On 14 February, Erin went to bed in her own room but woke up in hospital. What on earth had happened?
Shivering, I unlocked the front door and tiptoed my way inside.
It was nearly midnight.
I’d just got back from singing at a pub gig for Valentine’s Day, and I was staying over at my friend’s house.
‘You did great tonight,’ she said as she walked in with me.
‘Yeah, I think it went well,’
I smiled.
‘Have you worked out who those roses were from, by the way?’ she asked.
That morning, I’d received
50 roses from an anonymous sender.
I was single but dating, and had no idea who they were from.
‘I’m going to bed soon, but I’m a bit peckish,’ my pal added. ‘So, I’m just going to make something to eat.’
‘OK, see you tomorrow,’
I replied, heading upstairs.
Brushing my teeth, I took off my make-up before collapsing into bed.
Next thing I knew, I was awake but couldn’t feel my arms or legs.
Groggily, I looked around.
Where am I? I wondered.
I wasn’t in my friend’s spare room any more – I was in a hospital.
‘Don’t move, dear,’ a nurse said.
‘I can’t feel my arms or legs!’
I croaked, my heart pounding
in fear.
‘You’re under heavy sedation,’ the nurse replied gently. ‘You were involved in a house fire.’
‘What do you mean? Where’s my friend?’ I stammered.
She explained that I’d been
in intensive care for weeks, and while my friend had suffered minor injuries, I had been severely burnt.
'I can't feel my arms or legs!'
At that moment, my parents rushed in and my mum was crying.
‘Oh, Erin,’ she wept. ‘We’ve been so worried.’
In the following days, I learnt what had happened that night.
My friend had accidentally
left a pot on the stove and fallen asleep. When she’d woken up and discovered the fire, she ran outside to find help.
I’d been fast asleep, and by the time firefighters arrived, I’d passed out and the house was an inferno.
While it was a miracle I’d survived, the fire had left me
with third-degree burns, covering 45% of my body.
I couldn’t take any of it in.
‘How bad does it look?’ I asked the nurses.
Their sympathetic smiles said it all.
Every time they’d help me to the toilet, they would tell me to have my back facing the mirror.
I did as they said to start with.
But, one day, I got out of bed on my own, shuffled to the loo and looked at my reflection.
I was met by
a complete stranger.
Gaunt and pale, my arms were an angry shade of red and I was bandaged up like a mummy.
It wasn’t fair.
I was just 18 years old.
I should have been going out with my friends and having fun.
Yet here I was, a shell of the girl I used to be.
I suddenly realised, with a lump in my throat, that I would never be able to sing again like
I used to.
My voice was damaged thanks to a tracheotomy after the fire, and I could only speak in a whisper.
So my dream of having a singing career was over.
I thought back to the 50 roses I’d received.
No guy will ever send me flowers again, looking like this,
I thought.
Over the next weeks, I deteriorated fast.
I contracted sepsis, MRSA and pneumonia.
In constant and excruciating pain, the deep burns on my arms were always leaking fluid.
‘Why don’t you let me go?’ I asked my mum in tears. ‘I can’t do this any more.’
After six months in the burns unit, I was finally well enough to go home.
I was still struggling mentally and hated looking at my scars.
'You need to focus on yourself, Erin'
But, instead of having therapy, I threw myself into charity work.
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ Mum asked. ‘You’ve been through a really traumatic time. You need to rest.’
But wanting to do something positive, I began fundraising for the burns unit and the local fire service who had saved me.
I put on events, did sponsored challenges, and gave media interviews about my story.
Inevitably, there was the
odd nasty comment online from someone saying I looked ‘ugly’.
On the whole though, people were usually very supportive.
She’s so brave, they’d write. What an amazing girl.
I wish I was as strong as her.
And it wasn’t just people on social media.
I had strangers coming up to me in the street too.
‘I read your story,’ they would tell me. ‘You’re such an inspiration!’
‘Ah, thank you,’ I’d reply bashfully.
While all the recognition meant
a lot, being put
on a pedestal was
a lot of pressure.
I felt as if I couldn’t be open about my feelings when I was struggling, because I would be letting people down and showing weakness.
After a year or so, I realised Mum had been right about me needing a rest.
The charity work wasn’t doing me good.
I was just distracting myself and putting off my recovery.
But I couldn’t give it up.
One day, I was sitting alone in the pub when I heard a man’s voice.
‘Erin, is that you?’ he said.
I looked up.
It was one of the firefighters, who had rescued me.
My eyes filling with tears, I stood up and gave him a great big hug.
I’d kept in touch with the firefighters and nurses, and even the surgeon who’d performed
my skin grafts.
But I hadn’t seen any of them in a while.
‘How are you?’ I said.
‘I’m all right,’ he grinned. ‘More to the point, how are you?’
For a moment, I thought about plastering on a smile.
But then I stopped.
‘I’m struggling,’ I said, looking down at the floor. ‘I wish I was as brave as you guys.’
‘What do you mean?’ he
stared at me. ‘Of course you are! Everything you’ve been through... It’s been horrific.’
‘I could never
do what you do though,’ I replied.
That evening, we had a long heart to heart over a pint and I opened up about how I was truly feeling.
It was like a weight being lifted off my shoulders.
‘You need to focus on yourself, Erin,’ he said.
‘That’s what my mum told
me,’ I sighed. ‘But I want to help people too.’
He gently patted my hand.
‘You’ve helped a lot of people through your fundraising,’ he said. ‘But in order to keep helping people, you need to
help yourself first.’
‘OK,’ I nodded. ‘I will.’
So that’s what I did.
I spent more time with my friends and family.
For my 21st birthday I held a party, which was attended by some of the firefighters and nurses.
I even began dating again and, to my surprise, most of the guys were very accepting.
Many said my scars showed I was a survivor, which they found attractive.
Of course, despite the happy times, life wasn’t all smooth sailing.
Thankfully, I’ve found therapy helpful.
And now, 16 years since that fateful Valentine’s Day, I’m in a much better place.
I have a beautiful little girl I never thought I would have, and
I recently got engaged.
I’ve also returned to charity work, except that, this time, there isn’t the same pressure.
And while I will never love the scars that I have, I have also learnt to live with them and be proud of who I am.
Erin McNeill, 34, Downpatrick, County Down