Le Shitstorm

I guess this is the blog post where I finally ask "Why Me?" over and over again, kick and pound the floor, cry and whine. Well, I don't really do it. But I do the blog post equivalent of that. Since coming home from the hospital after birthing Lucia, I admit I just never really asked that question much. The question "Why me?" sort of goes against my moral and spiritual understanding of the universe. I am no one special. Just a woman. Sure, I try to do right by my body, my family, my friends, my neighbors, my universe, but in general, suffering happens. Not just to other people. It happens to everyone, whether you are good or not. So, while I did ask often, "Why did this happen?" and expect answers from pathologists and doctors, I didn't ask God "Why did this happen?" As I once said on Aliza's blog, the ClifNotes version of my general philosophy of life is this: the world is a random, chaotic shitstorm, and sometimes you get caught in the eye of it. Other times, you are in the trailer park looking at the shitstorm coming straight for you. You can choose to evacuate and recognize that your trailer is a "thing" and not permanent, or stay in the trailer, look the aforementioned shitstorm in the eye and hang onto your crappy tin facade of security and control. But still, the Random Chaotic Shitstorm of Suffering is barreling towards you. Best thing you can do is be kind, help, love and support those in the shitstorm now, and hope that there are others there to help and love you through your shitstorm. Ah, my proverbs are so deep.

This weekend, while enjoying a nice day of picnic-ing with my family, my mother's house caught on fire. Well, I should say a tree right in front of her house caught on fire, and got to the business of catching my mother's house on fire. It melted the siding before my stepfather, acting very quickly, began hosing the house down with the son-in-laws. We evacuated said shitstorm in plenty of time. So, huddled with my puppy and my baby in grass across the street, I trembled. A deep, bone-rattling tremble. I watched my husband and step-father with hoses shooting two stories up, as the brutal wind carried the flames and smoke into the atmosphere. The men put it out within seven minutes, I know because invitees sitting with me kept speculating what percentage of the house would have been destroyed by this point if we waited for the firemen. My family is generally pretty good in crises, and keep their cool. My four year old nephew turned to me and said, "I'm scared." I cuddled him with us, and said, "It's okay, Little. Everyone is here and safe. Why are you scared, honey?"

"I don't want anyone else in our family to die."

:::

Later, in the way that happens after a traumatic event, we all sat around our proverbial campfire and talked about what happened, and our reactions. I talked about how I was sitting around the corner, upwind from the fire, with my daughter painting, drinking a glass of water. When I heard "FIRE", and saw the billow of black smoke engulfing the picnic area from where my family was running in terror from the house, my first instinct was the throw the water on the house. How ridiculous, right? To throw the water from my glass into a fire that reached two stories. She laughed. Then it reminded me of when I worked morning shift in a cafe. I would arrive at 530a alone, start making coffee. One morning, I came into about two inches of water covering the entire floow. I didn't know what happened, and internally, I sort of shrugged my shoulders, scratched my chin. How am I going to open at 7a? I grabbed a mop and began mopping. Dipping the mop onto the floor, squeezing the water into the bucket, repeat. After an hour, with little progress, I realized it was too big for me, and I called for back-up.

It is a feeling I haven't been able to shake since yesterday. As though it were a metaphor for my entire life since Lucy died. Like I am sopping up a flood with a mop and a bucket, or throwing a glass of water on a burning house.

:::

As I sat there, shaking with the girl and the dog and the nephews, remnants of the tree smoldered and the melted siding was strewn in piles around my husband and family, the firemen began coming, and coming, and coming. Soon there were five fire trucks, a paramedic/EMT, a water truck, fifteen F150s (I am generalizing on the Big Truck Models.)The tears would grow in my eyes watching them in their full firemen suits, and face masks, testing everything to make sure my mother's house wasn't burning anymore. Then they would go away, and I would catch a glimpse of my daughter bouncing up and down, and pointing, and yelping, "Mama, mama, look. Firetruck. Mama, look." And my eyes would well up again.

My internal mantra for yesterday post-fire was, "But my daughter died. Why is this happening? Are you aiming at me, God? Is this something Job-ian? Have I failed the test?" It just all came to me in one fail swoop with the fire. That feeling of being damned. Of being punished. That hollow, tinny, lonely echo of "Why me?" reverberating in my soul.

Everyone had a different reaction. My mother was very relieved. She thought of every scenario which could have made it worse. Nighttime. Inside. No one saw the tree. We waited for the firemen to come. No one pulled out the hose. Children playing there. I became furious. Very very angry. I became more anxious than I already am. But mostly, today, I am still trembling. I am still shaken. Still trying not to read the signs in the signs.