How It Feels To Lose It All in A Fire
And What No One Wants To Hear After It Happens
I didn’t recognize this particular alarm; it was much louder than the one that went off every time I tried to fry chicken. The clock read 8:32 PM. Startled by the sound, my 9-year-old son sat up curiously; the noise was new to him too. I left my bedroom to check if the alarm was sounding throughout our unit; it was. I made my way into my son’s closet and grabbed what I thought might keep him warm while we awaited whatever this drill was. Once dressed, we crouched in front of the front door while I laced his shoes, then a loud bang at the door startled us both.
The man on the other side was anxious. “Y’all have to get out of here; the building is on fire,” he spoke loudly over the alarm. His words didn’t register. However, the bright red fire extinguisher in his left hand did. My mind misplaced every instruction, emergency plan, and immediate course of action I had stowed away for a day just like this.
“Ok, I have to.. “
“Ma’am, you can’t!”
The man immediately interrupted me. Just then, a woman pulling three children behind her back raced past my door and toward the stairwell. “The fire is in the unit next to you,” the man called out, pointing to the door to my right, the one still adorned with Valentine’s Day decorations.
As I shut the door, panic set in. I stumbled over my son, who sat silently, searching my face for answers. In another world, the worried look he wore would’ve warranted a calm and well-coordinated conversation, complete with the electronic communication device he and many autistic and nonverbal individuals utilize to communicate and understand the world around them. Tonight, there was no time. I threw boots over my pajama bottoms, grabbed my purse from the sofa, and with my son, stepped out of our front door for what would be the final time. Thick black smoke had darkened the corridor; complete chaos was on the other side of the cloudiness. Women and children ran wildly, men with pets in their arms scrambled from their front doors, all of us crammed into a single stairwell, moving like a mob from floor to floor. My son tugged my arm in the opposite direction; he wanted to go home to the one we’d just run from. In my fear and frustration, I offered only a tug in return. How did I explain what was happening, over sirens and smoke alarms and the screams of panicked people? We were surely running, but I felt motionless, like watching a scene in my own movie. But this was happening; this panic was no production.
As the fire spread from unit to unit, people pushed their way into the courtyard to find residents from other units gathered, gawking at the growing flames. The fire was visible now, and the wind whipped wildly as it set its sights on my unit. And then the screaming and crying began; mothers covered the freezing faces of their children. In his confusion, my son tugged at my arm a second time; he wanted to go home, he didn’t fully understand what we were watching. “Baby, it’s gone!” I snapped. And just like that, my cries converged with the crowds.
I hugged my son. I hated for him to see me inconsolable in this way, but where could I hide? I was human too. The crowd kept accumulating; a two-alarm fire grew to a three as the flames spread from building to building. Firefighters fought flames for over two hours. Strangers wept into the arms of each other; people wrapped onlookers in blankets as frigid temperatures and strong winds prolonged the ordeal. That was it; there was no home to return to as ceilings turned into cinders; destroyed in what felt like a matter of moments. Sixty plus families, my son and I included, would be displaced as a result of the ruin. What were we to do now? Pray? Wait? “Be grateful; you could’ve been asleep,” a woman whispered to me as I watched the roof over my son’s bedroom melt like warm chocolate. Grateful, she said. Grateful.
A little over a week post-fire, I haven’t quite figured out what forward from here looks like; however, my outlook on aid in the wake of tragedy has totally changed. Had any friend of mine experienced such a life-altering tragedy over a week ago, I do not doubt that my support would sound a lot like the kind I’ve received since the February 17th ordeal. Reminders to be grateful for life, relief that I carried renter’s insurance, in some instances, even excitement. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” my dad made sure to remind me, even suggesting that God used the tragedy to reunite my estranged sister and me. I mean, I get it. It’s uncomfortable and awkward, comforting people in the thick of their pain when you don’t have a magic wand to wave. What do you say when you don’t know what to say? Or do you say anything at all?
Unintentionally, what we often mean for consolation can come off like dismissal, disregard even. That’s because it is. I’m glad no one has to arrange or attend my funeral, and I too am grateful for life; however, life is bigger than the breath in our bodies, albeit essential. Life is about baby shoes in a Reebok shoebox, the scent of Sunday mornings, school night routines, and laughter bouncing around bathroom walls at bath time. Life is about achievement, accomplishment, growth tracked in pencil, and pictures pinned to the refrigerator held by balloon magnets. Life is about an adulthood you create all on your own, packed with meanings and memories and memorabilia gathered along the way; life is just as much about what life looks like as it is the fact that we’re still living it. And it’s the convenient reduction of life to primitive essentialism by someone currently sitting in their material comforts that feels unfair and insincere.
I didn’t lose my home. There’s no need to hang lost and found flyers around town; I know exactly where everything is. That’s the hard part. Our possessions sit in a pile of pillage and the other fire survivors’, scorched, charred, in an unchangeable, irreversible state. And if there’s any way to describe the feeling of devastation that final, that word would be bleak.
Don’t get me started on the word “strength.” You’d think after 35 years in a Black woman’s body; you would eventually grow numb to the demand of mandatory dexterity. But in this instance, it feels excruciating. I have no doubt that anyone means well when they say, “Arah, you are so strong! You’ll get it all back and then some”. My job is to smile and nod, to soothe them while they unintentionally scorch me with insensitivity, thank them for affirming what I already know about myself; I’m an expert at adversity. But fortitude doesn’t feel so profound when you’ve been forced into it. I do not feel tenacious today. I feel defeated and affected. And the issue is not that that’s how I’m feeling at 4 AM with a face flushed from night terrors; the real tragedy is that there’s no room for those feelings to be felt out loud and without apology. In my own way, this is how I choose to own my road to recovery, as unsightly as it may seem to others. I am not strong today, and I don’t intend to be.
However, I have a theory as to why we offer people a firm push when what they need is a safe space to pause; because subconsciously, our “words of encouragement” are often intended to alleviate our own uneasiness. It’s what makes us tell someone who’s just lost a loved one that they should be thankful they had as much time as they did. It’s what makes us look at a woman who’s suffered from a miscarriage and suggest that she simply conceive another in the child’s place, that she should be grateful for the children she already has become “some women can’t have any.” These words might balance out the bad in our minds; however, in reality, it harms far more than it helps. It silences, it dismisses, it invalidates.
So how do you support a friend who’s been the victim of a fire? What is there to say to someone in a state of shock, frozen while life continues plowing forward around them? Sometimes, you say nothing, and yes, support can be silent. Just listen if the friend needs to talk, cry, scream, etc. Don’t tell your friend to be thankful. Don’t offer them the reminder that things can be replaced while life cannot. Believe me, if they didn’t know that already, everyone has made it their mission to remind them, and the timing couldn’t get any worse. The search for a silver lining in all of this is a vocation for the victim, not you. And if you feel compelled to speak, use your words to affirm, not to minimize. And if the right words feel impossible to find, consider the following questions:
How can I support you today?
What feels overwhelming?
What’s on your mind?
Would you like to talk about what happened?
Ask how you can help, not what your friend needs. The distinction is slight but significant in instances of massive loss. The recovery list is extensive and exhausting, and sometimes the question alone can trigger feelings of hopelessness and fatigue. Should you find your friend is struggling to answer questions at the moment, offer to assist with meals, paperwork, childcare, replacing essentials, or simply offer up companionship. Your friend still has life, but their way of life is instantly obsolete. And while insurance can help to replace goods, normal is no more in the moment. Oxygen and a steady pulse don’t make up for that pain.
Finally, understand that fire recovery is a lengthy process; experts estimate upwards of two years at the very least, whether an individual is insured or otherwise. There’s navigating the paperwork process, replacing government-issued documents (which is almost impossible when you’ve lost them all), and creating a new normal for confused children. Your friend will likely need the support for quite a while, and how that support looks may change shape over time.
Religious reminders can wait. Quotes about fire and phoenix symbolisms can, too. Your friend is alive, but they’re not alright. Beyond the facts of the fire, this kind of devastation comes with a big can of complicated grief, feelings of sadness and emptiness, anger and an inability to concentrate, social withdrawal, a total lack of motivation, depression, etc. And everyone copes with grief in their own way; some might seek support, others may isolate; no matter the method, these reactions often linger so long as the survivor seeks a new sense of security. And the emotional toll of this process is torrential. It is exhausting to think about what is to come for my tiny family of two. And supporting someone in my predicament who is coping with extensive mental anguish can be equally taxing. If you have the capacity to be a friend to your friend after they’ve suffered a home fire, your kindness and compassion are both worth their weight in gold.
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