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"I kind of reassured her day-to-day that everything
was continuing to be OK," Barron said. "She
felt comfortable enough when I was here that she could
go out and do stuff and be with the kids and not be
right at his bedside."
And, Barron said, "She kind of reassured me that
everything that I was doing was helping her."
Slowly, the willfulness that saw Schechterle through
death-defying surgeries also allowed him to do more
and more for himself. "There are still some things
he can't do, but mostly he does everything himself,"
Barron said.
He resumed his police career as a public information
officer in November.
As a caregiver, patient advocate and friend, Barron
said that to this day she has to resist the impulse
to step in when she sees Schechterle struggling with
tasks.
"There are lots of little things that I still
think about and laugh about now," she said. But
in separate interviews, both she and Schechterle recalled
the importance of a burrito in their relationship.
"We have these health shakes that the docs all
want the patients to drink," Barron said. "One
night I said, 'Jas, just please try it.' "
"I'd lost about 60 pounds," Schechterle said,
but "they were just terrible drinks. God, they
tasted so bad. I remember one day I told Sara, 'I'm
not drinking that stuff anymore. Please don't force
me to.' I think she understood.
"The next thing I knew, she had gone out of the
hospital and bought me a big burrito and was spoon-feeding
it to me. I'll never forget that. I don't know if that's
something [the medical staff] would have encouraged
her to do, but I thought it was awesome. It meant a
lot to me," he said.
"He was in heaven eating that burrito," Barron
said.
Her voice betrays the emotion of the day in Schechterle's
care that meant the most to her. "The biggest thing
was seeing him the morning that he left," she said.
Schechterle admitted that for all he had faced, and
continues to face in rehabilitation and as a public
figure, "I was very scared to leave county hospital.
I'd been there for five months. I was a very different
person, very limited in my abilities. I was comfortable
at county."
On Schechterle's last morning there, Barron said, "He
told me, 'Sara, they brought me in here on a stretcher,
but if they think I'm leaving on one, they're crazy.
I'm going to walk out of here.' "
Suzie brought street clothes, and he put them on, Barron
said. "His partner, Bryan Chapman, and one of his
good friends, Shayne [Tuchfarber], were in full police
uniform on either side of him and escorted him out of
here. He walked all the way out of the center, all the
way out of the hospital to the front of the trauma bay,
and got on a stretcher and went to rehab.
"I was able to ride with him in the back of the
ambulance," Barron said. It was staffed by the
same firefighters who had pulled Schechterle from his
burning car. "They came back and transported him
to rehab."
"She got me situated in my room and tucked into
bed," Schechterle said.
Contact Phil McPeck at getpjm@aol.com
The Pulse profiles Jackie
Heinle, who is regarded throughout Iowa and nationally
for innovation and advancing the care of burn patients
as nurse manager of the University of Iowa's Burn Treatment
Center in Iowa City.
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Courage to
survive
To make sense of Jason Schechterle's fiery
ordeal, one only has to look past his disfigured
face and see that the Phoenix police officer
remains a public servant, but with a new, special
public: children recovering from burn injuries.
For one week each summer, children who have
suffered burns over at least 10 percent of their
bodies gather for Camp Courage, a full-tilt
week of activities under the auspices of the
Foundation for Burns and Trauma. This independent
nonprofit organization is allied with The Arizona
Burn Center at Maricopa Medical Center in Phoenix.
"You could've heard a pin drop,"
said Paul Mueller, director of Burn Support
Services and camp director, of Schechterle's
talk with campers last year. "The kids
were just totally enamored by him. It's hard
to keep them together in one room and from running
around, but they were sitting on their hands.
You couldn't have moved them out of there if
you had wanted to," he said.
"Kids love gross stuff, so they were asking
a lot of detailed questions," Mueller said.
But they all could relate to Schechterle's experience
of being trapped in a fireball that was his
police cruiser after it was struck from behind
and exploded the night of March 26, 2001.
"He's a great role model," Mueller
said-which is what Sara Barron, a burn center
RN, told Schechterle in the five months of medical
recovery that led to his rehabilitation, which
continues today.
The camp, held last year in Prescott because
the northern Arizona summers are cooler and
easier on burn patients, is staffed by nurses,
firefighters, police officers, emergency medical
personnel, schoolteachers and other civic-minded
people.
RNs, as well as a physician and support personnel,
run a camp infirmary for dressing changes and
ongoing burn treatment, as well as the inevitable
cuts and bruises that come with horseback riding,
hiking, fishing, rock climbing, archery and
rifle ranges, and, to a lesser extent, arts
and crafts.
"We have a full triage unit," Mueller
said. "Just short of doing surgeries, we
bring up everything we need," including
truckloads of sunblock to protect the campers'
developing skin.
This year for the first time, five burn survivors
from Calgary, Canada, will be among at least
120 campers from Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada,
Utah, Colorado and Hermosillo, Mexico. The camp
costs a little more than $1,000 per child, but
because of the foundation and sponsorships,
families are asked to pay only a $10 application
fee, Mueller said. "And if they don't have
it, it doesn't matter. The kids are still going
to go."
Mueller suffered third-degree burns over 25
percent of his body in a camping accident two
years ago and for a while was hospitalized with
Schechterle. Many people don't realize the step
it takes to go from burn victim to burn survivor,
he said.
"I would say that the majority of kids
coming into camp are burn survivors, but there
are a couple, maybe, that are still victimized.
They haven't moved ahead in life," Mueller
said. "But once they go through the one-week,
magical transformation of camp, they become
burn survivors."
-Phil McPeck
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