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Wow. Louise Nayer’s devastating memoir, “Burned,” will rip your heart out, then slowly but determinedly put it back together again. When she was just four years old, Louise’s parents fell victim to a flash fire and spent nine months in the hospital, separated from their two little girls who didn’t understand what was happening or why they couldn’t see their beloved mommy and daddy. When they finally came home — a miracle in itself, considering the extent of their injuries — Louise’s mother made it her mission to create some semblance of normalcy for her family. Disfigured beyond recognition, she cut off stares and whispers by walking confidently into a room and introducing herself all around, and pushed her husband to return to his career as a doctor. Her strength is awe-inspiring. This is a haunting but ultimately healing story that proves the power of love. Lois is still reeling from it, and she felt privileged to learn more about Louise’s harrowing history from the author herself.

This is one of the bravest, most powerful books I’ve read in a long time. How difficult was it for you to write? Why did you decide to write a book so many years later?

I love to write — and re-write. When I teach creative writing, I talk to my students about words being like paint for painters, music for musicians and movement for dancers. So the writing itself, in terms of language and learning about plot, character, suspense, especially after being a poet for so many years, was exciting and challenging. I played with language — added adjectives, changed point of view, added active verbs. I did research — I interviewed my family. However, even though I wrote many poems about the accident, writing the memoir was, emotionally, terribly hard because I relived that period of time even after so many years. I relived the separation from my parents and the horror of the burns. I found out more about what my parents went through as burn survivors. I wanted this to be all of our stories. I probably could not have written this book much earlier in my life. I needed to be able to talk openly about the accident with my parents. I needed to be a stronger person to delve into that material. I had a lot of help along the way that got me to that very place. I also found the right agent and the right publishing house. That is all part of the journey, too!

The actual event happened in 1954 yet the amazing details about everyday activities, your feelings and clothing/house descriptions are so raw, they make it seem like it happened yesterday. How much were you able to remember so vividly and how much was filled in by others?

Thank you for your kind words about my book. I was a poet for many years, focused on sensory detail in my writing. It’s how I naturally experience the world. Also, when a traumatic event happens, memory intensifies. I have few memories before 1954. My parents, sister and cousins also helped me with details. Cape Cod is filled with such wonderful salty sea smells and shades of light that it was not hard to capture all that. I enjoyed seeing the world as I did as a child — the seaweed that wound around my ankles and the froth from the sea. The farm also had such amazing scenery — cows, the one bull and the chickens–as well as the humid summer and freezing winter. Of course, New York City is home turf. I can feel the air — the cooking smells from my apartment building — and the humidity rising from the concrete. The memory of vivid details is part of being a writer.

Why did you want to write this book at all? Was it a form of catharsis and closure for you? Was there a specific message you wanted to share with others?

In some ways, my desire to write the book was not a conscious one. The material kept rearing its head — I had panic attacks triggered by an “anniversary reaction” when I reached 42, the age at which my mother was burned. As a writer, this was my material that I had to get out before I could move on. At times, I felt I should stop writing as it was affecting me and my family since the panic attacks got worse. But it was cathartic to plumb those depths and come out still whole. I don’t really believe in closure. This event will stay with me. It’s how I transform it that’s important. Now that this book is out, I can finally move on to a new project and the story of the accident is out in the world, shared by many others. Perhaps that is a form of closure. I don’t know if I have an actual message except that it’s important to talk about what’s hard, to share that with others, as it helps them to be able to open up as well.

It breaks my heart how young you and your sister, Anne ,were to have to go through something like that without being able to really understand what was going on or express yourself. How much did your parents talk to you about the accident and their feelings – and yours – once you were older?

There were clinical talks, of course, since my parents were both in the medical profession and my mother went through many operations after my sister and I returned to them. However, how we felt — the trauma, the separation and all that enveloped us — was wrapped in a code of silence. It wasn’t until I was in my forties that I had any real dialogue with my parents. Even though my parents’ scars were clearly visible, the attempt at “normalcy” and perhaps the culture of the 1950’s cancelled out open communication. Plus, my mother was a stoical kind of person even before the accident. That was part of her strength but that was also very difficult. Yes, it was heartbreaking not to be able to talk about our deepest feelings. Early intervention is the best — even to be able to say to a child, “It wasn’t your fault.”

One thing that’s so frightening about the accident is that it shows how life can change drastically in an instant. Yet, the truth is that the faulty valve was going to cause an explosion one way or the other, and you touch upon the fact that, even if your mother hadn’t acted impulsively and lit the match that night, the whole house would have blown up the next morning. Did that fact become more meaningful to you as you grew up?

I didn’t find out about that fact until much later in my life. My mother wrote to me that the only saving grace was that “we took the brunt and not you children.” Anne and I were extremely fortunate not to have been burned. Now, however, all members of the family are called “burn survivors.” That was a relief to me when I heard that. There is always survivor’s guilt in situations like this. I can’t imagine, though, how difficult it would be to have your child burned. My parents were spared that anguish at least—and my sister and I spared that physical pain and disfigurement.

Right after the accident, I kept hoping your parents would bring you home – even though they were so disfigured. Looking back, do you think it was a mistake for them to try to shield you from the pain for so long? How do you think things would have been different if you’d been able to see them immediately?

That’s a very difficult question to answer. On the one hand, I’d want to say, yes, we should have seen them right away. But the horror of the burns — the bandages, the smells — all might have been too terrifying for a child. We would need to have been prepared and even then seeing them in  that state might have been more traumatizing than not seeing them at all. I don’t know when in the process it would have been the right time –but definitely earlier than nine months. It would be interesting to find out how it would be done today.

Your mother was an incredibly strong woman – for better or worse, as you point out, but I think most people would give up after an accident like that, and the fact that she pushed herself and your father to get up and lead a somewhat normal life again is remarkable. What do you think readers can learn from her?

I think readers can learn that ordinary people are capable of amazing feats of strength. My mother was a highly motivated person. She almost got a Ph.D. at a time when few women went to college. She put herself through school. Her mother was a suffragette. She came from a legacy of strong women.  She wanted a life — with a career, a family, adventure and enough money to realize all her dreams. She believed “education is the ticket.” She wasn’t going to let the accident change all her dreams even if people stared at her for the rest of her life.  She was curious about others, constantly learning, and had a great community of colleagues and friends. She wanted her marriage to work and she wanted to raise her children. She ended up doing all of that even after what she went through. What readers can learn is it is possible to recover and face the world — even after going through something so grueling.  She had to learn to cope with the disfigurement and not let it stop her from constantly going into new places and situations. She was bold. “Hi, I’m Dorothy Nayer,” she would say when she entered a room. People quickly forgot about how she looked and remembered the clothes she wore. Even with such scarred hands, she sewed many of her own clothes!

What really stands out about your mother’s strength – and what continues to move me — is that it seemed to come straight out of her love for you and your sister. That mama bear protectiveness is a force to be reckoned with. Is that something that’s resonated more deeply with you since having children of your own?

I believe my mother’s strength was part of her personality before the accident. Her father left the family when she was nine and she never saw him again. That must have wounded her deeply and also armored her. So this was who she was pre-accident. However, I know she loved us deeply and was in anguish over being separated from us.  I know a big part of her desire to recover was to take care of us. We were still such little girls and needed her. We needed to be picked up. She wanted us home and pushed my father to get us. It’s difficult enough raising children without a major trauma such as the one my family suffered through. So, yes, the enormity of all she did and had to do has resonated more deeply with me since raising my own daughters. My parents lived until they were 91 and 93. Sometimes I think they lived so long because they wanted to make sure my sister and I were fine. They called us every time we returned from a trip to make sure we were okay. I remember my father and mother standing outside of their apartment building in Oakland, watching me drive away after I visited them. When I got home to San Francisco, they always called to make sure I arrived home safely. I didn’t like that when I was in my twenties and thirties but then I got to expect that and cherished their concern. Yes, my mother was a Mama Bear — and her recovery from the burns meant she would get her children back. Now, as a parent, I’m in awe of how she managed so much.

Did you learn anything new or surprising about the accident and its after-effects while writing the book? Were the people close to your family eager to share what they remembered or were they wary?

Mainly what I learned is how deeply the accident affected all of us. Since I led a privileged life, I think I didn’t feel a right to express the pain of the separation and the horror of the burns. I also couldn’t express the pain of leaving my aunt, uncle and cousins when we left the farm. They were wonderful to us — loving and kind. There were so many leavings — and my feelings were often buried.  I teach a class at City College of San Francisco called “Trauma and the Arts,” and we talk about generational trauma –trauma passed down from parents to children. What is unspoken often carries the most weight. We had little to no intervention except for the wonderful psychiatrist who counseled my parents. If we had had someone to talk with, I believe my sister and I could have coped much better as adults.

Yes, my parent’s friends were quite willing to share what they knew. I realized, though, how difficult the accident was for everyone involved. They gave me a lot of information but also shared their own trauma. Sometimes they hardly had words for how my mother looked or what they felt when seeing her and my father. But they freely shared what they remembered. The scene of my mother going to the movies for the first time with a friend is partially taken from a letter that one of her friends wrote to me.

I think in the book you mention a letter your mother wrote when you told her you were writing a book. How did your parents feel about you writing this? How did your sister feel?

My parents and sister have always supported my writing — first my poetry and then this book. I never felt they tried to stop the process, though when I was having severe panic attacks, my mother suggested I stop writing the book. She had a point since my children were quite young and I was getting triggered by the material.

My mother even edited the beginning of the book. She wrote down the facts about the night of the accident and the time before and after — however she rarely talked about how she felt except through an article that she wrote for the American Journal of Nursing. My father, however, read an upsetting part of the book and said, “enough.” He really didn’t want to read more though I know he was proud that I was writing the story. My sister has always cheered me on but twice when she read different versions of the book, she became very depressed. That just happened recently. It was a hard story to live and to re-live. It happened 56 years ago but there is still residual pain.

Have you seen or heard from your childhood babysitter, Della, after writing the book? I would think she would get in touch after reading how important she was to you.

We never saw Della after she left the family. I tried looking her up on the internet but to no avail. I don’t even know if she’s alive. I would love to get in touch with her and have her read the book.  It must have been terribly hard for her. She found my burned parents calling for help the night of the accident. My parents were her whole world — and then they were so damaged. I would love to find her again.

I understand you recently went back to the house on Cape Cod where the accident occurred. Why did you want to do that? What kind of experience did it turn out to be for you?

I love Cape Cod — the salty smells and the ocean. Driving into the Cape was thrilling this time. I was also going back as an author. I had readings, an NPR radio show – later, a write-up in two papers, one on the front page. I was not the wounded little girl. People were wonderful to me, mainly connections through my sister — college friends — who gave me wonderful support as well as the librarian at the Wellfleet Library. At first, looking for the house was like a treasure hunt. I was with a reporter and a photographer from The Cape Cod Times. However, when we found what we assumed to be the house (the pole where my father’s burned bathrobe hung from was still on the front lawn!), I had a different reaction. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to take a picture — even though I did. I learned the next day through someone who came to a reading that in fact it was the house. My husband and I went back but I decided not to knock on the door and go in. I didn’t want the image of the inside of the house in my mind. Maybe I will go back, though, another time.

One night on the Cape I had trouble falling asleep because of the image. I had suffered from panic attacks and had seen images of fire in my mind in my forties. I’m aware of protecting myself. In the end, though, I’m glad I saw the house and could be there in an entirely new way. I haven’t put up the image yet on Facebook — which I said I would do. So being at the Cape was thrilling but not entirely joyful. There was also a sadness there — my parents’ hopes and dreams of a wonderful family summer were dashed. Looking at the house, I also remember that. I also missed my sister (who decided not to come to the Cape this time) and parents, especially the day that I walked on the beach across the street from the house. We all had such wonderful memories of that time — clam digging and searching for shells — and the beautiful water. But I know they were all with me.   My husband, Jim, traveled East with me and came to all my readings and events. That was a great comfort — to have him with me.

Can you tell us a little about what you’re working on now?

I am now writing a novel.  It is still in very rough form but starts in the 1920′s in New York. The main character –a mother, wife and social worker — overcomes many obstacles and fights for a better world but when her only daughter joins a group that promotes violence and ends up in prison she is challenged almost beyond what she can bear. I grew up during the turbulent sixties and went to the University of Wisconsin in Madison and knew of people who were in prison for political crimes. It is my way of asking the question of how could this have happened.

I learned so much about structure while writing the memoir that this book has been a lot easier to write. Also, I am enjoying the freedom of doing what I want. I wanted to add a dog to one of the scenes and I could do it! Of course, I need to research the times just as I did research for the memoir. I am thrilled, though, to move on to a new project. Burned: A Memoir is now out in the world. I can move on from that story.

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