Free The Burn Journals by Brent Runyon

doing. They're supposed to keep the scars from getting too thick and also to keep my circulation flowing. Barbara helps me put them on, but they're very tight and it's hard work to get them over my fingers. And now that they're on, I just want to figure out a way to take them off. I think it'll be hard to paint in them.
    Dad comes in with the party supplies and starts putting up a canvas on the wall so I can paint it for Mom's party. They let me take off the stupid Jobst garments, and I paint a blue balloon and a red balloon, a yellow one and a green one. Then I dip my brush in the black and paint a big black balloon above the other ones. I paint Happy Birthday in red at the top and To You right below in blue, and I try to make the letter O look like it's a balloon too. And then I paint Love, Brent G. at the very bottom in yellow. I think it's artistic to leave off your last name so nobody really knows who you are. Everybody says it looks great and Carol, the nice social worker, says, “I didn't know you were so talented.”
    Dad tapes some blue ribbon to the bottom of my balloons so it looks like the strings to the balloons are coming out of the picture. I say, “Looks good, DF.”
    He says, “DF?”
    “Designated Father.”
    I can tell he doesn't quite know what to make of that, that I called him Designated Father instead of Dad or whatever. It's just something I came up with on the spur of the moment. I hope he doesn't think it means I'm angry at him. That is so stupid. I hope he doesn't tell the stupid psychologist that I called him that and then she'll want to talk to me all about it. God, I hope that doesn't happen.
    Mom's coming down the hall. I can hear her footsteps and her talking to the nurses at the nurses' station. They're telling her we're in the playroom, and here she comes. “Surprise!” She actually looks surprised, maybe even shocked. Then she looks so happy.
    She's going to hug me. I hope she doesn't start to cry.
    “Did you make this sign?”
    “Yup. Me. And Dad helped.”
    “Thank you so much, honey, this is such a wonderful surprise.” Dad brings out the cake and the presents and everything and everybody is having such a good time. Mom loves all her presents. Dad didn't tell me what they were going to be.
    All the nurses come in and get some cake and ice cream, and Carol gets out the Polaroid and takes a bunch of pictures of Mom and Dad and me. Mom rests her hand on top of mine while Carol's taking the picture and I want to pull my hand away because I'm afraid that it's going to get hurt, but I don't.
    Mom tells me over and over again how much she loves the poster and all the presents and everything and how much she loves me.
             
    They're going to cover the holes on my back and butt with skin from my hips and stomach. The good thing about surgery is that it means I don't have to have a burn care for that day. The bad thing is that they're going to have to keep me on my stomach for ten days afterward so that I don't screw up the new skin by lying on it. They say this will be the last big surgery. I might have to have a few more, but they won't be that big of a deal.
             
    Becky's here for my daily stretching. She's got such a great sense of humor and such a nice face. And best of all when she comes to stretch me, she doesn't wear gloves. So it feels like I'm a real person and she's a real person and we're just hanging out.
             
    They haven't let me have anything to eat since midnight and I'm starving. I tried to get Lisa to get me some ice chips, but she refused. Why can't I get a break in this place? The guys in the blue scrubs are here to wheel me down to the OR. I ask them if they know the way, just to be funny, and they say, “Yes, we know the way.” And I ask them if they're sure, and they say, yes, they're sure. I think they know I'm joking.
    I'm in the OR waiting room. They put a hairnet on me and tell me it'll just be a minute. I think