“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!
