Hi, my name is Cheyenne Baker. I was burned by coffee at four. A third degree burn. No, it didn’t hurt, it just... burned.

These are the answers that I have been giving to questions like, “What happened?” “Did it hurt?” since returning from my 10 day stay at the luxurious University of Chicago Medicine Children’s Hospital to school. The act of returning to pre-school itself wasn’t hard; what was hard was answering all of the stupid questions from my classmates. I was a snot nosed little shit. Somehow, I’d convinced myself that I was like 10 times my age and that everything in the world made sense. The questions of my peers made none. Oh how I wish to have that confidence back, as I feel like I know nothing now.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning, I came running downstairs to my mother asking her for a cup of juice. She told me to go ask someone else to do it as she was on the phone with a friend from high school. Tiny four year old Cheyenne waltzed into the kitchen to ask my grandfather for a cup of juice. I noticed my Aunt Sylvia was cooking greens, the aroma filled the room. Big eyed, I tried to reach the handle of the oven to peer into the pot.

As my grandfather reached into the cupboard to get me a glass to pour my juice, I glanced over at the table noticing that MY cup was exactly behind my a piping hot cup of coffee. My grandfather would have steak, eggs, a slice of toast, and a cup of coffee every morning. Naturally, I went over to pick with his food and steal a few bites. Eventually, I decided it was a great idea to reach behind the cup of coffee.

One reach, cup teeters.

Close one.

Two reaches, cup falls toward me.

My princess onesie is completely covered in Joe. Woops. Completely bad idea. I scream, not a bloodshot scream because I was too big of a little shit to scream at the level of discomfort I was feeling.

All of a sudden, I feel my ankle being grabbed and my world flips upside down.

My grandfather had flipped my tiny body upside down so that the coffee would not “reach my crunches.” He was afraid the coffee damaging my lower body, making me un-marry-able, I later found out. Because, no man wants a wife with a functioning vagina if it’s burned by coffee. Obviously.

My mother rushes in as my grandfather is screaming with my ankle in one hand. She grabs me and takes me into the dining room. She dials 911 and unzips my onesie and assesses the damage.

Somehow, my grandmother steals me away as my mother is explaining to the operator what is going on. She whips out some kind of oil that will get me back to normal in no time. She begins to slather it onto my thighs and tummy. It seemed to work.

Then.

All.

Of.

A.

Sudden.

Tingles like no other permeated each burn site. Then I begin the bloodshot screams. It felt like the oil burned worse than the coffee. Oh, but she didn’t stop. She kept rubbing, and my mom looked over and started to scream too. “Momma! What are you doing? You can’t rub oil on the child!” Apparently as she slathering me in grease, the operator was telling my mother to not do that.

I walk over to my mom. She's looking at my burns and listening to the operator. It feels like I'm standing there for only two minutes before Baby Karmen comes and stands next to me. She places a finger into my right hand. My mom turns her head for only half a second before all three of my burn sites begin to peel. Baby Karmen screams a very high pitched siren-sounding scream, "Chey-Chey burn!" She drops my finger and runs around as if her head were cut off, arms flailing everywhere. Thanks, that helped me a lot.

Shortly after that, I remember paramedics showing up and putting me on the stretcher. There was one really handsome paramedic that kept pouring magical solutions on my burns and telling me I could have whatever I wanted. I went to sleep.