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On the day of the fire I begged for silvadene ointment for my burns.
"Don't you have some in the ambulance?" I asked the driver of the ambulance that had accompanied the fire trucks, the man who had screamed at me to get away from the fire.
"We aren't allowed to carry medications." He replied.
"Then what the hell good are you?" I inquired. (Forgive my bad language - it was a rough day.)
The same ambulance driver finally over-rode my comments and wishes and called for another ambulance. He was not allowed to leave the scene in the event a fire fighter was injured.
Another ambulance arrived; there was a man and a woman. They took a look at me and brought in the gurney.
"I'm not leaving here until I pee."
"You cannot get up. Your blood pressure is over the top."
"I'm not leaving here until I pee - period! Do you have a bedpan?"
"Yes."
"Get it, please."
"You mustn't sit up."
The bedpan arrived. I looked at the female, "You stay." I looked at the three watching male ambulance attendants, "OUT!"
I relieved myself and settled back.
The female drove. The ambulance attendant announced that he was an ER nurse.
"That's nice. It's nice to be in good hands."
"I'm going to put an IV in your hand."
"No you aren't." He stared at me in disbelief as I continued. "I know a bit about medicine and the only reason for you to put in an IV is to knock me out and I'm not going under."
"They may have to scale your forehead, it's pretty bad."
"We'll deal with that problem if it arises.'
"Then you are denying the IV?"
"Yes - would you like me to sign something?"
I watched as he wrote, "denied." Looking up he said, "What if you stoke out on me? Do you have an end-of-life form signed?"
"If I stroke on you do everything you can for me, but if I'm brain dead you'd better damn well trip over the cord."
I was worse - or better - in the ER. When the ER doc finally arrived we had a similar banter. The doctor gave instructions and left. A pretty blonde nurse lathered the ointment I'd been begging for over my many burn areas and bandaged me up.
About that time my good friend Ellen Lederman arrived. The Driggs hospital is a small country hospital. It was Saturday. Business was slow. As Ellen breezed by the reception area and headed into the ER, two women said in unison, "You can't go in there!"
True to form, Ellen glanced over her shoulder and said, as only Ellen can, "You've got to be kidding me!" She had me out of there in five minutes.
Later, flat out on her couch, while friend Betty Ann dashed to town to replace my blood pressure pills that had been lost in the fire, I looked at Ellen and said, "Hell of a way to get rid of Yellow Jackets." ...then the mind fell back into the horror of the situation.
On the morning of the fire, after the grandchildren had driven down the road, arms waving from windows, I checked something in the barn then went and sat on the front porch. Lexi, a two year-old black lab with the prettiest face you've ever seen and the silkiest of coats that shed continuously, got up from her outside napping bed, came over and sat down next to me.
I must interrupt myself and tell you a few things about Lexi. Lexi was Queen Elizabeth the First one minute and an errant, wild kid the next. She loved attention but she would not tolerate anyone putting an arm over and around her shoulders. She'd been that way from the day we got her at the age of eight weeks. Her usual was to flop on her back, spread her back legs and beg for a full tummy rub. As for kisses, she knew her Daddy loved them but that I shy away from doggy kisses.
Now back to that fateful (?) morning.
Lexi approached me quietly and sat by my side. I put my right arm over and around her shoulders. She nestled in close to me. Both of us looked out to the road and ranch buildings, the mountains in the distance, the front walk.
"You know Lexi, you were a wild kid and sometimes a problem when you were little but look at you now - you are one of the most beautiful dogs I've ever known and Daddy says you're the best hunting dog he's ever had."
The two of us continued to look straight ahead at the vista before us.
"I just wanted you to know that you've grown to be a wonderful dog and that I love you very, very much."
With the word "much" we both turned our heads to look at each other. A long pink tongue did a one-lick kiss that ran from the bottom right side of my mandible up to my right eyebrow. Then we both turned our heads forward and continued our visual study.
After a bit I said, "Well, there's a lot of work to be done and I'd best get at it."
Three hours later Lexi would to dead of carbon monoxide poisoning prior to the fire becoming her funeral pyre.
Of psychological interest: For two weeks I remembered every bit of sitting with Lexi on the porch, but my mind kept telling me that it had happened some days prior to the fire. One day my mind was re-playing the scene when I realized that it had occurred on the morning of the fire and that it was impossible for it to have happened on any other day as it was the first time in weeks that the dogs and I had been alone at the ranch. For some reason my mind couldn't accept the weight of this poignant scene occurring on the morning of the fire.
