by Kari Ann Boscaljon
I was in third grade when my family and i went on a camping adventure. We had just made dinner, and my parents poured the hot coals into the fire pit in the middle of our campground. Not wanting the fun to stop anytime soon, I grabbed a nearby stick and began poking and proding the coals, trying to get the fire going again so we could make smores.
I was at it for quite some time and started to get frusterated, and i suddenly lost my balance with an especially angry thrust. I was falling face first into the hot coals, and put my right hand out to stop my fall.
I rolled over on the ground screaming in pain. my father, who had been in the camper, came running out. He immediately picked me up, and like a running back on a mission, hurled me towards the dirty water faucets that the campground had installed nearby. He thrust my hand under the water, and all the while i was screaming in pain.
Realizing that it was not just a minor burn, my father threw me to my grandfather, who ran with me to our station wagon, and off to the emergency room we went.
It turned out i had third degree burns all over my right hand. I was never supposed to be able to move my fingers again, and they gave very grim odds as to the probability i would have any movement in my right hand at all.
Months and countless treatments and medications later, the doctors were amazed when i was able to move my fingers normally. My right hand has two very large scars where almost nothing was left of my fingers. But that's not the end of the story. I am a college basketball player, and my right hand is my shooting hand.
