Survivor Profile - Kristy Storey

Finding a Unique Perspective

The day started out like any other Spring morning.  A bright blue sky with hanging scattered clouds and a slight chill in the air.  Rewind to 1988 – May 16th to be exact.

At 10 years old I was soon to be finishing grade 4.  I was in much anticipation of the upcoming summer as indicated by my clothing selection that day.  It was certainly somewhat premature to be wearing a one piece short and tank top suit.  Looking back I’ve often wondered had I worn something with more coverage, would I have been better protected from the explosion?  Would I have sustained less burns to my arms and legs?

The little hot air balloon I had made was precisely measured, constructed and attached.  Envision a square piece of tissue paper the size of place mat with a hole in the middle.  Four light weight strings attached to each corner leading to a small, plastic medicine cup.  Inside the cup was stuffed with cotton batten.  This was our task:  an extra curricular science experiment which myself and other students had shaped to mimic a hot air balloon.  The next step, under a teacher’s supervision, was to learn how and why we could raise the balloon off the ground.  The process was to add a chemical to the cotton batten, light it and witness the chemical reaction causing heat and see our paper constructed hot air balloon hover off the ground.

The teacher, myself and three other students ventured outside to be the first to test our masterpieces.  Crouched and hovered around the experiment, the teacher added the chemical, struck a match, lit the cotton and we waited.  The flame didn’t appear to catch the cotton to generate the required heat.  Try again.  Another match.

Bang. 

Flames.  I gasped.  My clothes are on fire.  My hair is on fire.  It’s burning.  Stop drop and roll.  I learned that in grade 3.  The essence of absolute confusion ensued. I rolled and rolled and rolled.  That’s what they said to do if your clothes ever caught fire.  I rolled some more.  A teacher from within the school came running out to see kids laying on the field and a smoldering pile which used to be our ‘masterpieces’.  She waited with me, talked to me and then I heard the sirens.  I started to slip away.

My dad’s voice - I recognized it immediately.  He was yelling.

“What the hell happened to my little girl?”  

I was now in the hospital.  I was on a stretcher, on my back and I felt embarrassed because I didn’t have any clothes on.  What hadn’t been burned off was removed. 

“I’m ok Dad, I’ll be ok Dad.”

I remember saying that so distinctly.  I had no idea was going on.

I can not even fathom the fear instilled in both my parents when they each received a phone call at their work that morning:  Your daughter has been hurt.  There was an explosion.  She’s at the hospital. 

That same day I was airlifted from Penticton to Vancouver where I spent the next month and half in the burn unit at Vancouver General Hospital.  Our little school experiment of making a hot air balloon and learning about rising heat had literally turned into a fiery nightmare.

As a survivor, you know what comes next.  Burn baths, skin grafts, occupational therapy, itchiness, a face mask, jobsts garments, fear, insecurity – the list goes on.

Each person who endures a burn injury has an incredibly individual experience.  It can truly be life changing and challenging.  In my case, I was to go back to school a couple months later – terrified.  No hair because it had all been shaved off to prevent infection.  Red wounds on my face soon to be healing as scars, jobsts covering my legs, arms and hand.  My voice changed to raspy and quiet.  The culprit was the fearful gasp I took when the explosion occurred sucking the chemical fumes into my throat leaving an inner burn. 

Those were my most worrisome days, age 10, returning to the end of grade 4 and then beginning grade 5.  As the summer progressed and I tried to get back to the normalcy of being a kid, I was having more and more difficultly breathing.  More doctors appointments and more tests led us to find out that my trachea, the breathing tube, was slowly suffocating as it was being overgrown with scar tissue.  Instead of having the breathing capacity of a 10 year old, I now sucked air through the space of what a new born baby would have.  That one gasp I took when the explosion occurred caused so much internal damage that I was forced to start grade 5 with a tracheotomy. 

A tracheotomy is a tube in the throat – it helped me breathe for 6 months.

As I moved through my teenage years I slowly realized I didn’t have the same perspective as many of my peers.  I was years beyond my age.  I became incredibly motivated and independent.    I had been given an unlikely perspective and insight like no other. I was old enough to understand and young enough to bounce back.  Within a tough case scenario (worst case would have been demise), I was able to discover an improved situation which ultimately, unknowingly, led to a lot of positive things to follow.

Whether we are challenged by disease, trauma, tragedy or loss, we are given a unique perspective.  With this perspective, I truly believe we are given a choice.  We can choose to let it take us down in a spiraling slide or we can accept the change and allow ourselves to become stronger for it.  Yes, it is much easier said than done, I know.  It certainly isn’t something that happens over night; nor over the course of a month. 

Perspective is an interesting thing:  it can suck the life out of someone or unexpectedly, give them life.  To be empowered by ourselves, by our conscious actions, can allow us to live more freely.  We simply have to make that choice. I have, and hope you will too.

Kristy Storey at BC Children's Hospital. August 30, 1988
Before the accident, Age 9	After the accident, Age 10

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