I don't know what to say.
Maybe I shouldn't say anything at all but...
I will be donating all January proceeds (plus extra) to the Pasadena Humane Society who helped rescue hundreds of animals in the Eaton fires. You can, of course, feel free not to upgrade your subscription and donate directly.
As I type there are active fires all around the city I call home. Streets and businesses I have great memories of now remain just memories. Friends have lost their homes, their community. The devastation is overwhelming.
I lived in NYC during 9-11. I worked at a temp agency in the Empire State Building and remember the threat feeling very real, but also experiencing survivor’s guilt that I had escaped that fate. I had a similar feeling this past Wednesday, while watching the news pour in — seeing the images of where I’ve walked my dogs, eaten birthday lunches, and the neighborhood we almost purchased a home in during the pandemic — all up in flames. Texting friends to check in, answering texts myself to assure others we were safe. I felt so helpless and decided to take down the tree and Xmas decor finally. I didn’t want to be reminded of how cautiously optimistic I had felt about 2025.
That same evening a fire broke out nearby our home. I was taking my yoga mat out to fulfill my New Year’s resolution — to stretch more at the end of the work day — when I heard Abe say in the other room, “Fuck.” We looked out the window and could see the Sunset Fire north of us. Our street was safe, but our friends nearby were not. As they drove down to stay the night with us, I began packing an emergency bag. I grabbed the kit I had made with cash, emergency solar-powered radio, and water purfication tablets. And then I looked around. Suddenly I began to panic. Food for the dog, check. Food for my own celiac stomach, check. Food for Abe? We’d figure it out.
Underwear. How much underwear to pack? Socks? Do I even care about socks? I remembered my friend
who has survived two fires (Topanga and Maui). Her advice to video tape the home for insurance rang in my ears. I whipped out my phone and began recording. Wondering what I would even claim as important. Our video game consoles? The cashmere sweaters in my closet? Was this what I would want money back for? My skincare serums and devices? I chuckle at the thought of myself filing claims for my $700 laser hair regrowth band.And then that chuckle turned into a cackle, and before I knew it I had morphed into the character in a movie who has officially lost it. I began muttering to myself, grabbing the step ladder to retrieve our fire safe box at the top of the closet. “These documents have all been digitized, do they need to come too?” I hear myself grumbling. My voice sounds scared, and yet I don’t stop to think/breathe. Abe tries to reason with me, asking me to pause and calm down, but instead I push past him, still quietly listing things of importance off in my head — only, they’re being said out loud.
The doorbell rings. Our friends are here. They need safe harbor, not a rambling woman in her pajamas, holding her phone in one hand, her will in the other. I grab a brown paper bag from the kitchen, sequester myself to the office, and breathe into it for a few moments.
Finally, I calm down. My friends’ grateful faces are all I need to completely feel myself again. We spend the evening checking our phones for evacuation updates — yes — but also just being there for one another. They accept the residual emotions from my mini panic attack; there is no need to be “on.” I eat my bowls of puffed corn as usual, they order ramen, and we play a few rounds of “We’re Not Really Strangers.” It’s the Couples Edition (LOL) — Abe got it for us when the pandemic first began. We haven’t played it since those days.
The next morning the evacuation has been lifted and our friends return home. I decide to repack a new bag.1 With sober gratitude for this luxury I have been given to thoughtfully choose, I make a list and then I follow it. We drive to the grocery store to pick up a few gallons of water for the car. I return home and stay off of social media. I avoid the news, even when I open the NYT app to play Wordle. I talk to friends. I’m figuring out how I can help my immediate circle. There are many lists to help and many resources and many people giving advice and it’s incredible to witness. But right now, I am just trying not to return to paper bag status and so… yeah.
I’m not sure what to say. I am not a stranger to loss and I know that sometimes it’s the aftermath in the months and years that follow which can be the most challenging. When all the helpers disappear. And you really feel alone, and it feels like a burden to still be stuck in the heaviness.
A lot of people are saying not to lose hope, but in my experience, it’s letting go of hope, sitting still in your gravest fears, and realizing you are still okay that has been the most helpful with grieving. So if hope isn’t easily accessible right now, that is fine.
So hard to see all the devastation. Glad you're safe/okay overall. Someone was telling me that growing up here you get used to ashfall, not snowfall -- sad thought.
"...it’s letting go of hope, sitting still in your gravest fears, and realizing you are still okay that has been the most helpful with grieving." Such powerful words.
Thank you for sharing and glad you are safe.