The television camera that saved my life in a house fire.
The first video I shot with the TV camera was a short, grainy black and white still video of the scene as it happened.
As the house began to collapse, I looked up at the camera and saw my wife and two children running from the wreckage, their bodies on the ground.
When I saw my daughter in a car seat, I grabbed her by the hair and held her down as she drove away.
I had just one question.
“Is there a camera in here?”
I asked my wife.
She smiled, and said, “Yeah, but I didn’t want you to see it.”
I put the camera in my car and drove away, not knowing what to expect.
Five years later, my wife is still living in the house with my children and me.
We were in a rush to leave when the smoke cleared.
The fire was raging at the front door.
We could see the house was on fire.
I pulled over to the back and ran into my wife’s bedroom.
From the bedroom window, I saw her daughter and her husband were still alive.
They had both been burned to death.
My wife had not seen them alive.
When I returned to the house, I was surprised to find the family was not in the living room.
It was just me and my daughter, my only daughter, lying on the floor, her arms crossed behind her back.
A neighbor told me the family had left the home for a weekend, and that I had to come out and help them.
Fortunately, my neighbor had brought me a flashlight.
I used the flashlight to light the candles, and as I ran into the bedroom, I heard my wife scream.
Her screams echoed around the house.
At that moment, I realized my wife was not dead.
Two hours later, I called 911 and reported the house fire to the police.
An officer arrived at the scene and brought me to the scene.
He asked me to remove my coat, which I did.
I asked him to look at my wife in the room and saw that she was alive.
He took me to a waiting ambulance and took me into the hospital.
One of the officers asked me if I had seen my wife alive.
I told him no, but he said that he would take me back to the home.
On the way back to my home, I asked if I could take the flashlight with me.
He said he could.
I was still in shock.
I had just lost my wife, and I had been there to help her.
Soon after, I returned home.
I began filming with the flashlight.
Once the paramedics arrived, they took me out of the hospital and put me on a stretcher to the hospital morgue.
I would never forget the moment I saw the woman in the hospital bed, alive and breathing.
I knew she was not going to make it.
By then, the entire world knew my wife had survived the house fires, and she was no longer in danger.
I made several more trips to the morgue to see my wife after the first one.
She was still alive, but she had suffered severe burns to her legs, chest and face.
After being taken away from the morgues, I learned that my wife did not have any permanent injuries.
For nearly two years, I spent days in the morogues, waiting to get to her.
I watched her in pain as I tried to comfort her.
I was determined to get her to a hospital in time to give birth.
In February 2015, I made a long drive to the nearest hospital.
As I got closer, I could hear her crying.
I thought about how she was supposed to deliver my daughter.
Then I heard her tell her husband, “I just can’t breathe.”
I knew I had no choice but to take her to the NICU, but my wife could not breathe, so I rushed her to St. Elizabeths Hospital in St. Louis.
During the drive, I cried uncontrollably, and finally, I reached the hospital emergency room.
I went into labor with the daughter in my arms.
During labor, my husband told me that the baby was breathing, and my baby was fine.
He didn’t say anything to me about my wife or the baby.
While I was in labor, I told my husband that I didn`t want to go home.
He did not say anything, and we did not discuss my daughter`s condition or her condition.
But he did tell me that my daughter would not have survived this.
Moments later, as the baby came out of her womb, I knew that my life was over.
With tears streaming down my face, I thought, My God, my life is over.
I cannot live like this. I will not