Stella Reddy's Story

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I’m starting something new here on my site—a section called Memories, where I’ll share experiences from my past that shaped who I am today. Some stories are lighter than others. This one isn’t light. But it’s mine, and it matters.

March 17, 1991

At the time of the fire, I was 24 years old, enrolled full-time in a GED program that had started in January. I was working hard to earn my high school diploma while raising two kids as a single parent—a 5-year-old and an almost 3-year-old. We were living in the upper two floors of a massive old three-story house downtown, sharing the space with my mom and younger brother. We’d been there about five years by then. That night, a friend from school was staying over, crashed out in the living room where my brother also slept.

It was St. Patrick’s Day—a holiday in Newfoundland & Labrador—, so I had the day off. What I didn’t know was that I’d wake up to flames on the wall of my bedroom.

I woke up to see fire licking up the wall beside my youngest child’s bed, right by the door. Both of my kids were huddled together on my oldest’s bed, calling out to wake me. I could see flames on the metal trunk at the head of the bed. I could see flames in the hallway by the electrical outlet near my door.

The rooms in that house were enormous. It was what the fire department later called a “paper house”—about 20 layers of old wallpaper covering wide wooden boards from the early 1900s. I’d peeled some back once in the kitchen just to see it for myself. Every room had a door. The layout was strange—bedrooms and the bathroom on the second floor, living room and kitchen on the third. The fire started in the corner of the hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom, towards the front of the house.

As soon as I saw the flames, I started shouting to everyone that we had to get out. My mom came out of her room next to mine and grabbed a blanket, hitting at the flames. Sparks flew back toward me—that’s probably where I got the second- and third-degree burns on my hands and arms, though I didn’t feel it at the time. I told her to stop and come outside. She did. I carried my youngest while my oldest walked out on her own.

This is where my memory gets hazy. It comes back in flashes, not in full scenes. I was a big girl back then, bigger than I am today!

I remember getting to the porch with the kids and my mom. I don’t remember going back upstairs to the third floor, to the living room where my brother and friend were sleeping. But I must have, because I remember grabbing my long white winter coat off the stairway railing and putting it on. I must have put my boots on too—they took them off at the hospital later.

My brother was already gone. He’d climbed out the back window and landed on a dog house covered in snow, breaking his wrist in the process. As he went, he took the only photo album that was saved with him, which he later got to give to me. The snow cushioned his fall. Otherwise, he was okay.

And then—silly me—I went to the kitchen window to call down to my mom that my brother had gone out the back. The smoke pouring out of the window below me was so thick I couldn’t see anything. My friend was still with me. When I tried to get back to the hallway to go downstairs, the stairwell was on fire. We were stuck. We went back into the kitchen and closed the door.

The next flash of memory I have is standing in front of the stove, off to the side of the window where my friend was standing. I was thinking about options. I knew we were stuck on the third floor, in the kitchen, at the front of the house. I could see flames all around the edges of the closed kitchen door. The smoke was so thick I could barely see my friend, even though he was only a couple of feet away.

I don’t remember any panic. Just calm. Just knowing that we either had to jump out the window or stay there and die.

The next thing I remember is leaning way out the window. My tall friend—he was about 6 feet tall—was behind me, and I told him to push us out with his legs.

I don’t remember the fire department arriving. I learned later that they got there in seven minutes, after I was already on the ground.

I was told later that we landed on the sidewalk. He landed on top of me, which saved him from breaking any bones. I wasn’t so lucky. Both femurs were broken. Both kneecaps smashed. My mouth was a mess—my bottom lip split in half, many teeth broken, and pieces of broken teeth dug into my chin.

The next thing I remember is waking up on a table in the hospital, trying to ask about my kids. I couldn’t speak. Someone was working on my mouth and chin. Others were cutting off my coat, my boots, my nightgown—assessing the damage I’d done to my body. I do remember seeing an instant camera photo of my kids, my Mom was with them, still in their pyjamas, sitting at a table eating. That gave me some peace.

My next memory is waking up in a dark room. Nurses were washing my body, prepping me for surgery on my legs. They were talking about all the soot covering me and their concern about removing it all before they operated. A nurse was at my hair—long at the time—cutting out the burned, matted parts toward the back of my head. I had a couple of burns on my scalp that they needed to get a look at.

My next clear memory is in the ICU, where I had a tube down my throat. I spent three weeks in intensive care and just over two months on the fourth floor. I lost my voice from the smoke damage. It came back about a month later, but it’s different now.

My Mom brought me a red hard-covered book and a pen to write in, and I still have this book. My oldest child read it once when he was a young adult, and he said it helped him understand that time better.  It was even scarier for them. They not only lost their home and everything familiar, but they also lost their mother for a time.

I remember my children’s first visit to see me. It was over a month later. I missed them terribly, as you can imagine.

My oldest was okay—shocked by how I looked, unsure how to touch me, but he did. He cried, telling me how much he missed me and asking when I was coming back to them. My youngest? How I looked scared him. He wouldn’t come near me. He didn’t see his mother. He saw a scary-looking stranger. It took time for him to adjust to the new-looking me. My youngest had his 3rd birthday while I was in the hospital.

I spent three months in the Health Science Centre here in NL. During that time, I developed an infection in my right leg, near my knee. Soot had gotten into the incision and infected the area. They had to do emergency surgery, and they left the incision open for packing. That was a terrible experience for 2 weeks—having the gauze removed twice a day and fresh packing put in. It was brutal.

Another issue was that the screw holding the rod in place in my right hip had backed out and was causing damage to the tendons and tissue around the joint, and they had to operate to remove the screw. That wasn’t fun either!

I started physio in the hospital, and it took 3 weeks to get me on my feet between the bars there. It was also in this room where they soaked my burns to soften the skin enough to cut it away. I had various second and third-degree burns on my hands and arms, even a couple on my scalp that they had to remove the burnt skin from. I found that part gross…

I left the hospital in June in a wheelchair, with rods in my thighs, covered in various bandages. I spent just over a week at my sister’s place, taking over her bed, before we were able to move into our own house through City Housing. Then came physical therapy—about three years of learning to walk again. I had the rods removed from my thighs in early 1993, a few months apart. I also got full dentures that same year, which gave me back my smile.

I went back to school in September 1991 in my wheelchair, and by the time I graduated in February 1992, I was using crutches to get around. Yep, I was determined to finish it!

Recovering from that experience was difficult. Not just the physical therapy, but the mental therapy to learn to adjust to my new life and learn how to manage my symptoms. I was afraid of things that I never been before.

I lost a lot of mobility because of it. It has given me anxiety, as you can imagine, about being knocked accidentally, as I will fall. I can no longer ride a bike, walk over the big rocks along our shores, or even run anymore. My balance is crappy. I lost about an inch and a half of height in my left leg due to how the femur broke. The orthopedic surgeon who repaired my legs told me I had about 10 years before arthritis would put me in a wheelchair. While I have severe arthritis now in my knees and hips, as well as my left ankle, I can still walk—just much more slowly.

A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

I’m sharing a picture my aunt took when she came to visit me, and it is the only one I have from that time. It’s the first time I’ve shared this publicly. I was 24 years old. I had my 25th birthday in the hospital that April, around when this photo was taken. She brought me a teddy bear—you can see it in the picture. I lost weight after that experience, which also helped!

Yep, I looked a mess. I don’t blame my kids for being scared. I am so proud of myself for making it through that experience. It was where I developed my determination, especially with health issues.

What Stayed With Me

It’s been almost 35 years since that house fire, but I can still remember the smell of the wood. My nose does too, and I pick it up from time to time when I go out. I don’t have nightmares anymore, but it took a few years to even get used to being around fire and smoke again.

Exposure therapy was good for me back then—it was where I first learned about it. It took me a couple of weeks to watch the “Backdraft” movie with Kurt Russell that came out during that time, but it was great for exposure therapy.

That fire also led to a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder in 1993. I developed habits, anxieties, and patterns that stuck with me for a long time. Some still do. Therapy, off and on, has helped as well when I get stuck.

But I’m here. I survived. My kids survived. My brother, my mom, and my friend—we all made it out. Not unscathed, but alive. And that’s what matters most. I was determined, and it helped me greatly to regain my independence.