Fire and Stuff

“It’s just stuff, it’s just stuff” The paramedic offered a few pronounced pats on my back as I was walking up to my house. I was blubbering between tears about my deceased grandpa’s letters, photos, and journals I’ve kept since I was 8-years-old. She meant well, I know she did, but I wanted to shout, “It’s not just stuff!” That “stuff” has meaning, memory attached to it.

Looking back, I really appreciated how she walked along with me after that, not saying much, but was there and concerned for me. I didn’t know anyone else there. My landlord and husband were on their way. There were all these strangers- bystanders, firemen, paramedics, police, local news- all of them standing around gawking at my house. The house that I’d JUST left a few hours ago. I had rushed to eat my cereal in that dining room, and made sure the door was locked as I ran out to work. I was just here. How could this be?

She wanted to make sure I had someone to support me and asked if I wanted to be near my “duplex” neighbor, but I declined. I’d never met the woman officially. She’d moved in over winter and it was awkward to meet her now. I looked for my landlord, I scanned faces. I was balling and I started making phone calls. I had to let people who knew me know what was happening.

 I don’t recall all the specifics but I remember this sense that the paramedic didn’t want me to feel alone. She let me know when she had to leave for a second and that she would be back. She said she’d make sure Red Cross was contacted. For some reason I do remember about 4 different people- firemen, paramedics asking me if I wanted to have The Red Cross called. I murmured again and again that I thought they’d already been called by someone else. 

I was dumbfounded because the firemen were doing their job, dousing the place with water, but it seemed to be in slow motion and it wasn’t doing anything. It kept burning. I hoped it was only in the roof. I told myself, they’d put it out soon and everyone could go home; everything would be okay and we’d be able to sleep there that night.

People floated in, my landlord and his wife, my husband. My landlord asked if we had renter’s insurance and I said no. My phone continually rang- family, work, people wondering how it was, if it was still burning. I felt detached from everyone. I told myself this wasn’t for real.

The roof started to disappear. Then the bedroom collapsed into the living room and the window smashed open; cockeyed furniture jutted through. I burst into tears again- my illusion of an attic-only fire was gone. We wouldn’t be sleeping there again.

I couldn’t watch it anymore, so I sat in a chair offered by my neighbor in his driveway, with a tree that perfectly shielded my view. It seemed absurd to sit as if waiting for a parade or fireworks show, but what else could I do? I took calls from concerned family, friends, and coworkers. My mom said she could tell I was in shock. I was calm and matter-of-factly told her what was happening, no different than telling her about any other day.

Someone asked me what size pants my husband and I wear. I couldn’t figure out why they would ask such a thing. I have plenty of clothes. I couldn’t get my brain to process it, much less answer, but apparently I did because they soon returned with clothes from a local resource center. Another person asked if I wanted pizza. The Red Cross or someone had ordered it for everyone and it was set up on a table in the street. They asked three times, but I wasn’t hungry. 

The Red Cross volunteers were kind and asked many questions, none of which I remember now. One was training the other.  It was very sunny. I wished it would rain and put out the fire. A transient thought passed that I really shouldn’t be sitting in the sun considering I’d been horribly sunburned the week before in Florida. One of the people who had first seen and reported the fire, came up to us to tell us his story, but all I could do was stare at him. I should have said thank you. I needed to use the bathroom and it felt odd that I couldn’t use my own bathroom in the house that sat before my eyes. The neighbor kindly let me use theirs. It was calm, dark, and quiet inside their house.

After they put the fire out, I wondered, now what? Can I see what’s left? Can I get my stuff? Stuff that has memories attached, stuff that I need to use before bed tonight, stuff that I’ve had since I was four–years-old. How does this work? Does a professional team go in later to clean it up and salvage what’s left? Where do I go now? I managed to ask the fire chief and he said that the firemen would go inside to salvage what we could and that now was our only chance.

My mind went into warp speed, trying to remember where exactly I’d been storing those letters from my grandpa. Where had I last placed (blank) and (blank)? And when it came down to it, what was most important to me to save? I realized my Ipod had no value to me.

The blessed firemen made numerous trips and everything was scattered across our lawn. Some stuff in okay condition, everything smelling of horrid toxic smoke. No one could find my grandpa’s letters. I knew the room, but I couldn’t remember the exact spot. Terri, this is your only chance, my mind screamed! They kindly looked in every place I suggested.

One made a point to show me where he’d safely placed my social security card and marriage license. Another came out with my precious teddy bear I’ve had since I was four covered in dark soot. My white bear was now a black bear. How silly to be 30 and blubber in front of these men how happy I was to see a teddy bear. I was overjoyed.

I could go on and on. It was chaos. But I’ve never felt such gratitude as I did for those patient firemen. Family and friends from out of town arrived with their trucks, trailers, and cars. We problem-solved by the seat of our pants. Several people were asking me if I wanted to keep things and where to put them and who should put what in which cars. I was whirling, unsteady, my phone was still ringing.

I stood in disbelief in my kitchen, looking at the carnage. Strangers stopped by, including a pastor who prayed with us and said the most helpful thing (to paraphrase): “This is a loss, and it’s going to take time and it’s okay to grieve.” That stood out in my mind for the next several months. Simple but affirming.

We spent that evening and the next three months at my mother-in-law’s house. That first evening was strange. I knew we’d saved a lot of “stuff”, but it felt like I had nothing. It was scattered at 6 different households in four different cities- and I still didn’t know what all had been saved and what was lost. I had a general idea, but specific things I didn’t have a clue. I knew I didn’t have a toothbrush, contact solution, cell phone charger, or underwear. I had the clothes I was wearing and a few I’d grabbed from the lawn so I’d have something to change into. 

Thankfully we have very supportive family, friends, and even strangers who helped us out. My sister made a special run to the store that night so I’d have underwear, a new contact case, and a toothbrush. I was nervous to go to bed- what if it happened again? My sister had bought a new cell phone charger, but I couldn’t plug it in that first night. I knew it was irrational, but what if something happened with that plug? What could I trust in a world that had just been flipped upside down?

For the next several days we cleaned and sorted what could be saved versus trashed. It was heart breaking. I’d see a gift that my husband had given me years ago and realize that it couldn’t be saved. It was ruined. I relived that over and over. I burst into tears when I came across something that I’d been wondering about for days. I found my grandpa’s letters clean and safe in a storage bin.

Why are we so attached to our stuff? I never realized how much it defines us and gives us a buffer so we don’t feel naked. I felt superficial for this.

In a sense it was liberating to still be alive without my stuff, and yet in a very practical sense, it was incredibly frustrating. Out of what we did save, I couldn’t find anything. You take it for granted that when you want to put makeup on, you know which room to go to, take it out of the bag, put it on, and all set, you’re done. Or when you feel like reading a book, and you know which shelf to go to, read it for a little while, and you put it back. I felt lost and disoriented. 

Some of the basics, like deodorant, you buy and slowly rebuild your organization so you can function in daily life. But it took a lot of time and I lived in limbo for months-- between a temporary living situation, to house hunting, to moving into a new home.

Most people don’t realize that they take this for granted: knowing what belongings you have and where so that you can say, get dressed and go to work. Or in more complex situations, find your last income tax returns for the next tax season. I found it frustrating that many people still didn’t fully get that. Their concept of a fire was the horror of the day and maybe the following couple weeks. I’d run into someone a few months later and they’d ask about it as if it were in the past, when in truth I was still living it.

For several weeks I had this odd experience where I would be in a store or any building, and I could easily visualize what it would look like if a natural disaster would occur. I didn’t see the Meijer store the way you see it; I saw the carnage, missing sections of the roof, the soot, and smell the smoke. I’d never had that experience before. I also missed that sense of safety, that all is well, that most likely this building will remain clean and intact. I couldn’t stand any smoke smell, even from a grill or campfire- it triggered too much for me. Thankfully, I rarely see through those dark lens anymore.

The stuff I mourn:

Many of my journals and some of my recent writing. I lost my first journal that I started in second grade.  I still grieve over this, especially as a writer. I kept journals all throughout childhood. I found a couple and spent an afternoon scraping soot page by page, and using a hair dryer since they were still wet. I’ve struggled in restarting a journal, disgruntled and thinking--what’s the point--it could be ruined in the blink of an eye.

If you haven’t noticed, I’m sentimental and so I mourn losing so many of our wedding gifts. We’d been married 11 months when the fire happened. When I made a trip to Bed Bath and Beyond to replace some of the items, I felt a twinge of resentment as I saw another person with a wedding registry in hand.  

Lessons I’ve learned:

I’m less attached to stuff.

I throw things away more easily that I no longer need.

I don’t save expendable gifts for a long time even if they are sentimental (i.e. special stationary). I use them much sooner.

We have no control over many things in our environment and that’s okay. That’s life. Triple checking that you turned your flat iron off before you leave for work is no guarantee that you’ll never have a fire.

After a year, I still have days when I suddenly realize that I lost something in the fire. Today I had 30 seconds of frustration when I realized that I’d lost more picture frames than I’d thought in the fire. These were special frames I’d used to decorate at our wedding. But I let it go quicker than what I used to.

I work in mental health and one of the best treatments for anxiety and trauma is exposure therapies- essentially recounting the trauma experience (with the guidance of a professional). My trauma was not nearly what many others have experienced in this world, and yet I can’t bring myself to go back to the site. The house is no longer there and it’s been just over a year, but I can’t drive by. I still slightly cringe when I drive by the town’s exit. Some day, but not now. I have great admiration for those who have healed from their trauma.

My husband and I were incredibly fortunate to save a portion of our belongings and to have an amazing support system of loving friends, family, and people who we’d never met. You know who you are. Thank you!