30

I don't know what in the hell I was so stressed out about. Anyway, happy birthday to me (and happy anniversary to the b/f!)

Whew!

Okay, the big long drama blog post is done. I can start preparing a lighter, airy entry for Thanksgiving.

Loss

Within a few weeks of the fire, I had received a card from college friend, a sort of condolence card that tries to say, "Sorry you lost everything in a fire. I'm glad you didn't die or get hurt." Amy had noted from one writer to another that I now would have some rich source material from which to write. In the postscript, she observed that I could try to make money off story, that being the great American way. It was the first time someone other than my cat had made me laugh since the fire.

So now, I attempt to write something sensible and poetic about my tragic experience. For a period of a few weeks, I would fall asleep thinking of how I would tell the story. Invariably, I would get emotional and a little weepy, like I am getting right now. One night, I started thinking about how I had felt that night when I woke up, as I moved through the apartment, when the b/f opened the door, making our escape, and watching for almost two hours as the building burned. In a matter of a minute, I was sobbing, my chest heaving with the mourning of everything that changed that night. So much for telling the story in sequential events. It was the first serious cry about the fire and the last time I thought about writing this when falling asleep.

Some would say that it's a mistake to give away the ending early, but then again, this technically isn't the ending. We have moved into a duplex, the ground level. It's bigger and nicer than the apartment we lost, therefore it costs us more to live here. Jack, our cat, frequently goes sliding by on the hardwood laminate, chasing a cat toy. We have a t.v., a computer, cable, & internet. I've even replaced my A&E/BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. The b/f is happily settled in his new job. I just spent $300 on repairs to my Blazer today. Despite its close proximity to a burning building, it has once again proven its reputation as a tank. Over 300,000 miles and going strong. Now with a new engine mount and new radiator mounts.

I now rarely think about the fire, or should I say, "the Fire," as it is slowly moving into the way of legend instead of the newest landmark in my past. I know on some level that I am repressing it and not really dealing with it. I did recently by a candle, so I am making some progress.

Did I mention that the last time I put any serious thought into that night, I lay sobbing uncontrollably in bed for thirty minutes?

For the most part, most of my sadness regarding the fire has pertained to smaller details that relate to a broader scope. I would recall lost possessions that recalled people, places, and periods of my life. Prior to that night, it was junk that I moved begrudgingly from one place to the next in my single, nomadic lifestyle. Football season ticket stubs from my senior year at Notre Dame kept in a small, cedar box that I received from the local furniture store when I graduated from high school. The crucifix in my top dresser drawer that had hung in my childhood bedroom. Two large finished pieces of counted cross stitch in my closet, Garden Verses and Angel of Hope. The pint glass my flatmate had given me to replace the broken original pint glass from which I had my first drink on my 21st birthday, celebrated my semester in London. The very poor watercolor painting of a foot in a sandal, the only painting that I had ever done. It was on the floor next to my dresser. All the books, especially everything from my graduate school work. All my notes, papers, and books gave me hope that I could always go brush up and get a job in the field. I feel as if I might as well have burned the diploma because I've started to forget the knowledge it represents and have lost my backup.

It felt, and still does to a degree, that I lost my life up to that point that night. There are people, places, and events that I will forget without all my little talismen to remember them. To many people, and even occasionally to me, these possessions were junk. I know that it all seemed rather crappy as I approached my 30th birthday, but with it gone, it takes with it so many wonderful parts of my life. This is my one point of rage and mourning, which I want to share at the sentence hearing of the alleged arsonist.

My one great source of anger, frustration, and anxiety, was the management office of the property. I can no longer bring myself to go to the property. After the fire, their modus operandi was the balance of kindness, so as not to appear cold, without doing anything that might indicate a liability regarding any aspect of the whole mess. There was the artful dance they did to keep us out of apartment, which had little fire damage but extensive smoke and water, to avoid a injury liability while our belongings molding away. Ten days later, with the help of a lawyer, we were able to have some of our belongings salvaged. It brought about the only closure that I have had and ended the only nightmare that I had experienced, trying to get in to get what we could. I still have have the handwritten list of four apartment complexes (and their phone numbers) that they gave us to help us relocate (they had called in to say they had openings.) Nevermind that we didn't have our cell phones or a map (even if they had bothered to give us the addresses) because we were newly homeless and still in the clothes we had worn when we fled our home in the middle of the night.

The first time I got emotional was checking in at the Red Cross station. I was getting ready to ask for charity, immediately followed up by a statement to the police. Without the kindness of many people, we would not being faring as well as we are today. Even Jack has spiffy new toys and high quality food thanks to my friend, Jen. We lived with my employers for two weeks while looking for somewhere new to live. They even lent me a truck while I waited for Blazer, due to the delays of turned away tow trucks and insurance inspections. (The vehicle itself had only to have tar removed.) Gifts came in from near and far, the first being socks and a shirt the night of the fire.

I called my parents on a borrowed cell phone and hour after we left the apartment. My dad almost didn't believe me. I apologized for not thinking to get the keys for the Blazer and moving it. Of course, he understood. I made him promise that neither he or my mom would tell my brother what had happened since he needs to focus on his training for active training. (We would later reverse this decision, afraid he'd hear about it and be concerned.) I continued watching the flames and embers rising into the sky behind the building that was now between me and the burning building.

We all like to think of ourselves as the hero in a crisis. After making our initial escape and driving the b/f's truck, with Jack inside, to a safer location. we stood in front of a neighboring building, barefoot and in our pajamas. When a young woman asked me if I wanted a sweatshirt or shoes, I asked to use her bathroom. Not the making of an epic poem. Of course, by this point, I had already proven myself not exactly useful in a middle of the night emergency. The most notable example was when the b/f went back in to get his truck keys, I asked him to grab my purse, but only if he could get it quickly. I cringe to think of this request, especially when I think of waiting for him to come back out.

I am not a morning person. Anyone who knows me knows that this is an understatement. Huge understatement. My brain has a knack for rationalizing away anything that might get me out of bed before my alarm clock sounds, even occasionally when it does. I remember hearing the sound of commotion outside our window. Living in a college town, I chalked it up to students coming back from the bars, as did the b/f. I went back to a sound sleep, only to be woken up by the b/f. I would later learn that a thud and the sound of his car alarm had got him out of bed, when he became aware of the fire. Knowing me, he cut to the chase and told me to get up, that we had to get out. The building was on fire.

Getting up, I recalled thinking that things didn't seem that bad. I thought we were being evacuated as a precaution. Then again, my groggy mind was probably thinking I would be back in bed in a while. When I bent over to get the cat carrier from under the sink, I was overwhelmed by the smell of smoke, as I was when I tried again. The b/f told me to forget it, that he had Jack, and we needed to leave immediately. I was beginning to think things might be serious, but when he opened the door (he had felt it early, a school fire safety lesson apparently lost on me), all doubts were gone.

Orange. The front of the building was bright with the warm, orange glow of a nighttime fire. Okay, the fire was definitely serious, but help was on the way. While we were on the first floor, there was still a small flight of stairs that led to the ground level, but they were already burning in spots and not desirable exit, especially with embers and burning debrit falling in the front yard. For the one and only time that night, I took charge with a good idea. I led the way to the concrete breezeway to the parkway lot. Coming up the back stairs to the lot, the first thing that I saw was someone running by with a ladder. I kept hearing someone shouting "Jump!" Right in front of me, someone landed on the hood of a car. The fire was serious because people were jumping from windows.

Watching the blaze that night, there were two things people were saying. "It spread so fast." "I hope everyone got out okay." Yes, it spread fast, the investigation indicating arson. And sadly, no, not everyone got out okay. Only once have I allowed myself to think what might have happened if the b/f had not been there to wake heavy-sleeping, asthamtic me. I only thought about it for a few seconds, knowing I can't handle thinking what those people went through. A suspect has been arrested. I try to think of what he could have been thinking. The b/f wants him charged with attempted murder for each resident who survived. I want to speak at his sentence hearing. To make part of the public record the pain and suffering he brought down on us, on me.

Now my reflections on the fire and its aftermath take on a more philosophical and emotional distant context. They usually juggle between dichotomies, which I normally detest. There are me feelings on the charity that we received. Neither of us relished needing it, but we were both amazed at how generous a wide variety of people have been. While I don't like relying on the kindness of a network of friends and family, it is gratifying to know that I have one. Ultimately, it's not so much material things they have shared that have meaning, but that they were willing to share them at all, which does generate warm, fuzzy feelings.

There is also the conflict of being known as victim of this fire. I hate to think that this could be the event of my life that defines me though I know it ultimately won't. With some chagrin, I acknowledge bringing up in conversations with people who did not know. It satsifies some selfish need for attention that says, "Dammit! I went through a traumatic experience. I want your sympathy." I am realizing that time is correcting this for me.

The ultimate conflict is how much of my memory do I devote to this experience. I can still close my eyes and in my mind's eye, I still live in that apartment and can picture how it looked and where things were. I debate whether to make a list of things that I had, a kind of journal in which when I think of an object, I note its previous existence and significance. But how long can I dwell on what's lost? The battle of whether to remember something is to honor or is simply living in a past when I should be cherishing that I lived and have a future.

A few weeks after the fire, I talked to a co-worker with a background in psychology, sharing with him some of the turmoil that I had been experiencing. He assured me that all my feelings are natural. I explained that it was so hard to know how I was handling the trauma when I had nothing to compare it to. I still wonder how well I'm handling and whether I will later regret any choices that I make now. I just tell myself that I'm doing the best that I can, and hopefully I won't have something else against which I can compare "the Fire."

Well, life is starting to bear some resemblance of normalcy again. Now that the criticals are taken care of, it frees my mind up to think about what happened, which is a mixed blessing. Last night, I cried myself to sleep. It was the first real cry that I've had since the fire, and once I got started, I kept going.

Needless to say, I didn't feel to rested this morning.

It's so hard to judge how I'm handling this. It's my first major trauma. I don't want to ignore my feelings, but I don't want to be self-centered either. I keep thinking back to what the Red Cross trauma counselor said, "You can't control your feelings." Guess I can't take credit or the blame for them, yet it's still another thing I have limited control of since the fire.

If the arsonist is convicted, I want to speak at the sentence hearing. I want him to hear what impact his actions had on my life. I guess I can't expect him to understand me when I can't understand why he did it.