate for laser surgery. Those potential treatments will have to wait.

Still, someone up high must have decided my face was good enough to be seen in public. Or maybe my facial disfigurement, he or she decided, would better serve the department. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Sirius and I were being used to combat a recent spate of bad press suffered by the LAPD. Months earlier the governor had announced that the two of us would be receiving California’s Public Safety Officer Medal of Valor, the state’s highest award for heroism. Not long afterward, the LAPD announced it was awarding me its departmental Medal of Valor. When I asked about my partner being similarly honored, higher-ups told me that a recipient of a Medal of Valor had to perform an act displaying extreme courage while consciously facing imminent peril. Apparently they didn’t think a dog could be conscious of peril. I did and threatened to skip the ceremony. When word of my potential boycott surfaced in the media, the department did a one-eighty better than Kobe Bryant and announced that Sirius would also be receiving a commendation. He was going to get a Liberty Award, the canine version of the departmental Medal of Valor.

Getting medals isn’t so bad; getting them in public is. There was a reason for the pomp and circumstance, though. One commander had confided to me that heroes were always good for getting extra departmental funding.

“Here we are!” Maureen said.

I had never seen a meeting room so large. It was like one of those aircraft hangars designed to house jumbo jets. What made it even worse was that as cavernous as the space was, it was filled with people. My heart pounded and my chest and throat tightened, making it difficult to breathe.

“I need to make a pit stop,” I said. “Is there a bathroom nearby?”

“There’s one just down the hall,” she said. “Why don’t you meet me back here in five?”

“Five,” I said and then took off with Sirius.

The bathroom had urinals on one side, stalls on the other. The stall side appeared to be empty. Sirius and I went into an oversized stall that was designated for the disabled. I qualified, even though I didn’t want to. I sat down and fought off the shakes.

The week before I’d met with the departmental shrink, a small man with a big, bald head named Dr. Lockhart. Cops forced to see him call him Doc Rock Hard. Rock told me he just wanted to have “a little chat.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m really encouraged. Every day I’m getting that much better.”

“Many people that sustain injuries such as yours suffer depression.”

“Not me,” I said smiling. “I’m grateful to be alive. All that physical therapy must be keeping my endorphins up.”

“Do you have any fears of what the future might bring?”

A shake of my head; an Alfred E. Neuman look of “What? Me worry?” “I guess I’m luckier than most. I have a very supportive girlfriend.”

That helpful and imaginary girlfriend was the same one that I had invented for the mental health professionals at the hospital. Her name was Patty Norville and she was an elementary school teacher. Patty helped me with my exercises. The only drawback in our relationship, I said, was that Patty was a cat person. I always laughed when I said that. Patty was supposed to be coming to the next burn patient get-together. I had this feeling that poor Patty would be coming down with a bad cold just prior to the party.

“How are you sleeping?” Dr. Lockhart asked.

“Like a baby,” I said.

“No insomnia or recurring disturbing dreams?”

For once, I was glad of the skin grafts on my face. There were no beads of sweat to give me away. If I’d been a pinball machine, I would have been going tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt.

“Not that I can recall.”

Fake it until you can make it.

My deception fooled Rock Hard, as it had fooled everyone else. They had all bought into my clown act. Smokey Robinson’s “The Tears of a Clown” had become my song.