The Beautiful Mess

I hate that the following is going to be my second entry.  I hate it because it's going to make it seem like it defines me.  And the events that I'm going to share with you, have, in fact, contributed greatly to where I am now.  But I was this person before these things happened.  They just opened my eyes and opened (and closed) some doors.

Today is the four year anniversary of one of the most difficult days of my life.  I'm going to retell the story for those of you that may not know it.  And, for those of you that do, you were probably sick of hearing it way back in '07.

My dad died suddenly on February 18, 2007.  My amazing relationship with my father is a different story for a different day, and believe me, there will be one (or one hundred).  He was living in Idaho at the time, so subsequently my sister and I travelled there during the following week.  The trip, in itself, was enlightening and, to say the least, difficult. There was something so conflicting about the constant, breathtaking scenery of that landscape and despair that I felt.  And while it was conflicting, the beauty also provided a peaceful distraction from the heartbreaking sense of loss I was experiencing. 

At the time, my sister and I were (ironically) living together.  We hadn't shared living quarters since we were teenagers, and there couldn't have been a better time for us to be so close.  We each had a dog, an awesome pad, TONS of friends, and life was relatively carefree.  We were living a la Sex and the City, and enjoying every minute.

We'd been home from our trip to Idaho for a few days, and we were just trying to get back to normal life.  The grieving process was still in it's very early stages, but life had to go on.  The first night that I decided to go out, I went to a show and I think my sis had a work party.  I was distant the entire evening (naturally), but tried to make the best of it.  Nearing the end of the night, I went outside to take a call from my sister. 

The call.

There had been reports of a house fire in Mt. Lookout (our neighborhood) and some people had called C (sister) to make sure that it wasn't our house.  Neither one of us were home.  It was our house.  Our dogs were there.  ALL of our belongings were there.  The previous week's memories and keepsakes from our trip to honor my father's life were there.  The dining room was jam packed with pictured poster board and fresh sympathy bouquets- an illustration of the support we'd be requiring again, so soon.  The drive back to that house was, in fact, NOT a blur.  It was crystal clear.  My heart was racing, but surely, everything was fine.  God wouldn't do this to us, especially so soon after the biggest tragedy of my life. 

But, he did.

As I pulled up to our house (we lived at the end of a cul-de-sac), the firefighters and the trucks were still there, but the flames had been extinguished for some time.  I shifted my car into park, ran out of the car, and begged a helpless fireman to tell me that they hadn't found two dead dogs in the house.  He shook his head and apologized. 

And, I crumbled. 

I have known that feeling of emptiness when you break up with a boyfriend, or you realize that one of your once best friends isn't anymore.  That feeling of emptiness that people sing about, and the kind that psychologists prescribe happy pills for.  I know that kind. 

This kind was different.  It was literal. And hopeless.  And, yes, there was that little twinge of thankfulness that no human lives were lost that night. And I did still have the clothes on my back. And my sister. And my mom.  And my friends, and my job, and my car.  But, in that moment, I was overcome with what I'd lost. 

The fire was massive.  It was a total loss.  I literally lost every possession I had.  I was SO SAD for the loss of our pets, our only remaining unconditional best friends.  (You'll come to see that my love of animals is almost unreasonable at times). I was devastated at the thought of my clothes, jewelery, furniture, books, records, art, etc... being destroyed.  And, not just destroyed.  Charred. In some cases, disintegrated.  If they weren't burned in the flames, then they were drenched with the water.  The smell was wretched. And the sight was disturbing.

Of course, we had to interview with the firefighters to aid their investigation.  I remember feeling the same way I had just weeks before, as I'd made the travel arrangements for our father's funeral.  "Put on your game face. They expect this from you." I have no idea who they are, but those thoughts have always lingered in my mind.  We found somewhere to stay that night.  And, you know that cliche about hoping you'll wake up from a bad dream? Yeah, it's true. Until the sun comes up and your eyes can hardly open because they've oxymoronically dried up from too many tears. Until you see your address on the local news, and immediately want to throw a rock through the t.v. because the reporter didn't show nearly enough compassion, and you just realized that it's real.

It's real. It's life. And, once again, it's time to move forward.

For the weeks following these events, I functioned, and was even surprised at how my mind and body were able to handle everything.  The support we had from our friends and community were unprecedented and impressive.  Gratitude is such a funny thing because no one will ever know that length at which I felt it, and the constant worry that I never showed it enough.  I felt guilty, because I felt like the fire was somehow overshadowing my father's death.  That he wasn't getting the recognition or grief that he deserved.  Little did I know that the fire and it's consequences would come and go.  There are days, even weeks, when I don't remember that fire.  Then something will remind me of it, and I'll actually think of it fondly as one of the greatest lessons I never wanted.

But, not an hour goes by that I don't think about my dad.  Did I mention that he had recently become a firefighter before he died? No? It's as if he was saying, "C'mon girls.  Not only can you handle my absence, but I'm going to throw this one at you, and watch you survive this, too. Then you'll see how strong I've always thought you were." 

So, Happy Anniversary fire day.  I do celebrate it in my own little way.  Because that which does not kill me makes me stronger.