Eight months ago, life changed for our family when out of a blue, sunny afternoon my mother's apartment building experienced a devastating fire. The fire started above her apartment because a cigarette receptacle malfunctioned (a coffee can was too full or tipped over). The effects of that simple accident was that 22,000 gallons of water was deposited through the pieces of remaining roof and into the gaping mouth of the apartments below. The scene was like others I had seen before whether in a movie, the nightly news, or even in passing. However, never before had my family been the family that others looked at while shaking their heads, eyes down, and internally thanking whomever that it wasn't their burden to suffer.
We huddled, tried to shake out the disbelief in our minds, and placed our palms over our mouths. Our focus was on the fire and the occasional distraction beyond the size of the flames: the kindness of strangers and the Red Cross, police tape, the ever growing crowd, and the courage of the firemen. Calls were made to those we felt should know immediately. My sisters, brother, brother-in-law, my mother and myself were on the other side of police cars and officers who were keeping the personally unaffected people back. We were allowed to cross, to inch closer - a distance that was safe, yet one that separated us from normal neighborhood bystanders. Other impacted families now became familiar to us even though we had never met. We would nod heads and walk towards each other to make idle chitchat. No one had answers to the questions as to how, why, and what should be done now. We waited. Together. Equal in the knowledge that the future held so much uncertainty; some cried, others nervously laughed, and some just left.
My 71 year old mother was unable to absorb the enormity of her living situation. She was certain that she would be able to get back into her home to retrieve everything...and I mean everything. For a moment, I thought I saw a glimmer of acknowledgement of all that was lost, but that shine dulled quickly as she became more interested in talking to the strangers and neighbors who were surrounding her. Her conversation about making the locally famous doughnuts at the Senior Center made her somewhat of a celebrity. She would wander, and we would follow knowing only that we needed to be close - just in case. That moment came. Sitting on the curb, staring at her home, fire still eating away at the apartments below, my mother put her head in her hands and cried. It wasn't for long. It wasn't the out loud bawling type of cry. It was more of a silent anguish. "What about my pictures? Your dad's flag? Oh, and that mirror your dad and I bought when we were first married?" We could only comfort through hugs. There were no answers to her questions.
The things. The artifacts of 71 years of life...those items that people say are only "stuff". Remember, at least no one was hurt. But, what about the things? My mother's childhood teddy bear, my father's Korean War memorabilia, Mom's favorite sweatshirt, cookbooks with recipes from people I don't even know, special china, a favorite frying pan, towels, Christmas ornaments, bedding, even underwear - gone. My mother's treasured privacy enabled her to have and know things that we didn't. What was lost that we, her children and grandchildren, would never know about or be given the opportunity with which to grieve? Mom couldn't remember. She already exhibits the loss of memory that comes with being a female in her family. I wanted to scream, to cry, and to berate myself and my siblings for not going through her "stuff" before...before we wouldn't have the chance. I always thought there would be time...well, I have learned that you can never count on time.
It has been many months since the almost forgotten fire. Mom is in a new apartment with an entire household donated by kind strangers, friends, and family. She was even able to retrieve a few things that were wet and a little smokey, but not completely ruined. For several weeks afterwards, Mom would wander over and try to dig through melted remnants in the garage. But, even that has passed. She mourns mostly for the loss of a garage - her new apartment didn't come with one. She is back to her routines and has created a new living space where there is familiarity. However, I wonder if she wonders. Does she reach for that certain plate that was her mother's, only to find it isn't in the cupboard? Does she look for that particular picture of Dad in his Army uniform but just can't seem to find it? She doesn't talk about her loss, but she must feel it almost on a daily basis. I know that I wonder. What are the secrets that I'll never have revealed to me? What emotionally valued item will no longer come with a great story about my mom's childhood? But, in the end...no one was hurt. No one was injured, and all that was lost was just "stuff". It's all just stuff.
My 71 year old mother was unable to absorb the enormity of her living situation. She was certain that she would be able to get back into her home to retrieve everything...and I mean everything. For a moment, I thought I saw a glimmer of acknowledgement of all that was lost, but that shine dulled quickly as she became more interested in talking to the strangers and neighbors who were surrounding her. Her conversation about making the locally famous doughnuts at the Senior Center made her somewhat of a celebrity. She would wander, and we would follow knowing only that we needed to be close - just in case. That moment came. Sitting on the curb, staring at her home, fire still eating away at the apartments below, my mother put her head in her hands and cried. It wasn't for long. It wasn't the out loud bawling type of cry. It was more of a silent anguish. "What about my pictures? Your dad's flag? Oh, and that mirror your dad and I bought when we were first married?" We could only comfort through hugs. There were no answers to her questions.
The things. The artifacts of 71 years of life...those items that people say are only "stuff". Remember, at least no one was hurt. But, what about the things? My mother's childhood teddy bear, my father's Korean War memorabilia, Mom's favorite sweatshirt, cookbooks with recipes from people I don't even know, special china, a favorite frying pan, towels, Christmas ornaments, bedding, even underwear - gone. My mother's treasured privacy enabled her to have and know things that we didn't. What was lost that we, her children and grandchildren, would never know about or be given the opportunity with which to grieve? Mom couldn't remember. She already exhibits the loss of memory that comes with being a female in her family. I wanted to scream, to cry, and to berate myself and my siblings for not going through her "stuff" before...before we wouldn't have the chance. I always thought there would be time...well, I have learned that you can never count on time.
It has been many months since the almost forgotten fire. Mom is in a new apartment with an entire household donated by kind strangers, friends, and family. She was even able to retrieve a few things that were wet and a little smokey, but not completely ruined. For several weeks afterwards, Mom would wander over and try to dig through melted remnants in the garage. But, even that has passed. She mourns mostly for the loss of a garage - her new apartment didn't come with one. She is back to her routines and has created a new living space where there is familiarity. However, I wonder if she wonders. Does she reach for that certain plate that was her mother's, only to find it isn't in the cupboard? Does she look for that particular picture of Dad in his Army uniform but just can't seem to find it? She doesn't talk about her loss, but she must feel it almost on a daily basis. I know that I wonder. What are the secrets that I'll never have revealed to me? What emotionally valued item will no longer come with a great story about my mom's childhood? But, in the end...no one was hurt. No one was injured, and all that was lost was just "stuff". It's all just stuff.
