Crinch-crunch crinch-crunch crinch-crunch. The leftover snow made a soft, rhythmic, crunching sound as my slippered feet padded automatically through the billowing black cloud that shrouded my house. It was freezing outside, but I was unaware of the cold.

How did I get here? How could this be happening to me?

It began like any other day.

My husband, Jeremy, and I had just returned from a holiday visit with family, basking in that kind of relief that comes from being home and reclaiming a sense of normalcy.

We had awakened in our own bed, to the wagging tails and wet noses of our two large and enthusiastic dogs who were immensely pleased to be reunited with us. Our suitcases and the presents we had received were stacked on the massive driftwood coffee table that was the centerpiece of my living room. We couldn’t wait to get back to normal in our little rancher that sat on 5 acres of partially wooded land.

It was New Year’s Day. A day that often evokes thoughts of resolutions and new beginnings. Our schedule was clear, save for the annual dinner plans with my side of the family, and my mind was teeming with inspiration to begin this year on the right foot. So, I got to work. I wasn’t going to let our luggage and its cargo languish away in our living room as I had so many times before. I diligently extracted and put away the contents of the suitcases, heaving the dirty clothes into the basement to be laundered. Soon, the washing machine was churning, the suitcases were properly stored, and I was satisfied that I had earned some sort of adulting merit badge. This year was going to be different, I could feel it.

I puttered into each room of my home, lingering to take note of the projects that each one held for me and how I would transform it into the place I hoped it would be. I needed to go through the laundry baskets full of papers that I had stacked in the extra bedroom…and the one in the office, too. There was a baseboard missing in the kitchen. And I needed to donate those clothes stacked on the top shelf of my closet. In fact, I had a lot of things to donate. “I’m going to get rid of so much stuff this year,” I said aloud to no one but myself. I meant it. I just didn’t know what it would mean to me later.

Following my self-lead tour of my home, I took a shower so my hair would have time to dry before we had to leave for dinner. Afterwards, I slipped into my plush, mint green robe and twisted my hair into a turban on the top of my head. As a final touch I added my grey terry-cloth slippers. This was a common uniform in my home, as I despise getting dressed until I’m completely dry. So, I didn’t and I puttered some more.

Still in my robe and slippers, I continued my quest of tidying up by putting away the discounted holiday gift wrap I had purchased just before returning home from our trip. The dogs were sprawled on the floor, intoxicated by the heat from the blazing fire in the woodstove. The room was so perfectly cozy. It felt comfortably lazy and slow. I was so content in that moment. 

Without warning my husband suddenly came crashing into the basement through the cellar door. He yelled, “Call 911” and was gone as quickly as he had arrived, dashing back up the stairs before I could ask for any clarification. “What now?” I thought to myself, annoyed. I was certain it was something stupid. I don’t honestly remember if he told me what was going on, but I ran up the interior steps to see for myself.

When I opened my front door, I looked down the breezeway into the garage and my gaze fell upon a blazing fire engulfing the interior corner, my husband desperately battling it with a small fire extinguisher. It felt like a long time that I was standing there, frozen in disbelief, feeling helpless in my robe and slippers, with the towel on my head. My husband was yelling from the garage, “Call the Fire Department!” And I fumbled for my phone in one of my robe pockets. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. And my fingers became paralyzed and dumb. They no longer knew how to work a smart phone. I remember saying in a voice that didn’t sound like my own, gasping between words that I couldn’t–get–my–phone–to–work. My attention returned to my husband still spraying the fire, which had only grown into a larger, more formidable monster in just a few moments’ time. Then the ceiling of the garage began to fall down onto him and I screamed. “JEREMY! Get out!” He made another futile spray with the extinguisher. My voice reached an unfamiliar pitch. “Get out NOW!” Which he finally did, his body language admitting defeat. However, he maintained his composure and when he realized I’d been unsuccessful, told me he’d called 911. I turned on my heels and dashed back into the house.

I was frantic now. Not knowing what to do. I don’t even know what I was doing, but as I ran from room to room, my breasts heaved out of my robe over and over, swaying uncomfortably as I ran. I continually adjusted and tied my robe, trying to tame my unruly bosom, until, in a moment of simple practicality, I thought, “I better get dressed.” I ran back to my bedroom.  All my favorite clothes were in the dirty laundry, so I fumbled through my closet to grab anything at all; a pair of slightly too small jeans. A t-shirt. My most expensive bra. As I took a step out of my room I stopped short and looked back to my dresser. My wedding rings were in a small dish with my other favorite pieces. I snatched them up “just in case.”

My husband was back inside the house, yelling for me. When I met him in the hallway, he told me to get the dogs and get out. I think I said, “I am” colored with a note of defiance.  I grabbed a zip up hoodie out of the hall closet and ran outside, still wearing my slippers. I didn’t think to grab shoes, or even a coat, even though they were right in front of me.

I took a step outside and felt a brief respite from the panic; a sigh of relief. We did it. We were safe. There was even, perhaps, a feeling of pride. Then panic struck again. Eyes wide, I turned to my husband and stammered, “The cat! Where’s El Gato?” Without skipping a beat, my husband calmly replied, “I’ll get him.” Jeremy entered the house through the basement and quickly found El Gato curled up in his favorite spot. Soon, I saw Jeremy emerge with the cat in his arms for a brief moment, but the chaos was too much for our poor old feline so he clawed his way free of my husband’s grasp and bolted into the woods. I felt a sense of loss, seeing him dash away. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again, but now that he was out of the house at least he had a chance. 

The dogs were running wildly around the yard and my husband was attempting to wrangle them as they made their way into the wooded area on the far side of the house. The wind ordered billowing puffs of gray-white smoke after them, which soon covered the entire landscape so they were no longer visible. I could hear the crunching of the snow beneath my dog’s paws and my husband yelling, underscored by the roaring crackle of the fire devouring the garage. It was deafening. Then I realized I was running, too. I didn’t have a destination. I could just see my slippered feet running. Crinch-crunch crinch-crunch crinch-crunch. Adding to the din.

Time froze again as I stopped short and searched the ominous cloud in vain for my husband and my dogs. Moments that felt like an eternity passed and a lumbering silhouette emerged from the swath of gray smog that enveloped the yard. It was my husband carrying one of our dogs miserably surrendered in his arms like a large and awkward baby. The other dog trotted behind casting furtive glances at each of us.

Neither of the dogs were wearing their collars and we hadn’t thought to grab their leashes. There was no way to contain them. How could we keep them safe in the midst of all this madness?

Then the lightbulb went on: The car. We could put the dogs in the car. But where were my keys? My purse! The keys were in my purse and my purse was still inside the house. I don’t think I explained very clearly what I was thinking, but I do remember saying something to my husband about getting my keys so we could move the cars and then I dashed back inside the house and made a bee line directly to my purse, which had been sitting on the kitchen table.  I also snatched the tree shaped key holder by the door, just in case. There wasn’t time for error.

Even though most of the garage was engulfed in flame, the interior of the house felt eerily normal, with just the slightest haze beginning to gather at eye level. It was strikingly quiet in contrast with the deafening noise that waited for me outside my front door. I was running, adrenaline urging me on, but still the world seemed to move in slow motion.

There’s a theoretical question we humans like to ask each other. “If your house was on fire, what is the one thing you would save?” It’s often treated like a game at parties, to try and reveal what someone values most. Often people will say they would grab their family photos, perhaps some artwork. Something irreplaceable.

I’m here to tell you, that should you ever find yourself in a burning building, the last thing you will be thinking about is what your most prized possession is. You will be thinking about living. About surviving. I never even considered grabbing the priceless original painting over my mantle, or the wooden jewelry box my Grandfather made for me with his own hands. I didn’t think about my wedding pictures, or even the only copies of the music I composed in college.

The will to survive and escape imminent danger is much stronger than sentimentality. My brain expertly created this narrative in which my garage was the only thing that would be lost. There would be terrible damage to the house, but there was no way that we were going to lose everything. How wrong I was. However, that denial  is how your brain preserves you. Can you imagine trying to take stock of your most valuable possessions while you’re looking Death in the eye? I think not. Practicality rules the day. And so we live.

The slow motion feeling inside the house dissipated as I tore open the front door and was shocked to discover that I could no longer see anything. I had only been inside the house for about 15 seconds, yet the gray smog that had covered the yard was now replaced with an opaque black cloud. My husband was screaming my name and I didn’t understand why. It was only afterwards I realized he couldn’t see me and I wasn’t responding to his cries. His fear was palpable, but I remember feeling slightly annoyed, as though he was criticising me about something more commonplace like how I was driving. Did he think I was stupid? That I would have run back into the house if I didn’t think it was safe? It certainly wasn’t safe, no matter how normal it felt in there. I sometimes wonder how long he had been screaming my name without hearing a response from me. I regret that moment. Making him feel that fear. But again, there was no time for sentimentality. I was on a mission. 

With my purse and the keys in my hands, I sprinted by the burning garage. If it was hot, I didn’t feel it, but I could see the wavy, surreal distortion caused by the heat rising. I leapt into my car, and floored it, speeding down the long driveway just far enough to feel safe. My husband followed suit with his car behind mine. It was then that I got out of the car and looked back at the house. Reality set in: My house was on fire. Not just my garage. My house. My home. I began to scream in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own. I was vaguely aware that a police car had pulled up the driveway and a young officer was standing outside of his vehicle, still and soldierly, waiting for the right moment to speak with us. Suddenly, my husband was at my side. He put his hands on my shoulders, and I, still reeling with adrenaline that was quickly turning into lost hope, grabbed the collar of his coat and began shaking him with all my might. I was repeating one phrase over and over. “What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?” Despite my violence against him, my husband maintained his composure, and responded somewhat sadly, in the gentlest voice, “I didn’t do anything.” I stopped fighting him as I surrendered to the gravity of the situation, and I disintegrated into a pathetic heap, my body collapsing against the driver’s side door of my car and shrank to the ground. I slumped into the snow and sobbed. The police officer politely averted his eyes, standing watch over my grief.

As shock set in, my choking sobs morphed into a constant stream of tears, silently flowing out of my unblinking eyes which were fixated on the burning house. I vaguely remember the police officer and my husband speaking to one another. Logistics. The police officer had been sent ahead of the fire department. What was taking them so long anyway? We lived less than two miles away from the nearest fire department. They should have been able to get to our house within 5 minutes of when we called. So much time had passed. So much damage had been done already. Where was the help we so desperately needed?

I don’t remember when we found out that our local volunteer fire department had declined our call. Did you know that volunteer fire departments aren’t required to respond to emergencies? I certainly didn’t. After we called 911, we simply assumed that help would be on its way, with sirens blaring. Instead, without being notified, the volunteer fire department simply told dispatch, “no thanks” and the request for aid was rerouted to the next closest company, but they were on another call. At long last our request was accepted by a volunteer fire department in the next county, over 10 miles away.

When the firefighters finally arrived and began their battle with the raging fire that was devouring my home, I felt a glimmer of hope: Perhaps they could save it. Maybe it will be okay. But when the fire engulfed my front door, I turned away and stopped watching. I knew it was too late.Then it hit me: the firefighters had never been there to save my home. They were there to put out a fire.

I sat inside my car, facing away from my house, staring into the woods. I felt void of all emotion, and yet restless, not knowing what to do. Even though I had chosen not to watch, my car windows couldn’t spare me from the cacophony of noises outside; men’s voices shouting, rushing water, shattering glass, and the defiant crackle of the blazing fire.

I was parked in by the fire trucks lining my single lane driveway that was flanked by woods. With no way out, I was forced to sit and wait in my car. I finally decided to call my parents. When my mother picked up the phone I said, “Mom…” leaving a pregnant pause between her name, and the rest of the story. I didn’t know how to tell her, or even why it felt so difficult to do so. “My house is on fire.” My mom instantly began to weep, simply saying, “Oh, Vanessa.” My parents and I engaged in a conversation that was reminiscent of small-talk, only instead of “how is the weather” the questions were things like, “how did did it happen?” and “where are you staying tonight?” To which the answers were, “we don’t know.”  When we reached this part of the conversation, my mom paused, and tearfully invited us, including our big, unruly dogs, to come stay with them as long as we needed. I think I said something like, “Well, we may have to!” in a playful tone that was completely inappropriate for the day. Internally, I knew that staying with my parents would be a terrible ordeal, but perhaps it would be our only option. What do people do in situations like this?
Soon after, my parents joined the fray of emergency vehicles lining our driveway and our street. My dad surprised me, tapping on my window and handing me an old coat and pair of platform Van’s I hadn’t worn since high school. I felt some amusement seeing these well-loved shoes, and then pang of regret when I pulled them onto my bare feet without any socks to protect my heels from the worn insides. My dad and I engaged in some more of that awkward small-talk, as he said hello to my dogs which were now sitting in the back seat of my car, nervously wagging their tails. With my blessing, he disappeared to take a look at what was left of my house, letting me know where he and mom would be waiting for me, should I need them.

I continued to sit in my car, numb and paralyzed. My husband joined me and said, “You need to go see your mom.” I responded that I would and then didn’t move. He urged me a little more forcefully, “I think she needs to see you more than you need to see her right now.” So, I reluctantly left the haven of my car, and began walking down the driveway in search of my parents. I moved past the fire trucks and emergency vehicles as though in a trance. I knew they were there, but I didn’t really see them. Maybe I didn’t want to see them. I was acutely aware of my feet again. With my eyes downcast I could see my Van’s stepping into the river that was rushing down the driveway. I don’t remember my feet getting wet, but it looked like I was skating on the ripples of the water that lapped against the sides of my shoes.

When I reached my parent’s car, I observed a sense of relief from my mom. Her eyes were red, and her voice caught in her throat as she tried to find the right words. There were none. My parents asked where they could take me. I felt cold and disconnected from my body, but my full bladder wasn’t going to allow me to ignore it. I asked my parents to take me to the McDonald’s up the road so I could use the restroom. It felt wrong to leave, but it was a relief to escape for a little while.

As we drove, I stared out the passenger side window from the back seat.  I wasn’t really looking at anything, but was vaguely aware of the familiar landscape of houses, trees, and farmland that I saw nearly every day. As we turned left onto the main drag, I was suddenly face to face with the closest volunteer fire station; the one that had declined our call. I could see the ambulance and fire trucks sitting in the truck bay behind a group of men who stood casually sipping their morning coffee.  How I hated them.

While at McDonald’s my parents asked me if I wanted to get anything to eat. I almost couldn’t believe it as I heard myself say that I wasn’t hungry. There was a massive disconnect from my physical being and my mental state. A part of me thought that a Dr. Pepper might be salve for my wounds. The other part couldn’t imagine eating at a time like this. The latter won, and I declined food, while staring vacantly into the void.

This almost fugue-like state continued for the majority of the day. My parents drove me to the Wal-Mart nearby, where I began to gather the bare necessities: dog collars and leashes, underwear, toothbrushes. It was overwhelming to consider all the things we no longer had, and what we would need to just make it to tomorrow. In a stupor, I wheeled my cart to the checkout line where my parents were waiting for me. Still unsure of what to do or say, my mom timidly asked if they should pay for me. I responded bitterly, “My bank didn’t burn down.” We were all quiet after that.

My parents dropped me off at the bottom of my driveway, and asked that I let them know if I needed anything. I thanked them for taking me away from it all for awhile, and then began to trudge my way back up the driveway with my bags. Once again, I tried to ignore all the fire trucks in my driveway. The river of water I had waded through earlier had already frozen creating a treacherous, icy gauntlet that doubled as a perfect excuse to keep a downward gaze. I passed firefighters who were now calmly going about their business. I felt as though I should thank them, despite the outcome, but my mouth wouldn’t move. They sheepishly looked away from me, and I from them.

It was only mid-afternoon at this point, and there were so many more hours of waiting to come. I returned to my car, putting the bags from Wal-Mart in my trunk. The dogs celebrated my return, and I wept. Most of the time I couldn’t feel anything at all, but seeing the dogs reminded me just how easily they could have been lost and how eternally grateful I was that they were still with me.

The rest of that afternoon was a blur. A representative from the Red Cross stopped by to give us toiletries and told us that they would arrange for a hotel that night. Our insurance company called and let us know that they already had our housing situation handled. An insurance negotiator offered his services. The young police officer checked in on me. I was inundated with phone calls, texts, and private messages on social media. I finally did a live video to satisfy the concerns and curiosities of my friends, family, and colleagues. At one point I realized that I didn’t have Wi-Fi anymore. I didn’t care.

***

Just two weeks prior, I had been in my living room folding laundry. As I stood doing this mindless chore, my eyes wandered and spied the damaged things about my home. This house had been a complete fixer-upper, and while we succeeded in making it a home, we ran out of money in the middle of renovations, so everywhere I looked there were unfinished projects. And even some of the projects that we had finished were in need of repairs already. I felt bitter and unhappy, knowing that our financial reality would prohibit us from doing all the things it would take to relieve me of this burdon. In a moment of frustration, I blurted out, “I wonder how much money they would give me if this place burned down?”

I froze.

The weight of that question hit me like a punch in the gut, as my imagination gave me the tiniest taste of the terrible pain I’d have to endure to discover the answer. It felt like a wish that I couldn’t take back. I’m not sure I believe in wishes, but I do believe in taking care when making them. The wish itself may be inconsequential, but should your desire come to pass, the guilt you feel afterwards will haunt you.

Immediately, I backtracked in a half-prayer, pleading with God or whatever else might have been listening, “No. Please! I didn’t mean that. I don’t want to know.” I look back at this moment as a gift. It allowed my brain to spend a few moments preparing itself for the worst. Nothing, however, could truly prepare me for the stranglehold of trauma and grief that were to come.

After hours of battling the raging fire, with no fanfare, or goodbyes, the firefighters and police officer quietly disappeared into the darkness of night, leaving my husband and me standing in the freezing cold next to the smoldering remnants of our home. The skeleton of my house hissed and seethed as smoke wafted up into the night sky. Following the smog, my gaze was drawn to the stars. They were brilliant that night. Radiant. In stark contrast with the deafening noise, and constant action of the day, the night was peaceful. Quiet. And I could finally feel the cold.

Like what you're seeing here? Be a friend, and share!