Scargazing

It was innocence from a distance. An innocuous pot of oil on a freestanding burner waiting for its next assignment; a twenty pound turkey. Up closer it revealed its true nature, a malicious churning pot of pain waiting for someone foolish to come close. But those who knew it, knew its nature and it was caged behind a chainlink fence, denied visitors and isolated for the good of society.

Mike loves his family. He also loves smalltown life and his home in Sechelt is the perfect balance of closeness to the Sibs in Vancouver and isolation from Vancouver’s big city nastiness. Mike also loves to celebrate and being from a large family and living on a large property with more than enough room for tents and trailers, meant that a few phone calls would mean a large celebration. The August long weekend was chosen, the calls made and the menu set.

It was decided that each of the individual families that attended, led by one of the sibs, would be responsible for one meal. Mike chose Saturday night’s supper, John chose Sunday morning breakfast. Neither one happened. What happened instead was a family doing what it does best; pulling together in a time of crisis, supporting one another as best they could.

John arrived late on the Friday with his family and quickly settled into the family warmth. Bevvies flowed, stories were told and beds staked out. The morning after was similar to the night before so after a respectful nod to respectabilty (after the breakfast dishes were cleared away), the first beer of the day was cracked open.

With his feet up, John looked down the legs of his 52 year old body and reflected aloud to no-one in particular on how he’d achieved the various imperfections to his skin. John loved to tell stories and scargazing was an excellent source. “And those marks there”, he said pointing at three tiny lines on his left foot, “I got stepping over some coral in the Red Sea. I made it redder. They say sharks can...”

The weather was warm, bocce and volleyball stoked the appetites and soon Pave was laying out her lunchly duty. It was a perfect afternoon moving at a perfect pace.

Around four Mike started setting up for the turkey deep fry. He filled a pot with 20 liters of oil and placed it on a freestanding burner in a fenced area near the house. Near the house turned out to be a bit of a problem. The burner was attached to a propane tank and soon the thermometer said the oil was ready to go to work. Somewhere around 400 degrees. And Mike brought out the first of two turkeys.

Now, a twenty pound turkey will cook in about an hour in a vat of oil and leave it yummy crispy on the outside and juicy delicious on the inside. Given the numbers, Mike felt two turkeys were needed and the first entered the oil with little fanfare. It quietly slipped into the oil suspended on a rack as Mike held a hook in his glove-enclosed hand. There was perhaps a little extra oil in the pot so it was near the top when the bird was fully submerged but safe enough under current conditions. Mike did the math, proclaimed it would be ready in exactly one hour and cracked a beer.

About 45 minutes later , Mike’s sisters are saying “Smells like she’s done, Mike.”
“Nah, 15 more minutes”
“Hmmm”

The bird comes out 15 minutes later and is blacker
than coal. Those few who had a taste of it later said that deep within the remnants of that bird were the juicy delicious bits the whole bird had been destined for. So the bird was smaller or the oil was hotter than previous thought but “no matter”, thought Mike, “bits will be edible, let’s let ‘er cool and get this second one going”. And while he’s thinking that, John’s thinking, “that was cool. I want to try that”. Thus far John’s training consisted of drinking beer and watching Mike do it. But it looked easy enough and had a hint of danger to make it exciting.

Leather gloves were donned and John hoisted the freshly washed and skewered turkey with the hook. The freshly washed part also turned out to be a bit of a problem. Bird held high, John shuffled out the door in his flipflops for a barefoot deepfry. At least the hands were protected. If it weren’t for gravity, the next ten minutes would have been entirely different.

He positioned the bird over the oil and instantly heard the oil hiss, “I don’t like water!” It spit it out with an angry, threatening tone and continued to spit back at the intruder. “Gonna have to take this slow”, thought John. The second bird was slightly larger than the first, heavier with more displacement. The heavier part means it couldn’t be held at arm’s length as long and more displacement meant a higher oil level. And the fresh washed part meant disaster.

“Slow”, says Mike.
“Oh yeah”, says John and slowly lowers the turkey. The oil protests louder but John figures he’s in good shape. He’s seen himself in the mirror. But halfway in the bird’s getting heavy and too full of oil now to pull out with his remaining strength. Best way out is in.

Trying to speed its entry, John sees, hears and feels the oil getting angrier and with its newer, higher level it starts spitting and boiling over the side onto his feet. Damn gravity. Moving away from the splashes means holding the turkey further away and what little strength remained evaporated quickly. “This isn’t good”, thought John and it was confirmed by shouts from the crowd.

“Don’t pull it over!” And it was true. In his efforts to get away, John had pulled the bird up against the side of the pot and it was starting to tip. There was three inches of bird left to get into the oil and no room left in the pot. Well, there would have been if the last couple of inches hadn’t been taken up by the blustery war between the oil and the water.

It was let go or pull over the pot in retreat. John dwelled on that moment in the hours and weeks of recovery. At first the moments were a sudden hyper arousal of panic symptoms that caught his breath and held it. But later it became easier to dissociate and examine the moment, the decision-making process. Neither memory yielded much, even the minutes that followed were only snapshots of the events as they unfolded. No ‘should I or shouldn’t I?’ revealed itself.

It was let go. And run. With a “Shit!” he turned and crashed into the fence, breaking the corner post. The oil surged over the side splashing fully on his right foot. As he turned, the oil splashed up off the foot and ground and landed on the backs of his calves.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck”, he screamed as he ran. The pain and the panic were everything. He ran in circles. His sister Helena was able to tackle him and get him to lie still. His sister Mary Anne, a trained icu nurse, quickly covered the foot with a cloth and covered it in ice. And from his vantage point in the center of the yard he watched events unfold.

The escaped oil found the flame that was heating its backside and decided to bite back. It took the flame to the ground for a little wrestling match and the summer dry grass wanted to get involved. Mike courageously reached into the flames and turned off the tank but this party had taken on a life of its own. The bushes that intertwined with the house railing didn’t want to be left out either so the grass invited them to the party. The bushes were announcing their happiness with dancing flames and scaring the heck out of the house and tent trailer (who definitely did not want to get involved) when the fire department showed up.

“What was it they said at that pre-natal class? Pant? Blow?”, thought John. “Blow, breathe, blow, that’s it , you can do this, breathe, blow, deep breath, slow it down, blow, focus, ok, ok, ok...”

“I’m a doctor”, said the fireman. “Any allergies?”
“No”
“Give him the gas”

Pain gone now. What? Huh? Voices don’t match lips. Oh, oh, pain, breathe deep, ahhh. Wow, weird echo.”I must be in the ambulance”, he thought. People near but far. Voices on the radio, “We’ve got one more, hold up for a bit.”

Another sister, Anita, had gone into the smoke-filled house and taken her asthma with her. With the flames licking the eaves it seemed the birthday present she’d brought for Mike was about to be consumed and there it was just sitting on the coffee table. “I can get that”, she told herself and she got it. Her success emboldened her. Her makeup bag was still in there but now the smoke in the house was thick. “I’ll have to crawl”, she instructed herself as she re-entered the house. This time the smoke attacked her lungs and breathing was suddenly difficult. Ten minutes on oxygen interspersed with her puffer and she was still having trouble pulling air into her lungs. She joined John in the ambulance.

The fire was quickly contained by the firemen and fans placed in the house to clear the smoke. The turkey that refused to accept its fate quietly was glazed in fire retardant and given an unbitten burial. The casualties went to the hospital.

John was given a few shots of morphine which dramatically improved his mood, so much so that he was posing with his skin-free foot for the camera with a big smile. “This is fine”, he told himself and anyone nearby. Reality had not set in.

The doctor said, “Hmmm, can you feel this?”
“Yep”
“And this?”
“Yep”
“How ‘bout here?”
“Nope”
“Hmmm”.

“Looks like third degree to the foot and second degree to the calves. I’m making a referral to the burn clinic but I don’t think you need a skin graft. Unfortunately we’re at the start of the long weekend so they won’t get my message until Tuesday. Call them then for an appointment.”

The nurse wrapped the leg in flamazine and gauze and told John it needed to be changed daily. “Come back tomorrow at 11 and I’ll change it. I don’t think you’ll need a skin graft”, she said and deployed another shot of morphine to his arm. Armed with crutches and a bottle of dilaudid he went home to start puking and shaking. Anita stayed in the hospital.

“You need a skin graft”, said Dr Papp, grand poobah of the burn clinic, “and we have an opening tomorrow at 8AM”
“Uh, ok. You sure?”
“Yup. Be at pre-op by 7”

John never thought to ask what a skin graft involved. Where do they take the skin from? How much? How deep? Scarring? Recovery? It didn’t matter, he decided in the weeks that followed, it is what it is and knowing would change none of it. It wouldn’t have made any difference if he’d known the donor site was going to hurt more than the burn or that removing staples would hurt more than the two combined. His 52 year record of having never spent a night in the hospital had come to a painful end but a new scar was added to his repertoire of boring stories.