I grew up in Hampshire, in the UK, in the 1980s, and still remember the terrifying fireworks safety videos from my childhood. They made dire warnings of death and disaster if you picked up a dropped sparkler or went back to a lit firework. Every Guy Fawkes Night, Dad made sure we watched the action from inside the house.
Here in Texas, things are different. I moved to the US in 2007, and each year, as the Fourth of July approached, containers would appear by the road, selling enormous fireworks to anyone, no questions asked. My American wife, Megan, was always safety-conscious. Our son was allowed a sparkler if he was lucky. But for our friends, you couldn’t celebrate Independence Day without huge explosions. We knew that the Fourth of July party we were invited to in 2022, on a friend’s two acres of land, would have fireworks.
It was casual, so I wore a shirt, shorts and a belt that Megan hated. It had a metal buckle that jangled. She found it incredibly annoying. At the party, we ate and drank as the kids ran around, and as it got dark, we pulled up some chairs outside. There were sparklers and Roman candles were lit.
Our son was playing on the edge of the property, so Megan and I moved our chairs to be closer to him. About 60ft in front of us was a wooden pallet, where two big fireworks were being lit.
Then something went wrong. Instead of shooting into the sky, the first firework flew towards the house and exploded on the porch. Then, before I could get up from my chair, I saw the second one flying directly at me.
It was a split second before impact. I was thrown back on to the ground. The pain at the top of my legs and in my lap was instant and excruciating, I’d never felt agony like it. I was shouting: “It burns, it burns.” I was totally disoriented by the pain, the smoke and the ringing in my ears.
Faces crowded above me as I lay on the grass, insisting I stay still. I heard Megan screaming hysterically, telling the kids to stay away. As someone called 911, a lady grabbed my hand and began praying. That was the moment I thought I might be dying. It was terrifying.
Five minutes later, the paramedics arrived. The impact had blown my shorts and underwear off, and they began doing a tourniquet. But they accidentally caught my testicles in it. I shouted: “My balls are in there!”
After I was given three doses of fentanyl, I finally looked down at my lap. I saw a bloody mess from my lower thighs all the way up to my stomach. I couldn’t tell which body parts had been damaged. Had I lost my genitals? I felt sick at the thought.
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It was all still an agonising blur as I was put into an air ambulance. It was only when I was examined at the hospital that the extent of my injuries became clear – 8% of my body had third-degree burns, the skin blown off right down to the muscle. But I wasn’t going to lose my dick or balls. The relief was incredible.
Then I was taken to surgery. The doctors need to remove the gunpowder in my body and repair my injuries as best they could. The next day I learned something incredible. My belt buckle, the one Megan hated, had protected my major organs from the impact of the blast. It had probably saved my life.
There were dark moments in the weeks that followed. Lying in hospital, I had frightening flashbacks. I thought about the children who’d been playing just behind me. What had happened to me was awful, but if I hadn’t moved my chair, it could have hit them instead.
In the next six months, I had skin grafts, and physiotherapy to learn how to walk again. I also had to recover psychologically. It took time to be intimate with Megan again. I didn’t care so much about my scars – I knew I’d certainly never be a swimsuit model. But I struggled with the fear of everything working as it should. Thankfully that wasn’t a problem.
Megan has been amazing. She’s worked through her trauma with EMDR therapy. I still have bad dreams and don’t think I’ll ever enjoy seeing fireworks again.
But I try to find the humour. To remember that on a day celebrating their independence from the British, the Americans got me with a firework. And to remind Megan that my fashion sense is so good it probably saved my life.
As told to Kate Graham
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