Life After the Fire

Finding happiness

2011-11-17T14:13:00.000-08:00

For the first time in over THREE YEARS, I think I can finally say that I am enjoying my life.

It's been a long time coming.

I can't say that I don't have bouts of depression still or that I'm not still scared that my house is going to burn down again or that I'm going to get sick again or that something will show up tomorrow at my proverbial life doorstep to derail me again, but for right now, in this moment, I am happy. And I am happy about my life.

I look at the last decade, and I am amazed that I made it through. I am often saddened by the events that have unfolded, even in the midst of incredible life events like my wedding and the birth of my son. It wasn't supposed to happen like that. But it did. And yet, I am okay. I didn't always get out of bed. I didn't always make the choice to be happy because that happiness would have been inauthentic. But I lived.

I think a lot of my renewed contentedness comes from the business. I am happy working. I am finally at a place where I can get out of my head all day and converse with others. I may not always be able to relate, but just being able to be a part of my community again has made a huge difference.

I can survive. I may not always want to. But I can. And more than that, I can be happy again. And that is something to be incredibly grateful for this Thanksgiving season.

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For more about what I'm thankful for this month, find me on Facebook.

Family emergency plan

2011-11-02T10:08:00.000-07:00

November 9 is the test of the national emergency broadcast system. In preparation of that event, there have been calls to create an emergency plan for your family. I highly encourage you to pause for a few minutes over the next week or two and think about, discuss, and create a plan for your family. The likelihood of needing that plan is small; however, I have known several people in the last year who have encountered natural disasters, and someone has to be the 1%. You never know when that moment will happen, if it does, and being prepared NOW is critical to ensuring that you and your family stay as safe as possible should a natural or man-made disaster occur.

1. I know I've discussed it before, but I don't think I can say it often enough: HAVE A PLAN. Have a plan, have a plan, have a plan. Discuss where you would meet if you got separated. It's not enough, honestly, to have a spot by a tree across the road. While our fire was very, very unique in intensity, you don't know what the situation is going to be that you are presented with. There is no where in our neighborhood that was safe to meet because the evacuation order quickly spread several blocks. And there is only so long you can sit in a car wondering if your husband is alive before you need to get yourself out of danger. It would have been a bit easier in those moments had we discussed where to meet, away from our neighborhood. I can see this being especially important if you have older kids who might be at a sports practice or school or with friends. There needs to be a plan in the event that your cell phones DO NOT WORK (the horror!). I think it's prudent to discuss a few options. A) The tree across the street in ___ yard. B) The gas station down the road. C) ____'s house, a few miles away.

2. Protect your important documents. Again, we were in a unique situation with the fire, but our neighbors' fire safes were destroyed in the fire. And unfortunately you don't get warning about what's going to happen to you, so having your documents out of the house is advised. If it was a tornado or a flash flood, you also might not have time to get the things you need in time (and I know of too many people who spent a few too many minutes in their homes trying to locate their important documents before evacuating. Those moments are stressful enough without worrying about papers.) I have most documents in a safety deposit box. But I've also started giving them to my mom as well in the event we needed them. Our wills, insurance information, birth certificates, etc. Put them in a manila envelope with your name on them and ask a family member to file away.

3. Inventory your house. I am such a hypocrite on this because I still haven't done what I said I was going to, but I have thought about it at least! Even if you don't create an entire list of everything you own, take pictures and store online. Take a picture of each room, open drawers, document your clothes/shoes/jewelry. And please please take pictures of your garage and attic. It was far easier to recall the items I passed every day. It was not so easy (read: impossible) to figure out what was in the boxes in the garage. Insurance cannot compensate you for things you don't remember you had.

4. Review your insurance policy. If you live near a river or canal, consider flood insurance. Look at possible exclusions. Know your policy limits and ask your agent about reappraising your house if it's been a while and you believe your house has gone up in value (probably not as important today as in 2007). If you have jewelry exclusions or art, consider itemizing those items on your policy. Read. Ask questions. You don't want to find out in the days after a major trauma that what you thought was covered isn't.

I know there are a lot of readers who've lived through a fire. I'd love to hear additional suggestions as well as hearing what you, as a family, have done to prepare for the What if.

It's a...

2011-10-28T17:48:00.000-07:00

We had our anatomy scan yesterday. The baby looks good but was a bit uncooperative. We were able to find out what we're having. And here is your clue:

The dragon in the middle is Kellen, who makes a pretty cute dragon if I do say so myself. Also, pipe cleaner fire is far safer and funnier than the real thing!

Depression

2011-10-24T11:32:00.000-07:00

I've written a lot about mental health issues in this space, mostly related to PTSD. But I've rarely mentioned depression, in a way I think because it's a tough issue to talk about. After the fire, I wasn't really depressed. I was overwhelmed. I cried. But I still was able to look at the world and see goodness.

A few days after the Bell's Palsy, when the doctor called with an abnormal test result, that's the first day I took antidepressants ever. Honestly it wasn't even depression. It was life, and I was so overwhelmed by the amount of really, really shitty things happening that I wanted a pill to take those events away. They couldn't. And as it turned out, I have a really bad reaction to the medication they prescribed.

Depression and anxiety seem to be associated with Lyme, and I definitely had my fair share (in addition to the anxiety caused by the fire, which was its own beast!). There were many days I couldn't get off the floor (where I was trying to play with my son) and was worried about my ability to get through this illness, through the pain of the events that have bludgeoned my spirit (not to be hyperbolic). As we treated Lyme, the depression seemed to subside, and I was able to see the sun again. I still might not have been able to see the world in the same optimistic light as before the fire and the Lyme, but at least I could enjoy what was immediately present in my life. I also stopped expecting bad things to happen.

Until now.

I don't know if it's pregnancy related or the fact that some of my neurologic issues are returning mid-way through this pregnancy, but I feel like the darkness has found me again. It's hard to conceptualize depression; it's more than just a black cloud that follows you around. Depression is a weight that settles into your heart and makes every thought, every action feel like the very last bicep curl after a long workout. Depression drains you of energy and sucks joy out of even the most supposedly joyful moments. And worse, depression makes you a narcissist, assuming that all actions and reactions are a result of something you've done. All rationality disappears, and you are left with hurt, pain that only you can resolve and yet you are in a place where you are unable to care for even the most basic of needs, much less find your way through a dark and lonely tunnel.

I have 20 weeks left of this pregnancy. While I wish I was one of those women who loved every minute of being pregnant, I do not. I am sick. And I am sick of being sick. Most of the symptom flares I am unable to treat because the medications are not safe for my child. I have twenty weeks until I can take the medicine I need, twenty weeks for my disease to once again get out of control, twenty weeks to start the arduous climb back toward health. I want to look forward to holding my child for the first time, for those first moments of recognition. Instead, I look forward to swallowing a blue pill, one that I hope will stabilize my health.

Sadly, I don't even know if this frustration is the cause or the result of depression. Regardless, I am struggling to feel like there is happiness again in my future. I am tired of the battle. I am tired of feeling like the person life shits on when there is too much joy. I'm tired of being the person who everyone has come to expect will be negative or lack enthusiasm. Certainly there are worse life circumstances. I know this. But I still feel like I've lost some sort of life lottery. And I'm just tired.

Five year plans

2011-10-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

Dan and I celebrated our five year wedding anniversary on Friday. I've written before about how difficult the last five years have been for us (Sometimes I Do really does mean "for worse") and how I never could have predicted the events that would follow our wedding. It's been a trial for sure.

At dinner, Dan and I talked about the past and tried to talk about the future. As someone who used to live for my Five Year Plan, this seemed like an appropriate time to pull out a pen and paper and start making a list about all the things I'm going to accomplish between now and 2016. Instead, we looked at each other and sighed. There would be no five year plan. There likely won't ever be another five year plan. The old ones burned up in the fire... as did our ability to believe that we could even pretend to make a list about where we see ourselves five years from now.

I don't think this is uncommon for fire survivors. In a way we are lucky to have so many people around us who understand. My neighbors and I have discussed this very subject, and it seems to me that most of us have this block. Life changed so dramatically in a matter of minutes, and, even if it's irrational, there is this belief that emerges that it could change again that quickly. No amount of planning can prepare you for that moment, and I wonder if having a firm idea in your head of where your life is supposed to be makes the event, the dramatic change, more difficult to absorb. Not only have did we lose a house, our stuff, we lost our direction.

This isn't to say I don't have some goals or we don't talk about possibilities in the future. I just am not nearly as committed to those ideas as I was in the past. It's freeing, in a way, not always having to look forward and instead just being where you are. Even so, it's still an adjustment, especially for someone who used to believe that life could all be worked out, plotted on a graph in a neat little line. I guess that only really works if you are graphing with hindsight, plotting your steps as they happen, not as you wish them to be.

Happy Third Birthday Kellen!

2011-09-27T09:28:00.000-07:00

Three years ago (yesterday), I woke up in a strange house in a foreign neighborhood with a lot of baby stuff invading this unfamiliar space. Within a few hours I was pretty certain that our son's arrival into the world was imminent. Later that night, I circled the block trying to encourage my contractions, reflecting on how different the experience was than the expectations I created, how the houses I were walking by were not the ones I had pictured most of my pregnancy, how we wouldn't be bringing our child home to our house for months, and even then, it still was a different house, a different me.

It's amazing to me that three years have passed.

Kellen is no longer a baby.

He can spell his name, knows the alphabet, has a sense of humor. He has preferences (and makes them well known!). He has a personality and likes rules. He plays games and loves trucks and trains. He is his own person.

That's what I think the biggest change is about this age, the realization that our children are individuals, that while there still is attachment, they are no longer extensions of us in the same way they are when they are fully dependent upon us. Kellen goes to school, has friends, does work, expresses himself, all without me present. He has a life outside of me, a life that I can only know if he chooses to share it (and so far most of what he shares is the fact that he cried in his class that day, usually because I left). There is still some amount of knowing from being able to talk with other adults in his life, but it is still up to Kellen to share his own experiences. And this reliance on his telling of his life will happen from now on (and will hopefully be able to withhold from interjecting my own version of his experience on him). While the things I want for my son still matter (to me), he has choices and will exert his independence in ways that could change the course of his life.

I think this is a hard shift for a mother, especially when your children are still so young. We want to believe that we have more control over our kids' choices. But watching Kellen develop into his own person, his own strong-willed person, has made me realize that there is a process of letting go that happens far sooner than eighteen. And I hope I can be the kind of parent who can step back and support my son's (healthy) choices as he gets older, each year releasing a little more control.

Happy Birthday Kellen! May you have a year full of smiles and laughs and continue to grow and learn and become.

Nursery, version 2 (sort of)

2011-09-20T09:42:00.000-07:00

I knew this pregnancy thing was going to be hard for me emotionally.

I don't think it's uncommon to compare one pregnancy to another. And for me, one pregnancy was mostly before the fire and the other is after. We've been trying to move things around the house to clean out the nursery for this baby. And all I can think of is cleaning out the room that was supposed to be Kellen's.

The room before it was the nursery (or was supposed to be the nursery) was, for lack of a better description, our junk room. At one point it was an office.

On a side note, it's really strange to look at some of the contents on the floor as "Oh yeah, I forgot about that" thoughts reverberate through my mind. And Dan's electric guitar is in the left corner. The bench it is sitting on opened up for storage, and it's only because we put his guitars IN there that they "survived" the fire.

After hours and hours of work, the room was finally clean. A few weeks later we moved all the books out of the bookcase.

And over the course of the summer, we ended up with this:

More pictures and the scope of the loss from our old nursery can be found on this post I wrote the week after the fire.

And here I am again, faced with the challenge of cleaning our the nursery, converting it from Kellen's toy storage (his "playroom") back into a room for a child to sleep. I'd be lying if I said there aren't still fears that we won't get to bring this child to our home either, a fear that I know is totally unfounded but still resides in my heart. And if we lost this home, why do all the work to prepare the room if won't exist anyway? I push those thoughts away and try to focus on the excitement of the new baby. I'm sure some of it is just the fact that it's our second child, but I do feel that the fire has also robbed me of the opportunity to enjoy this process because of the fear that it could all be taken away within minutes.

We moved Kellen's toys, got out the baby swing (and put a Cabbage Patch doll from my childhood in it for Kellen to kiss good-night), moved the glider back into the room, and put the crib pieces along the wall to be set up once we know whether we're having a boy or a girl and get the room painted.

I wish I could view the fire as a neutral event, something that happened with no lasting effect on my life. But that just isn't the way it is. And the nursery is just one more reminder of the life that I worked so hard to create. And the life that was so quickly turned to ash.

Update on 30 by 30

2011-09-10T14:42:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe I'll be 30 in less than 10 months. I've thought a bit about my 30 by 30 list and thought it would be better for me to reflect on the list throughout the year, instead of looking back in a year and thinking about how I didn't do what I wanted to.

1.Launch the Life After the Fire site - we are SO so close.

2. File 501(c)(3) paperwork for Life After the Fire so that we can fundraise to assist other families in rebuilding their hearts and homes after a fire. The paperwork is crazy, just in case you were wondering! - I finally have read through the IRS paperwork and am just waiting on a response from my attorney.

3. Submit 3 essays to anthologies or newspapers. Even if they aren't published, it's important to keep submitting. I haven't even worked on any... will put on my list.

4. Finish my shadow box with things left from the fire (there's not much) and hang it in my living room. I've talked about this. I need to finish the photo collage for the background and then I can start actually working on it.

5. ~~Finish painting Kellen's bookcase- I started it over a year ago.~~ DONE

6. ~~Launch our business website~~. DONE. You can check it out at Boise Web Design - Digavise

7. Secure 15 clients by the end of the year. Working on it.

8. Remember to not overdo it and to continue to rest as needed. Trying.

9. Take Vitamin D everyday; my levels are a bit low. Mostly compliant.

10. ~~Attend 2 business related conferences... and make friends while I'm there.~~ DONE, though I don't think we really made "friends" at Mozcon.

11. Remember when I said I was going to try to send out cards, actual physical cards, every week? Well, I didn't even send one. I really want to revisit this and send more cards. Let's set a goal of 12 this year that are "Just Because." I pulled out my card pile, and I've written the cards in my head. I just need to write them out and send!

12. ~~Actually get the photos for HGTV taken. This has been a nightmare.~~ DONE. I'll let you know when the article is out.

13. Try to be kinder about criticism while still honoring my need to be direct. I'm trying.

14. Spend more time in my real life and not in the virtual one. It's hard to do when you work online, but it's important. Also working on it.

15. Cook more meals. Nope. I am really struggling with this because of the pregnancy.

16. Create a blogging schedule for this blog and Mommy in Chief... and STICK TO IT! Not really, but I am almost ready to relaunch my mom blog, so that's exciting.

17. Read more books. Why is this one so hard? I love books.

18. Channel my son's smile in the midst of his tantrums (this will be the hardest to achieve by far). Not successful so far.

19. Read and comment on more blogs. Trying.

20. Learn to cross-country ski. Will have to move this to next year when I won't be 7 months pregnant!

21. ~~Make a decision about completing our family.~~ I'm not so sure it counts as a "decision" but regardless, the decision has been made.

22. Finish Kellen's second year in his scrapbook. I'm almost done with the first year, so that's progress!

23. Continue cleaning out the house of things that we no longer need. I've been purging! After next year, we'll really be able to clear some things out.

24. Celebrate how far we've come since the fire. I feel like I've been better about this.

25. Tell my friends and family (more often) how much they mean to me. I probably still need to work on this.

26. Try to find the beauty in each day, even when I don't feel like it. Especially when I don't feel like it. Ummm...

27. Accept the limitations of my health... and be ok with the frustrations that come with that acceptance. Being pregnant has thankfully helped in this department. I have trouble accepting the nausea though!

28. Go camping once with my family without stressing out about the open flame. Will have to be moved to next year. I didn't want to go camping pregnant and sick.

29. Allow myself to just be. Trying.

30. Journal more... just for myself. Is this really one of my goals... darnit!

Lyme disease and pregnancy

2011-09-07T13:16:00.000-07:00

* Disclaimer - This is not medical advice or a medically-based post, simply my experience.

Before I got pregnant, I was doing ok. I'd probably say I was at about 80-90% most days. I occasionally had some fatigue. My nerves sometimes freaked out and started acting like I was hooked up to a low voltage machine pulsating electric current through my fingers and sometimes my legs. I still often felt like I was sitting on top of a washing machine, my insides vibrating to the point it often made it hard to sit still. And the dizziness was better, though I still had days where I was really dizzy, in particular if it had been a long day. I had been on the heavy metal chelation protocol, and even though it helped tremendously sometimes I was a little lazy about my meds. Honestly after two years of daily meds, I was just tired of popping pills, even if they made me feel better.

Getting pregnant was not exactly our plan this summer. While I definitely was talking about babies (baby fever and on my 30 before 30 list), we were looking more at next winter, not right now. You'll also remember that I was afraid to get pregnant myself because we weren't sure how my body was going to handle the pregnancy. I would be lying if I didn't say that it scared me (and still scares me) that my Bell's Palsy could come back. And even if I wasn't any worse pregnant, I certainly knew that pregnancy itself has a tendency to kind of make you feel, at least for twelve weeks or so, that you've been mauled by a bear and yet are expected to feel so, so blessed when all you want to do is throw up on the shoes of the people who are talking about what a wonderful blessing this kid is. I have been sick for long enough, and the thought of nine more months made me cautious about pregnancy, even if I truly did want another child.

I joked with my Lyme doc that since I couldn't make up my mind about how to complete our family I just threw my hands up and let the universe decide for me, which is ridiculous because I understand biology, and well it's far less complicated than whatever the divine plan is will happen.

And as it turns out, my fears about my Lyme symptoms so far have been mostly unfounded. According to my doc, most women tend to have a reduction of symptoms when they are pregnant (and my totally unscientific theory about this is that chronic lyme can turn into an autoimmune issue and for me, I'm almost certain it's more autoimmune than active infection). But I was still nervous. I know where I tend to fall in the odds category, and it doesn't often seem to be with the majority.

I stopped my chelation meds once I found out I was pregnant. The last thing I needed to do was load a tiny fetus up with some mercury and lead! I was worried that my dizziness would return, but I've actually had far fewer days where I feel chronically dizzy. I still have episodes, but after three (THREE!) years of nearly round the clock spinning, I will take mere episodes.

I have also had some neuropathy, especially at night in my hands, but I had that with Kellen and is likely more related to the pregnancy than the lyme. B6 seemed to temporarily help that, but it does appear it's back, and I have returned to the oh-so-chic wearing of wrist guards at night. They really freak Kellen out.

Honestly, the hardest thing for me so far has been the nausea. With Kellen I got sick, but then I felt immediately better. With this bundle of joy (;-)) I feel sick from the moment I get up to the moment I go to bed, and even if I'm hungry, food makes me feel worse. I finally got some meds for the nausea yesterday and have finally been able to eat, even though the meds give me a headache, so I'm also taking Tylenol.

Speaking of meds, I'm also taking a mild antibiotic in the event that I still have the Lyme bacteria. One of the pitfalls of the current state of Lyme disease is that there is no way to ever be sure that the bacteria has been fully eradicated. And it's just not a chance we're willing to take. So much for being tired of taking pills!

Overall, I honestly feel better than I have in a while, other than the not being able to eat or drink thing. Even with the pregnancy fatigue, I still feel like I'm able to do more than I have in a while, and I'm hoping that a second trimester energy boost will help even more.

It's hard to predict how I'll feel the next six months and if the Lyme symptoms will stay at bay. But for now, I feel really lucky, and I'm glad that we were forced into this situation, that I didn't have to make a choice about our family in terms of being finished or surrogacy or taking this risk. More than that, I'm glad that I haven't felt worse than before, which would have made me feel guilty about this pregnancy. I'm hoping that I am just as lucky post-partum.

Lessons from the past three years

2011-08-25T10:00:00.000-07:00

I've thought a lot about what I wanted to say today, feeling that I often repeat myself in my posts, even when that recycled emotion or thought feels brand new. I went back to my posts from the first and second anniversary and watched the fire/rebuild video. I don't know if I could express my feelings about this day any better than I did last year. So instead I wanted to share some life lessons I've learned over the past three years, both in recovering from the loss and trauma of the fire and in dealing with an unexpected chronic illness.

1. Sometimes life sucks.

2. We live in a culture that expects us to always find the silver lining. This has been interesting for me to observe, now that I'm not so irritated by uninformed responses (like "it's just stuff"). When bad things happen, it seems like the world around us expects us to stand up, dust ourselves off and talk about all the "blessings" that came out of said bad experience without giving us the space to grieve. I believe this is unhealthy, and I encourage people to give others the space to explore their difficult emotions rather than just expressing some platitude that ultimately hurts more than helps.

3. Sometimes there is no silver lining, merely experience. Sometimes life just sucks. We don't have to find good in every situation. That doesn't make us pessimistic, merely products of experience.

4. Good luck trying to convince others of that.

5. It's ok to NOT "get over" a traumatic experience. It's a part of your story, and the idea that we can forget and move on is a false belief. I carry the fire, the Bell's Palsy, the Lyme with me. It informs so much of my life, day to day, for better or worse. I don't expect to wake up one day and suddenly have that stuff not matter. In some cases, the anxiety has eased up, which I find comforting. But the reality is that I lost my home in a fire, and fearing that happening again is not irrational because I know that it *can* happen. I try not to be consumed by it, but I don't believe I'll ever "get over it."

6. Respect your boundaries.

7. Or set them. I didn't recognize boundaries all that much before the fire. I wanted to be in control, and I thought I could do everything for everyone and make them better people. But with the fire and being very sick I was unable to do for anyone, much less myself. I realized though that respecting boundaries, setting boundaries, allowed everyone more freedom to be successful. It has certainly upset a few relationships in the short-term, but it improves them in the long-run.

8. Own your thoughts and emotions. And don't apologize for them. Those who have not been through a similar experience have a hard time relating, and as I stated above, they think that encouraging you to look for the positive they are helping. It's ok to say, "I'm sad, and that's ok."

9. Share your story, even if it makes others uncomfortable. There are several people in my family who are uncomfortable with how open I've been about my experience. Too bad. This is my story, and by sharing it I have opened myself up to a community, given voice to those who are yet unable to share. And that's important to me.

10. Believe that others are listening, even if it seems like you are surrounded in silence. I didn't start this blog for anyone but myself and to keep my family and friends informed. But in sharing my story, I've found that I am not alone. And that shared experience helps carry me through, especially on days like today, when I remember what we lost and how much my life has changed in the last three years.

The other side of tragedy

2011-08-24T17:40:00.000-07:00

We learned yesterday that someone we know tragically (and violently) lost their young adult daughter. I am truly heartbroken for this family, a family who helped me in my hour of need. In fact, it is the brother of this young woman who is responsible for my happening on Kellen's name. I did not know Katy personally, but I knew her brother, mother, and father, and they are all incredibly kind people, and I can only imagine that their daughter was just as beautiful and talented and generous.

It's true that bad stuff happens everyday. Sadly, murders happen everyday. But there's only been one other time in my life where it has affected someone I know. I've spent the last 24 hours incredibly sad. As a mother I cannot even imagine losing my child. And as a self-proclaimed helper, I want desperately to be able to do something to undo this tragic event. I can't.

I've been reflecting on being on this side of tragedy, being the person who knows the person but not knowing how to help. I can send a card and an email, but that's most definitely not enough. I could send flowers, but even that seems like so little given the scope of the tragedy. I know rationally that nothing I can do can take away the pain, even though I wish so much that I could.

I know that our fire and this are absolutely different situations, but I do remember being asked what people could do to help and not knowing what to say. That is where I am today, wanting to know what I can do. And yet when you are in the midst of dealing with such a horrible situation, you have no idea how to tell people how to help. All you want to do is cry in the midst of having to do all the things that have to be done that day. But sitting here on my couch, I feel totally helpless, and I hate that.

What can I do to help this family, to reach out, to let them know today, six months from now, on the three year anniversary that I'm thinking of them?

The week that changed everything

2011-08-22T12:04:00.000-07:00

That Monday was so full of promise.

Young children lined up at their classroom doors, anxious to meet their new teachers and classmates, eager to find out if what they had heard over the summer was true. There was an energy in the school that is only outdone on the last day of the year when the kids are like an over-tired two year old who finds a burst of adrenaline at ten p.m.

I spent that Monday running around the school, lining up assessment tests, working on the parent newsletter, working on maternity plans for the first of October. I spent so much time on my feet that I scheduled a prenatal massage that afternoon to relieve the pressure on my back.

Even with the excitement of it being the start of a new school year, it was still just a day, a day just like those preceding it.

And then everything changed. The days that followed were no longer just days, they were a part of "after."

Today is the first day of school for Dan (public schools start Wednesday this year). The three year anniversary of the fire is Thursday, but this Monday will always be a part of my memory. The first day of school will always remind me of the day that seemed to contain so much energy and excitement and, that when it was over, had changed my life forever.

I could break down the next week in slow motion, hour by hour, remembering so many minute details, memories that wouldn't matter except for the fact they are tied forever to that day. Memory is funny that way.

I can't believe it's been three years. There are days when it seems like it could have been last month. And there are other days when the fire feels like it was decades ago even though my emotions are often stuck in that moment.

It's amazing how much changed in that week, has continued to change in the last three years, change that only happened because at 7 p.m. on August 25, 2008, my home burned down.

Parallels of time

2011-08-17T09:04:00.000-07:00

Next Thursday is the three year anniversary of the fire. Three years, how is that even possible?

What's even more bizarre is that this month marks the point in time where we will have lived in our new house longer than our old one. We moved into our home in March 2006 and lost it August 2008. We moved back in February 2009. It's now August 2011. It doesn't feel at all like we've been home as long as we were in our new house.

My theory is that the other house will always be with us. I call it the ghost house. When I'm talking about it, I still point to exact locations as though whatever I'm talking about should still be in that same spot, and it is, in my mind. We've lived on Sweetwater Drive for over five years, and it's impossible to separate the two homes, even as we become more comfortable in our new house.

In a way I feel like I am finally back to the place we were when the fire happened. It was the third year for many of our plants, and this is the third year as well. I'm irrationally excited about next summer to see what happens once we get beyond that three year threshold.

Three years also feels like the appropriate amount of time to finally feel settled. You start to feel like you know a space, know its quirks, let go of some of the things you thought you'd fix but never got around to doing.

I am feeling at home in my house, if only the wildfires would stop for the summer. It's been a really bad season in the lower elevations (from my perspective), and I am ready to stop seeing smoke every time I step out my front door. Those are the moments I regret our decision to move back home.

The pink shirt

2011-08-10T09:13:00.000-07:00

I bought the pink shirt sometime in the spring of 2008. I remember one of my students commenting on how nice it was (and receiving a compliment in a classroom full of social/emotional/behavioral disorders was a far less frequent event than being cussed out and having a chair flung at you). That student said it was the style now, which is actually even more amusing, partly because it was a maternity shirt. None of my students knew I was expecting (for good reason).

The pink shirt at my baby shower before the fire

The v-neck shirt is a rich, bright pink that brightens my entire skin tone. There is a wide band that sits right under the bust line, tying in the back like many of the older style maternity shirts. It then flows out a bit at the bottom. It was my favorite maternity shirt, which is probably why I was wearing it that first day of school, August 25.

I didn't know it would be the only shirt I owned that day that I would ever wear again.

That night, the pink shirt absorbed the smell of smoke, carrying it with me even after we escaped the imminent danger of the fire. It was only because of some intense Arm and Hammer detergent and the diligence of my very good friend that the shirt was ever wearable again, honestly.

And I did wear it again.

I wore it frequently in those weeks after the fire because it was the only shirt I actually owned. Because I was due so soon after the fire, I mostly borrowed maternity clothes. It seemed silly to buy a wardrobe that would last for a month. Some clothes were donated, but they still didn't feel like mine. The pink shirt was it.

And shortly after Kellen's birth, it was packed away, folded neatly into a Rubbermaid container and stored in the garage, first at the rental and then more permanently at home.

I've looked at it a few times in the last three years, usually when I was sorting through baby things to figure out what to donate. It would not be given away, probably ever, even if a moth destroyed it. The pink shirt was one of only a handful of things (STUFF) that tied me to me life before.

When we found out we were expecting again, I pulled out the maternity clothes box and stared at the shirt. Would I ever be able to put this shirt on again? And even if I did, would I get through the day without the constant reminder of that night?

The answers? I have worn the shirt. I hesitated the first time I put it over my head. But I wore it. (And ironically enough had lunch with that same very good friend who told me she was surprised I kept the shirt.) But even though I've become a little more desensitized to the immediate emotional toll the shirt takes on me, I still do think about that night every time I hold it in my hand, every time I hang it up in the closet, every time I pull it over my head. It's as though the shirt asks, "What would life had been like if August 25 hadn't happened?"

10 things you should know before BlogHer

2011-08-03T09:21:00.000-07:00

1. I prioritize my day as follows: Sleep, food, friends, beauty.

2. As such, you should expect that I will always pick sleeping before staying out until 1 a.m. to socialize/network.

3. I wear ponytails a lot. This is usually because I slept in and ate. I have a lot of hair, and it takes time to straighten. I look a lot better with my hair down (if it's straight, not if it's banshee hair), but if it's a choice between sleep and straight hair, I will always pick sleep.

4. I am pregnant. I've gained 15 pounds in 3 weeks. I look very puffy because of the water retention. I'm not wearing a wedding ring. This is no reason to suggest to Bob Harper that I need to audition for The Biggest Loser.

5. I don't look seven weeks pregnant. I look 20 (at least). I have no clothes. I might wear jeans the entire conference; after parties be damned.

6. I don't wear shoes that hurt my feet. But I do have a pretty damn cute pair of pink Born laceups.

7. I will likely balk at pictures taken of me. Don't be offended. I just feel like a giant marshmallow.

8. I might actually look like a giant marshmallow.

9. You will probably hear about the fire. It's my main blog. I'm sorry if you have to hear the story ten times.

10. I'm pretty sure I'm have absolutely no clue what the hell I'm doing.

The family that lost their home in the fire

2011-08-02T13:10:00.000-07:00

Yep, I'm that family. I'm "the woman who lost her home in the fire. The big fire."

I remember so clearly walking through stores in those first few weeks and watching as a few people whispered into their friends' ears, looking at us. You might think this is an exaggeration. It is not. I remember buying a new comforter for my bed with a gift card at Macy's and the woman seeing my ID and whispering to us how sorry she was. We were "that family."

It's been a while since I've been referred to that way. The fire has been (mostly) forgotten. We no longer walk along the aisles trying to restock our house, avoiding those who want us to tell our story to them.

And then I got pregnant. I hope that I can convey over the next few months how much this pregnancy has brought me emotionally right back to the fire. The things I didn't have to deal with because I was hurriedly trying to prepare for my son's birth are now sitting like a willful two year old right in the middle of my heart.

Many of the care providers who helped ensure my son's safe arrival haven't seen us in three years, haven't seen us since the trauma was still smoldering. And we're still "that family." They want to know how we are doing. It's understandable, and it's cathartic to talk about the progress we've made. But it's one more reminder of the hell that became our lives in that last month of pregnancy, a hell that I hope to god does not find us once again as we await the arrival of our second child.

Secrets

2011-08-01T17:17:00.000-07:00

One thing you should know at the start is that I'm really, really bad at keeping secrets. I think it's why I'm so open and straightforward; it's too hard for me to be any other way. I also don't like having secrets kept from me so somehow think that if I just share all then maybe the openness will be reciprocated. It rarely is.

The longest secret I think I ever kept was my pregnancy with Kellen. Other than my mom and dad and a couple of people at school because of my working conditions, I think we kept it a secret from everyone else until twelve weeks when we graduated from the fertility specialist. I remember thinking then what a miracle it was that I had made it so long without talking.

I think Kellen is probably the longest secret I'll ever keep because this time I only made it seven weeks.

Yep, you got the subtext. I am pregnant, with what Kellen has affectionately called the baby whale (though who can blame him; the ultrasound does look a lot like a whale, and quite frankly I feel a lot like one right now). We saw the baby and the heartbeat today, and even though I know that miscarriages still can happen, the risk is low enough that I decided to start sharing (partly because I'm going to a conference with a bunch of bloggers this week and going to one conference without being able to talk about why you're hanging out with the toilet more than the other attendees is enough!).

If you've been reading this blog for a little while (or a long while I hope!), you know I kind of had baby fever a month ago. Because of the Lyme, we didn't know if it was a good idea to carry a baby, and we were researching surrogacy options with the hope of figuring out our plan by the end of the year. I joked with my Lyme doctor that this surprise was my way of not having to make a decision because, quite frankly, I didn't want to have to make that choice.

So here we are. I have a lot of thoughts on the pregnancy and how it's forced me to relive a lot of the fire, but I will save those for a later post. Today is just about being excited about adding to our family with Baby 2.0.

It really could happen again

2011-07-23T15:10:00.000-07:00

On Thursday night I hopped in my car with Kellen in the backseat, ready to head to a friend's house thirty minutes away. I started driving toward the interstate when off to the left side of the road I saw a plume of brown smoke. At first I dismissed the smoke as being the by-product of the computer chip manufacturing company headquartered near us. But it wasn't the white smoke that normally billows out of their offices. It was brown, brown smoke I had seen before, brown smoke that indicated something far more ominous.

Despite my insane fear of fire, I drove toward the smoke. While I am deeply afraid of fires, I am also afraid of not knowing, and if I could figure out where the fire was and where it was heading, I guess I thought I somehow would have control of this situation. Rational thought finally overtook my brain though, and I turned around before we got anywhere near the fire, though at least I had enough information to call Dan and have him check the news.

The fire burned over 2,000 acres, but thankfully the wind blew it away from our neighborhood. It was out that night.

In the last couple of weeks, there have been at least TEN small fires in the southwestern corner of Idaho, two being close enough to us to make me believe that a wildfire could happen to us again, especially with the lightening storms we've had this summer.

Some people try to reassure me with odds, somehow believing that because it's happened once it can't happen again. I'd love to believe that logic, but in reality, I know that fires are independent events. One has nothing to do with the other and having survived one makes me no less likely to lose my house than my neighbors whose home was spared the night of August 25.

I feel lucky each summer night we survive without losing our house. Every time a storm rolls through, I stay up, way past the point of utter exhaustion, just to make sure we're all safe. I stalk the local news' Twitter feeds for reports of fires, and I contribute way more than necessary to the local newspaper's ad revenue given the number of times I refresh the top news for reports of fires.

I wish I could have faith that it won't happen again. But I know in my heart it's completely possible. We could lose our house, the life we've worked so hard to rebuild, once again.

I'm afraid...

2011-07-11T13:29:00.000-07:00

I'm not exactly the bravest person I know. I once got off a roller coaster in middle school with a bunch of friends because I was convinced I was going to die. I was never a safety officer in elementary school, but I've more than made up for it in my adult life. I research safety records; I stay on top of recalls; I'm paranoid of food contamination in my kitchen. Basically, I'm neurotic.

Before the fire I was afraid of some things- like flying. I once had a panic attack flying back to Boise from Virginia Beach in mid-air, and I felt so lucky they were looking for people to give up their seats that night for the oversold flight from Chicago to Boise. They even paid for our hotel, which seemed ridiculous since I felt like they were doing ME a favor. But that was just one time, and overall, my fears were pretty well managed.

I try to let go of my fears, remind myself that the odds are in my favor that the day is going to end just as happily as it started. But really, who starts off their day thinking they are going to return to their home in flames? That was the least of my worries the morning of August 25.

I try to remember that I'm not in control, which is really hard for a person who, well, likes control (I had some examples, but I decided you would all really think I was nuts!). But the reality is that letting go only helps so much. I still have thoughts that seem to also be out of my control. What if this restaurant has tainted lettuce? What if someone comes into the mall and opens fire? What if a fire starts tonight while my husband is gone and I can't get out of my room to get my son? And if he sleeps with me, what happens if I die in my sleep?

I recognize the irrationality of my fears.

It doesn't stop me from having them.

30 before 30

2011-07-04T21:16:00.000-07:00

I meant to post this yesterday for my 29th birthday, but instead, I spent a great day with family and friends. Happy birthday to me anyway :-) I've always wanted to be 30, so really, I'm not all that disturbed by the coming year. This is my list of what I want to accomplish in the next year (which doesn't include blogging everyday because we all know how well that worked out).

1.Launch the Life After the Fire site (pretty sure this was on the list last year, but we should have it up this month).

2. File 501(c)(3) paperwork for Life After the Fire so that we can fundraise to assist other families in rebuilding their hearts and homes after a fire. The paperwork is crazy, just in case you were wondering!

3. Submit 3 essays to anthologies or newspapers. Even if they aren't published, it's important to keep submitting.

4. Finish my shadow box with things left from the fire (there's not much) and hang it in my living room.

5. Finish painting Kellen's bookcase- I started it over a year ago.

6. Launch our business website.

7. Secure 15 clients by the end of the year.

8. Remember to not overdo it and to continue to rest as needed.

9. Take Vitamin D everyday; my levels are a bit low.

10. Attend 2 business related conferences... and make friends while I'm there.

11. Remember when I said I was going to try to send out cards, actual physical cards, every week? Well, I didn't even send one. I really want to revisit this and send more cards. Let's set a goal of 12 this year that are "Just Because."

12. Actually get the photos for HGTV taken. This has been a nightmare.

13. Try to be kinder about criticism while still honoring my need to be direct.

14. Spend more time in my real life and not in the virtual one. It's hard to do when you work online, but it's important.

15. Cook more meals.

16. Create a blogging schedule for this blog and Mommy in Chief... and STICK TO IT!

17. Read more books.

18. Channel my son's smile in the midst of his tantrums (this will be the hardest to achieve by far).

19. Read and comment on more blogs.

20. Learn to cross-country ski.

21. Make a decision about completing our family.

22. Finish Kellen's second year in his scrapbook.

23. Continue cleaning out the house of things that we no longer need.

24. Celebrate how far we've come since the fire.

25. Tell my friends and family (more often) how much they mean to me.

26. Try to find the beauty in each day, even when I don't feel like it. Especially when I don't feel like it.

27. Accept the limitations of my health... and be ok with the frustrations that come with that acceptance.

28. Go camping once with my family without stressing out about the open flame.

29. Allow myself to just be.

30. Journal more... just for myself.

Firework Safety

2011-07-01T19:21:00.000-07:00

It's amazing to me that fireworks could be such a contentious issue, though I realize that most people have not lost their home in a traumatic wildfire. As was mentioned this morning on a local radio station by the fire chief, our fire (the Oregon Trail Heights fire) was not started by fireworks, but a similar scenario is not hard to envision given the right conditions. All you have to do is Google "housefire fireworks," and you'll see this isn't an overstated risk.

I do concede that many people still want to set off fireworks. So if you are inclined to do so, please be smart.

1. Don't set off fireworks in extremely dry conditions, or next to a field of dry brush. We are right next to a field of sagebrush, yet we are not classified as the foothills (where it is illegal to set off any fireworks). It is not responsible to set off fireworks anywhere near this brush. Fires have been started before, and I hate to say this, but I am certain they will be started by fireworks again.

2. Only set off LEGAL fireworks. There's a reason that certain fireworks are illegal, and it's not just to piss off the libertarians. Light a sparkler. Don't light off a mortar shell.

3. Don't let young children light the fireworks. In 2010, there were 8,600 ER visits for children due to fireworks. Sparklers burn at a temperature of up to 2,000 degrees. Please supervise older children, and do not let younger ones play with them.

4. Spray off fireworks before throwing in a trash can. There was a report locally last week of someone who lost part of their home because they put hot ashes in a trash can in their garage. If you are throwing away firework debris (which is the responsible thing to do), douse them in water first. And then put them in a trash can that's not in your garage (or house).

5. Watch a public display. Our neighbors get together at the end of the street and watch the city display. We sit around and laugh and catch up. It's safe, and the display is better than anything we could light off anyway.

Whatever you do, please stay safe this holiday weekend.

Home inventory

2011-06-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

One of the absolute worst projects after the fire was trying to create our contents list from memory of 1400 square feet plus a garage with who knows what in it. Our contents list was 50 pages of an Excel spreadsheet, and I'm pretty certain it was only 3/4 of our things.

If you want to know how hard it is to recreate your home in your mind, close your eyes right now, imagine the space, and then write down everything you think is in there, including the brand. Then take your list into that space and see how much you forgot. It's like that game where there are ten items that you have to remember, except multiplied exponentially... and done under duress.

It is unlikely that your home will burn down (or a tornado will level your house or a flood will come through taking everything downstream). But... it CAN happen, and it can happen to YOU.

Other than having a plan for your family, which is of the highest importance, creating a home inventory is probably the best thing to do before a disaster. And if you never need it, at least you know everything in your home!

I have struggled with wanting to create a new contents list because the old one was so emotionally taxing. But I know it's important, and I'm starting to work on it, one room at a time.

In doing research for some of the resources for the new website (which should be ready by August 1), I found this home inventory system. It's free. I just set up our house in it with each room and closet labeled. It even has categories of items so that you can add quickly. Honestly, I wish I could have used this right after the fire. It likely would have made the inventory list easier.

Fire Survivor blogs

2011-06-27T09:58:00.000-07:00

I'd like to create a list of fire survivor blogs for others who might need it. If you add your blog in the comments, I will add it to my list.

Life After the Fire
Burning Down the House
From Under the Piles
Fire Survivors
Shoshwrites

We are a small group, eh?

There is another blog PTSD Ministry, written by a fire chaplain that you might also find helpful.

Asking for money is hard

2011-06-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

If you are a friend of my Facebook page, you might have seen my donation request for a friend who lost her home in the Minot flood this week. (If you'd like to donate, go here.)

One of the things that talking to her made me reflect on was our culture's view on asking for help. In those first few days after the fire, we needed so much help: time, money, food. And yet, it was almost impossible for me to ask. I wanted to believe that I could do this on my own, even though I desperately wanted to reach out to others. It was ESPECIALLY hard to ask for money. It even makes me a little uncomfortable now thinking about receiving money. Thankfully, others asked for me, and we were able to get the help we needed.

I think for a lot of us, being able to stand up and say we can't do this alone or with our own resources is very difficult, in part perhaps because of our pick-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of mentality. Our culture is very individualistic, which is great in so many ways. However, we sometimes forget about the needs of others - or maybe not forget but sometimes don't look out enough to see the needs of others. I can tell you that having to do ask for help is very humbling. I was amazed by what our community, my friends' communities, strangers were willing to do for me once we were able to say we needed help.

I feel like I'm rambling. I probably am. I guess my point is that it's really hard to ask for help, even in our time of need. Today, my friend needs help. And I'm willing to ask for help for her. Their family does not have flood insurance. She has three small children. And I know that anything you can give to them will be used to help them rebuild their lives, lives that, unfortunately, will never be the same. One of the things I vowed as others helped us is that we would continue to pay it forward. It's why we're starting the non-profit. Helping Jessica is just one more way for me to continue to give (and allow others to give) in thanks for all of those who gave to us.

National Pink Day

2011-06-23T12:31:00.000-07:00

How did I not know today was National Pink Day?

I love pink, so much so that I think my mom was worried when I registered for wedding gifts my house would become its own Mary Kay lady hell. (To be clear, light pink has never been my thing. The bolder, the pinker, the better.)

I try to keep my pink love in check. The walls of our house are beige; the kitchen plates are dark purple; the living room walls are olive green. But my office? Pink! I learned quickly that if you want a pink rug as an adult, you have to shop at Pottery Barn kids. And buy junior size scissors.

From my couch, I can see my pink Franklin Covey purse, Pink Garden Tool Bag, and Pink KitchenAid Mixer. I have a pink laptop bag, and my new favorite shoes are my Born laceups. I have at least five pink shirts for every season. And quite frankly I would have a bright pink car if I didn't think it would make the road a little less safe.

I love pink so much that my son has also declared his love for the color, to the point that I'm starting to think that even if I don't have a daughter, I could still get the pink room I have lusted after for the past decade.

I love pink. And now I love it even more because it has its very own day.

I want a redo

2011-06-21T09:50:00.000-07:00

My step-sister gave birth to her son early yesterday morning. I got to hold the tiny little boy last night. It's not helping the baby fever!

I'm pretty certain that nearly everyone I went to high school or college with is either pregnant or just had a baby. I am surrounded by babies.

As I wrote about earlier, we are having a hard time determining how to complete our family because of my health issues. I've thought a lot about this, and I think one of the reasons I want to be pregnant is that I just want a ReDo. I know that probably sounds insane. I was pregnant; I had a beautiful son.

But I also had a horrible, traumatic experience in the midst of it. I didn't get to prepare the nursery and bring my son home. All the work we did, all the excitement we had was gone. I read about all my friends' pregnancies, and, quite frankly, I'm jealous. (And selfishly, I wish just one would reach out and say that they thought of me in those last weeks and, even if they couldn't understand, at least thought about how hard it might have been to lose everything.) I want a pregnancy redo.

I want to decorate the nursery. I want to bring my child home to OUR house. I want to sit around enjoying my child instead of running around town meeting with contractors. I want to be able to smile at our infant when he smiles at us instead of worrying about whether I'll ever smile again. I don't want to sleep through the first year wondering if the doctors are ever going to figure out what's wrong with me.

I just want a normal, uneventful life, a normal, uneventful pregnancy. And part of me is afraid I'll never get those things. And even if we did, it can't undo the one that wasn't.

Michael Buble's HOME

2011-06-19T17:42:00.000-07:00

If you've seen my house video, you know that Michael Buble's song is THE music I attribute to my old house. Any time it comes on the radio, I am immediately transported to the moment I stood on my hand-built wooden deck staring into the empty foundation where my old hopes and dreams for my life, my family disappeared. I know that sounds melodramatic, but I can say with all honesty that I cried in that instant for the life that was, the life I knew I would never get back. It was more than my house I lost that day. And HOME is the song that encapsulates that emotion for me, even though it is really about something so so very different.

My be surrounded by a million people I still feel all alone. Surrounded by people and yet all alone. It's so hard to explain, but I am pretty certain that it's not entirely foreign. We've all had moments where we feel no one can understand; for most of us, that feeling doesn't last three years.

The part of the song that makes me cry, every.single.time, is I just feel like I'm living someone else's life. Sometimes I wish I was.

I know I've written about this song before; I've posted about it on Facebook. But I mention it again because I just got tickets to see Buble in concert in August. I don't think I've ever been so emotional about a concert. It's suh a reminder how music, how words, connect us to the human experience.

I'm always curious about other people's songs. What song resonates with you, what lyrics touch your soul? Mine will always be "I'm coming home" even if I know I never can.

Triumph over Tragedy?

2011-06-18T10:52:00.000-07:00

It's photo shoot day for the HGTV magazine feature about our rebuild (which I am really excited about!). My story will be in the October issue (the very first!) of the magazine.

In the instructions to the photographer, the editor mentioned "triumph over tragedy" which got me thinking. Is it really? Have I triumphed?

It has become evident to me in the past three years that we, as a collective people, do not handle true emotions (particularly of others) all that well. Even in those first few days after the fire, when I would think grief would be the expected reaction, we were lauded when we could see the "good" in the situation. That Thanksgiving, the news did a story on us talking about all the things we were thankful for. I guess the message was that if even we could find something to give thanks for, anyone could. But in reality, I didn't feel all that thankful at all.

There was something about that message of triumph over tragedy that struck me the same way this week. Yes, we rebuilt. Life went on. What other choice did we have? Maybe I'm too hard on myself and am splitting hairs over the meaning on the word "triumph." I just don't feel triumphant.

We survived. To me, that's enough.

(I know I didn't post yesterday. We had the golf tournament all day and then threw a surprise party for my friend, and in the end, I chose sleep and my health over the blog. But I'm still trying to post everyday until my birthday!)

Light My Fire Golf Tournament

2011-06-16T21:02:00.000-07:00

I almost forgot to blog today. Starting a business has been exhausting.

Tomorrow we are sponsoring a hole in the Light My Fire golf tournament to support the Burn Out Fund and fire prevention programs. I'm glad we have the opportunity to give back, though I have to admit I'll be glad when this week is over.

And that's the kind of post you get when I promise myself that I'm going to post everyday and yet am absolutely exhausted!

I have baby fever

2011-06-15T11:57:00.000-07:00

I always wanted four kids, spaced four years apart. My thoughts about the number of children I want has changed since becoming a parent, but I still think a four year spacing sounds pretty ideal.

Kellen is almost three. And I've learned you don't just get pregnant the second you want it to be so (though certainly I know people for which this is true). And then there is that whole nine month thing.

And oh yeah, there's that Lyme thing. I feel good, better than I've felt in almost three years. But I still am not 100%, and I know enough from those who've been there before me that being pregnant with Lyme isn't an easy road. I would have to be on drugs my entire pregnancy. And there are limits to what I can take to deal with Lyme symptoms that occur as a result of how a pregnancy impacts your immune system. It's also hard for me to know I'm going to feel like crap after having been sick for so long and finally feeling like I'm on top of this illness.

I've considered our other options. I always thought I would adopt, but that option has become less doable for me personally as I have assessed my own life. I've also considered surrogacy (and if the local newspaper's comment section says anything about the public perception of surrogacy, this also has some major hurdles). I'm having a hard time with either option, knowing that for me, neither is an ideal way to expand our family.

Kellen isn't an easy kid either. He wasn't an easy baby, and it's hard for me to want to go back to the infant stage and sleep deprivation.

With that said, I know I want at least one more child. I want our son to have a sibling. And I want to experience holding a tiny baby again, a baby who is all mine to love.

It feels like everyone I know is having babies, either about ready to deliver or just finding out their pregnant. I tried to get rid of my baby stuff, thinking that maybe we could have just one. But I knew going through Kellen's stuff that we weren't done.

We still have a year to make some of these decisions and still have kids four years apart. At least I've made one decision already and that's the choice to have at least one more child. The only questions now are when... and how.

Platitudes

2011-06-14T15:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday someone on Twitter commented about the ridiculous comment they received about their divorce: "Life goes on." He seemed frustrated by the other person's apparent lack of compassion, understandably.

After the fire, we heard our share of platitudes: "It's just stuff." "At least no one was hurt." "Everything happens for a reason."

istockphoto

Those things were hurtful then, and even thinking about them makes me seethe a bit. After the Twitter comment I started thinking about why we say those things, even when they are disingenuous.

I'm pretty certain that these sayings having nothing to do with the people living through any number of bad situations. Instead, those things are said to make ourselves (those not living in a nightmare) feel better.

If everything happens for a reason, then we protect ourselves from the randomness of trauma. If all of our things are just material possessions with no meaning, perhaps if we do find ourselves on the other side of luck, we can imagine it wouldn't hurt us. Telling others that life goes on is our way of removing ourselves from the emotional intensity of stress.

But this protection is fake. You cannot protect yourself, no matter how many trite phrases you think of to reassure yourself in the midst of someone else's trauma.

All of us endure tragedy, and all of us need reassurance in those moments. But what we need isn't false emotion. We need human connection. We need a hug. We need a hand. We need a crew of friends and strangers to sift through our ashes. That is genuine compassion... and a hell of a lot more helpful than telling someone "Life goes on."

Kellen's Lyme test

2011-06-13T18:49:00.000-07:00

It is unknown when I contracted Lyme. Given the way neurologic Lyme presents, though, it is very very likely I had Lyme while pregnant. I either contracted it when I was pregnant, or I had a dormant infection. So much is not well understood by the medical community about Lyme Disease, and transmission to a fetus is one of many contentious aspects of this disease. According to the CDC, Lyme can be transmitted, but it is no big deal with proper antibiotic treatment while pregnant. Isn't that helpful?!

I've met enough people in the Lyme community who have children who are believed to have contracted the disease in utero to make me have at least some concern about the possibility that Kellen has been exposed. Knowing what I do about the damage this disease can cause, I believe the proactive route is the best one.

And that's how I found myself sitting in a pediatrician's office (and then the hospital lab) this afternoon waiting for my son's first ever blood draw (and possibly his first memory).

It was horrible. The fact that the pediatrician's office decided they couldn't do it was enough to set me off, and then we had to register for a simple blood draw. And wait. I got my blood drawn first because I needed a Vitamin D test anyway. It was the easiest draw I've ever had in my whole life. I thought the same would be true for Kellen. Nope.

I restrained him in my lap while the nurse prepped his arm. And then the screaming began and the flailing and the gagging from the crying. All the while, the blood slowly trickled into the tube. Two tries... and not enough blood. I felt like the worst mom ever. I made him endure this, and we didn't even get enough to make it worthwhile. And given Kellen's imagination and current fears, I can only imagine this will not bode well for future doctor visits, not to mention we still have to go back.

This parenting stuff is hard, even when you think you're doing the absolute best thing for your child.

Zoo Boise

2011-06-12T08:41:00.000-07:00

We went to the zoo yesterday after soccer. I got some incredible photos because I mistakenly brought my telephoto lens to soccer. Sometimes accidents are good.

The new butterfly exhibit:

While we were looking for the giraffe, the male lion was making quite a scene, but by the time we got around, he settled down.

Kellen was popping up in the plastic holes while we looked at the Prairie dogs above!

I don't know how we got so lucky with the tigers, but they were gorgeous and decided to play in front of us.

I call this photo "Yoga Giraffe." Alternately it could be "Limbo."

One of the highlights was the zebra putting his head down with the giraffe.

Pee Wee Soccer

2011-06-11T14:59:00.000-07:00

Kellen started soccer this morning with the Pee Wee Soccer group in Boise. It was quite entertaining to see a group of two year olds running around, and Kellen wanted to kick the ball more than play the group games. But it was a great activity, and we're looking forward to many more "practices" to come.

Kellen's first team meeting:

He obviously didn't quite understand the part of the song "we don't use our hands." He might be better suited for handball.

We figured out our feet.

Backyard Birds

2011-06-10T18:33:00.000-07:00

I never thought I'd be a bird person, especially with two very hyper labs to drive them away. But after I was down in California watching all the birds my mom attracted to her house, I decided to dive into the expensive act of bird feeding in hopes of seeing some pretty birds.

I had to get a sturdy feeder. I don't know if you've heard, but apparently we get high winds up here. We found two good feeders at Zamzows, where we also got our bird food: Bird Lovers Deluxe and Song Bird Mix. We also added a finch feeder with Nijer seed. We get at least 30 birds at a time, and surprisingly, they don't seem to mind the dogs.

The sturdy metal feeder with happy little birdies!

One of our goldfinches.

More happy birds

A Lazuli Bunting- so pretty!

A house finch

Kellen and I also made some pinecone bird feeders this week, though our birds seem pretty ambivalent.

Some of the birds nest in late June, so I'm really hoping one decides to nest in our yard, though our trees still aren't that mature, so it might be another few years.

Normal! Day

2011-06-09T21:01:00.000-07:00

I admit this post is a total cop-out... but I haven't had time to post because I've had a normal, really full day. Hell, I've had what feels like a pretty normal week. It's been so long since I've been able to handle this kind of workload, though I do need to remember to take breaks so I don't overdo it.

I got up this morning for my weekly ~~massage~~ neck torture. This has become a part of my treatment to deal with the dizziness. My head is still sore, but it helps, so I go!

I hurriedly drove to our new office for my teleconference with the company handling our payroll. Thankfully that was a quicker meeting than expected.

I then spent the day fighting with the internet connection, reviewing logos, talking with our insurance agent about liability insurance, and generally geeking out on business to-dos.

I came home after giving up on the internet connection (we are sharing an office and are waiting on our own wireless connection!). I emailed with the photographer doing our HGTV photoshoot, changed into clothes for the gym, and picked up Kellen from school, where all the 2 year olds went through their daily routine of calling me a spider. We went to the park at the elementary school nearby where Kellen splashed into a puddle on the slide, soaking his pants. Dan took Kellen home, and I went to the gym.

I came home, packed Kellen up, and we went to my dad's for the evening. Kellen only threw two or three major fits, but for the most part he was good and played dragon cave and found a doggie on a string to pull around.

It might sound tedious to write about. But really, surviving days like this makes me happy. I might still get tired. I certainly still have dizzy spells. And I misspell words far more frequently than I care to admit (to myself), but it's a sign of improvement. I feel normal.

It's not just a story; it's who I am

2011-06-08T17:02:00.000-07:00

My name is Brooke. I have blue eyes. My house burned down in 2008 when I was eight months pregnant. I like pink.

I am learning, for better or worse, the fire defines me, just as my hair color, body type, and shoe size.

I often have a goal of getting through an activity without mentioning the fire... or Lyme. I usually fail. I'm starting to wonder if it just wouldn't be easier to wear a badge or tell people within seconds of meeting them.

I don't talk about the fire to get sympathy or for entertainment. I see my life and myself through the lens of a fire survivor, and without that context, I find it hard to be me.

I'm sure it's exhausting to hear the story over and over, though I'm starting to question whether being around those who are exhausted by it is the right environment for me. Living this has been far more exhausting, I can promise that.

Because the fire is a defining part of me, it's been difficult to see the story within to craft the memoir. It's been the reason I stepped back from writing; I needed to see the story as just that and not as a third leg.

Stories have endings, need a climax and a resolution. But I don't have the ability to turn off that experience, disassociate myself from it and move on as though it never happened. It's ingrained. The fire, Lyme Disease - it's who I am.

Self-reflection and why I piss people off

2011-06-07T09:08:00.000-07:00

Lifesize

I'm not really known as an insecure person. And yet, a few things have happened recently that have made me step back and question myself. Self-reflection isn't always a comfortable task, but I do think it's necessary (I just wish I wasn't constantly in self-reflection mode!).

I know that I can be somewhat abrasive and definitely critical (both of myself and of others and most certainly of misplaced apostrophes). I used to think I was an optimist, but I've grown into a realist. And I think it's hard to go back once you see the world through lenses that are often tinted with a bit of black soot. I think I've started assuming that everyone sees the world through this same pragmatic prism. I'm learning, the hard way of course, that I'm wrong. Some people need reality softened, requiring a much more delicate touch than I seem to be capable of.

For the most part, I don't dislike this part of myself. I am straightforward, and those who know me well know that they will always get the truth from me, whether it's flattering or not. I see little value in the art of bullshitting, believing that I would rather have a few genuine friends than be liked by everyone only because I am capable of blowing smoke up their asses. This isn't to say I feel like I don't have many friends, just that I seem to piss them off in regular intervals. I hope that most realize I am well-intentioned. But we all know where good intentions take us (though I often feel I'm living among the seventh circle anyway, so maybe that's how I got here).

This last week has made me feel very insecure about the person that I usually feel very confident in. Do I really need to speak that truthfully? Am I compromising a bit of myself to fit into a societal convention that I feel is not authentic? And what is the cost of that compromise? Right now, it's making me uncomfortable in all social situations, to the point that I appear socially awkward. And that seems to be alienating the friends who do love me for being Blunt Brooke.

I think we are all capable of minor adjustments as we accrue experiences in this life. But at our core, it seems that major change is almost impossible (except maybe for the person who experiences a major brain trauma and has a completely different personality). At the very least, I own who I am. Even if that makes everyone else uncomfortable.

PTSD nightmares resurface

2011-06-06T09:25:00.000-07:00

I was going to write a happy post today, about my love of pink and how we've brought that into our new house.

But today isn't that kind of day. Early this morning, in what was supposed to be a period of restful REM sleep, I found myself in an alternate world of grief. In my dream we rebuilt our home on a hillside, next to the ocean. It was still our house even though it was in another location. I was away from the house (again) and returned to find it leveled. It was my worst nightmare. In our real fire, we got our laptops and saved many of our photos. But this time, they were gone. The garage was untouched, but the house was gone. The grief I felt in my dream was the same that I felt standing over my home three years ago. It was heartbreaking, even if it wasn't real.

I haven't had a PTSD fire nightmare in what I think is at least a year. I was talking to someone who knows a lot about PTSD recently, and even proudly declared my nightmares gone. To have them return was, at the very least, jarring and unsettling.

This morning I was trying to understand what might have triggered the dream. Was it the fire in the foothills Saturday? Was it reading about the evacuations in Arizona? Was it my fear last night about falling asleep with the dryer still running?

In the nightmare, I remember the decision not to rebuild anywhere wildfires occurred, preferring to move to a greener, wetter location. This morning, I questioned whether I could live here with the threat of wildfires a constant presence every summer. I'm not sure I know the answer to that. And I'm not sure whether my dreams help or hinder in figuring that out. Or in overcoming PTSD.

29 in 29

2011-06-05T07:54:00.000-07:00

In 29 days, I turn 29.

One of my goals for the next year is to be more regular in posting to my blog, in addition to getting the nonprofit fully operational. We are currently working on 501(3)(c) status. And I'm looking at grants to apply for. Speaking of, if anyone has experience with grant writing, I'd love some tips! Because the blog is one of my goals, I wanted to start off with trying to post everyday for (almost) a month. It's my 29 in 29 challenge.

I'm also ready to announce more publicly that our family will be featured in the first issue of HGTV's magazine, launching this fall. We are in story writing mode now, and we will be doing a photo shoot later this month. I'll do a full post on it then!

It's hard to believe I'm almost 29. Might as well embrace it!

I survived!

2011-05-26T10:35:00.000-07:00

We're back in Boise after a long seven weeks (five in California with a two-week break in between).

I've been asked several times how I'm feeling. I can hear the hope in others' voices that I'm going to respond, "I'm FANTASTIC!" I'm still not quite there, but...

I am doing better. I caught a cold as soon as we got back. As crazy as it sounds, actually responding to a cold means my immune system is starting to kick in and respond to a virus. I started work this week at our new office for our new business, which I will share more about in coming weeks, and I've been handling six hour days like someone who doesn't worry about the number of spoons in their pocket. I'm hopeful that my energy will stay strong. It's also great to be able to have something else to focus on other than my health and trying to feel better.

The bad news is I'm still dizzy. The heavy metal protocol is helping, and I have FAR fewer dizzy days than before. I'm hopeful that I can eventually reduce this to a very rare occurrence, but at least I am functioning now.

This has been a long road. We're almost THREE years from the fire. But I survived. Even in the worst of days, I survived.

The burning house

2011-05-22T14:39:00.000-07:00

A fellow fire survivor alerted me to a website called The Burning House where people submit photos and lists of the things they would save in a fire. According to Foster Huntington, the website's creator, it's "a conflict between what's practical, valuable and sentimental." I was asked what I thought of the site.

I understand the curiosity. The week before the fire, I saw smoke near our house and in a moment of panic, raced toward our house before realizing everything was ok. I reflected frequently that next week what I would save if, in fact, my house was burning down. I think it's probably a question many of our own family and friends have asked themselves after seeing our pile of ashes. I also think it requires people to reflect on the meaning of their things as opposed to being so quick to dismiss it as "just stuff."

With that said, the site disturbs me. I think it's because the tone is so flippant. "If your house was burning, what would you take with you?" as though you have time to wander your house casually pulling out all the things that matter. Maybe it's just me, but that just sounds so calm and dismissive of the drama that is your home burning down. This site is designed for entertainment, and yet the question of what to take isn't a philosophical one for thousands of people. It's their reality and causes significant emotional stress.

There's nothing real about a display of someone's soccer shoes and sunglasses, posing perfectly. The only clothes I got out were the ones on my back, and the smell of smoke lingered in the cotton pores for months. My wedding dress, the one thing I would have told you I would have grabbed, was indiscernible amongst the thousands of fiberglass particles. And had my husband tried to get that, perhaps he wouldn't have made it out of the fire at all. This isn't a philosophical question, Mr. Huntington.

If your house was on fire, in flames, the responsible action is to get the hell out. This isn't an exercise in what's practical, valuable, or sentimental.

Can you imagine after Katrina a site that asked what you would grab in a Category Five hurricane? Or after this year's devastating tornadoes a site that asked what you'd haul down to your basement as the sirens blared overhead? Maybe a better question to ask would be what are the things you would miss most if you lost your house? That at least implies loss, which I feel is missing from that site.

This is what loss looks like:

There's my wedding dress, my son's coming home outfit, his crib, the blanket I slept with as a child. That pile includes my wine flutes from my wedding, the pictures of my childhood, hours and hours and hours and hours of renovations on our first home. I don't need to imagine my burning home. That is it. Burnt. Loss. Destruction.

My typewriter collection

2011-05-19T13:49:00.000-07:00

I love typewriters. I have a vague memory of learning to type on one in elementary school before I got my first IBM when I was eight. Even though I loved the games a floppy disk could provide (Frogger, Double Dare), there was something alluring about a typewriter. Although I'm not one to notice sounds much, I'm pretty sure it's the way the keys clack. (Side note- that's one thing I hate about a touch screen on the iPad. No sounds of productivity.)

I bought my first typewriter in 2006 at an antique shop in Boise. We even bought ink for it. Even though I coveted the technological advances of the past thirty years, I was proud of my working typewriter. Not that I actually used it! I imagined all the things that might have been written with it, though it probably had just helped draft some legal documents or sat on a secretary's desk awaiting transcription.

On Labor Day weekend two years later, I pulled that typewriter out of the rubble, something that was at least recognizable. Our flash drive didn't survive the heat. But the typewriter seemed somewhat indestructible, though the letters on the keys apparently were flammable.

Typewriters are not easily replaced as it turns out, particularly ones that have a little bit of character. You can't just drive to Staples and purchase an antique typewriter. Nine months after the fire, while in Bend, I finally found a replacement. It didn't sit up quite as much, but it had a different kind of charm and looked like it could have been used in an accountant's office in the early 70s.

I thought I only needed one typewriter, seeing that I don't actually use them for anything more than decoration. And then my grandmother passed away, adding another Underwood to my collection. The fact that you can clearly read the brand tells you how immaculately my grandmother cared for this, even after she transitioned to Windows XP. I love it, even if it is "noiseless."

Last week I added another typewriter to my collection. I'm pretty sure this is my new favorite. It doesn't catch quite right making it potentially non-functional, not that I'm composing anything with a typewriter anyway. I love how high it sits up. And it's really, really heavy and also kind of dirty. Who knew that's what I would find so charming.

I love that I'm at a place finally where I have a collection of something. I find a bit of irony in the oldness of the collection, that I've found myself drawn to things that already have a story, even if I don't know what that arc looks like. And most of all, I love that these typewriters have come to me organically. After the fire I was in such a rush to replace, to rebuild. But collections take time, are more deliberate, even if you start collecting the object by accident.

I'm not a perfect mother

2011-05-08T13:29:00.000-07:00

I'm not a perfect mother.

I yell more than I would like and find myself hiding in bathrooms, curled up against the door just to get a minute alone, sometimes lightly banging my head against the wall to drown out the noise. I am not proud of my frustration or anger. But being a mom makes me more conscious of it.

I say "no" far more often than "yes" and find my little curly-headed two year old laughing at me more than obeying. But I stay firm, believing, maybe in my more insane moments, that consistency is the key to raising a well-behaved child.

I spend several hours a day behind a computer screen, hoping that my son is content to play trains. He usually is.

I feed him boxed Mac and Cheese for more meals than I've had it in my entire twenty-eight years. And I often forget to include vegetables. He seems to survive in spite of yellow dye no 7.

I'm supposed to be strong, to comfort my son when he's afraid on the airplane. Instead, I clutch the arm rests and repeat, "It's going to be ok." You could pretend I'm saying it for both of us. But really, it's mostly for me.

My son knows phrases like "mommy's medicine" and "doctor" and "spaceship" (the hyperbaric chamber). All he has known is a sick mom, and I worry that he will one day resent me for that, wishing his mother had been able to be there for him in times where she was stuck in bed. He'll never know the amount of time I spent worrying about his well-being if I died.

I'm not a perfect mother, not even close. And often I think being a mother makes me even more aware of my shortcomings.

But I love my son. And that seems to be enough to overcome my faults.

Happy Mother's Day to all the other imperfect mothers out there!

"Normal" and tornadoes

2011-04-28T12:25:00.000-07:00

One of the most vivid memories for me after the fire is turning onto Sweetwater Drive the Thursday after the fire and seeing house after unscathed house with their trash cans out. They were all continuing on in their lives while I lived in an efficiency hotel with little more in my possession than a couple pairs of pants, and something so mundane as a trash can jolted me into the understanding that my life now was so very, very different than everybody else. They could be sympathetic to our loss, but they still continued on, down the path of normal. And our path went every direction but.

I feel that strange disconnect again this morning... and have every morning after I hear about a major natural disaster. I woke up in my bed, brushed my teeth with my Sonicare toothbrush, stopped in at Starbucks, and went to my hyperbaric treatment. That's my normal now, and it continued on. Meanwhile, 2000+ miles away, there is someone who is standing over the devastation left by a mile-wide tornado, taking stock of their loss. They are calling insurance, contacting family, examining their lives in the context of all this stuff that they no longer have. It's hard being on this side.

All of these natural disasters bring me right back to August 25, standing in the darkness, looking down into the pit that used to be my home. It's really difficult for me emotionally, even though these disasters don't have anything to do with me, are usually thousands of miles away. I turn off the radio, unable to listen to the news about more people losing their homes. I feel so cold, uncaring even. But it's my defense, my way of coping so that I don't have to relive that day in my mind. I guess that's the beast of PTSD, and, unfortunately, that's now part of my new normal.

Update on the book... and other projects

2011-04-27T16:43:00.000-07:00

I just finished another writing class. I put my agent querying on hiatus while I was working on some structure issues. And I needed a break from all the rejections... which hurt, by the way. To be honest, I really wanted an agent so I had someone to run writing ideas by and help figure out the structure. But I know I need to do that myself. I've spent a lot of time thinking through my ideas for the book, and I keep coming back to the idea that our stuff is more than just a possession... and the myth that these "things" are easily replaceable. I want people who read my blog... and who hopefully read my book eventually... to understand how important those "things" were to me and that honoring their importance is more than just being materialistic. In this contemporary culture, we are so quick to judge others whose lives we believe are excessive, to want to trivialize objects that others might find valuable. But these things matter. Now it's just a matter of figuring out how to tell that story over 200 pages!

I'm also getting really excited about the Life After the Fire organization. I hopefully will have a good portion of the paperwork filed in the next week and will be on my way to non-profit status. The website is currently being worked on, and I am working on several articles to help other families. If you've lost your home and would be willing to be interviewed, I would really love some first-hand stories. I'm also always looking for stories like those I've featured on here. The website will have a place for fire survivors to share their stories. And it's going to have a forum, a place for those who've newly lost their home to connect with those of us who've been there... and a place for those of us who've been there to help work through the emotional trauma that so many others don't seem to understand. No one will tell you it's just stuff or try to make you feel guilty for not feeling grateful for your new house.

If that wasn't enough, I'm also in the process of starting a web development company, helping companies integrate their current businesses into the digital world through web design, app development, online media strategies, and social media monitoring.

It's been a tough couple of years. And by tough, I mean really really really bad. But I see a world beyond the fire, a world past Lyme disease. And that's really exciting.

Happy Easter!

2011-04-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter!

Fire Story: Empty

2011-04-16T15:43:00.000-07:00

This amazing story comes from Grace, who is only eighteen but who is a beautiful writer. Her family will be moving home in a few days, so keep them in their thoughts as those who have been there know that it is both an exciting and scary and overwhelming day.

---

Empty. The house was empty. All the furniture was gone. All of the pictures, the knickknacks, everything was moved out. I climbed the stairs, just like I had done a thousand times. I walked down the hallway and into my room. Dust and soot settled on my empty walls and floor. This wasn’t the home I spent the last seventeen years in. It was just an empty shell. I pulled a permanent marker out of my back pocket and began to write on the walls, something I had never done because I was too afraid of my mom’s reaction. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. Song lyrics, love poems, even inside jokes between my best friends slowly filled my lifeless walls. All of my emotions about the past three weeks poured themselves onto my bedroom walls. When finished, I capped the marker and admired my work. All of my negative emotions, all of the pain and hurt, would be gone in twelve hours--just like the walls of my room. The thing about a house catching on fire is that it is usually reserved for TV dramas. The thing about someone setting your house on fire is usually reserved for R-rated mystery movies. But on September 13th, my small-town, average life, not unlike a TV drama or mystery movie, took an unexpected turn.

Screams. Panic. My dad was screaming from the first floor. “Grace! Get up!” Darkness covered my eyes. Rolling onto my side, I glanced at the alarm clock on my dresser. 3:39 AM. Dad, I thought, is it really time for school? “Grace, now!” I looked up at my ceiling. Thick black clouds began to cover the white stucco. I flung my legs over the bed and grabbed the nearest blanket. Pushing over my desk chair and piles of clothes, I swung open my bedroom door. I began running through the upstairs hallway, footsteps syncing up with my heartbeat. Halfway down the stairs, I heard it again. “Get your brother! Michael is still in bed!” I turned around, and began going back up the stairs. “Michael! Get up! Right now!” I yelled. Clouds of smoke brushed my head as I ran through his doorway. A groggy seven-year-old in dinosaur pajamas looked up at me through squinted eyes. “What?” he asked, but I had no time to answer. I grabbed him by the waist, and tossed him under my arm. Smoke burned my eyes and nose as I hobbled down the stairs with my fifty pound weight. When I reached the bottom, I saw smoke streaming out of the basement door and into the foyer, blocking the front door. Find a door, I thought. I put Michael down on the entrance mat to our kitchen door. I unlocked the deadbolt and finally the door. We stepped out onto the back deck, and the rush of chilly September night air surrounded us. “Call 911!” my dad yelled, and threw his cell phone at me. “176 Timbersprings Drive, Indiana PA,” I screamed into the phone. “Everyone is out,” I yelled, “but there is fire, it’s in the basement! Please hurry!” His Blackberry told me that it was 3:42 AM when I hung up on the dispatcher. My dad followed us out onto our back deck with the dog. “Did you call?” he asks, worried. But I can’t answer, I can only nod. Stillness.

Sirens. I was sitting in the back of the ambulance, holding Michael. My dad sat across from us in his own white sheet. “What took them so long,” I ask my dad, “it has to have been twenty minutes!” “It’s been 8 minutes, hun,” the ambulance driver tells me. Impossible. I’ve been sitting in the back of this ambulance for at least twenty minutes. More sirens. Michael is shivering, so I pull him closer. More sirens. I turn to my dad. “Why are they sending so many firetrucks?” I ask, but I don’t get an answer. I can’t see my house--they moved the ambulance. It is still standing? Why are there so many fire trucks? What was happening? What even started the fire? My mind was racing with questions, desperately trying to put pieces of logic together. Basement. Mom’s office is in the basement. The circuit breaker is in Mom’s office. Electrical. Electrical fire. Accident.

Morning. When I finally got out of the ambulance, it was light outside. Neighbors were gathering, staring, whispering. Stop staring, my mind screamed, but my mouth never moved--until I turned to look at my house. Broken glass carpeted the stairs leading to the front door. Firemen were moving in and out. Smoke billowed out of the broken windows of my room. Soon, people began coming up to me, each of their words running together in my mind, none of them making any sense. In my daze, I ran to find my dad. He was standing at the bottom of our driveway, talking to the fire marshal. As I approached my dad, one word finally found its way into my brain. “Arson,” said the fire marshal. Disbelief.

Nervousness. I sat patiently on the mustard-yellow couch of the waiting room. I was surrounded by State Troopers. “Miss Castro?” called Mr. Frew, the fire marshal, from behind the bullet-proof glass that protected the office. Apprehensive, I looked at my mom who sat on the opposite side of the couch. “Just tell him the truth,” she said, “you’ll be fine.” Passing through metal detectors, I entered a small office and sat on a wooden chair in the corner.

Enemies? How could I possibly have enemies, I thought. My parents mentioning the family business? Sure, I guess. Mentioning anyone wanting to kill them? Definitely not. What kind of people do you think we are, Mr. Frew? Everyone in my family is a good person. “No,” I answered politely when Mr. Frew asked. “But I hope you catch him,” I added at the end of the interview, “I hope he never sees the light of day again.”

Staring. I made the decision to come back to school on Tuesday, I thought it would help me get back to normal. Classmates, teachers, even lunch-ladies were looking at me, waiting for me to react or open up or burst into tears. What are you looking at, I thought defensively. Smoke, I thought. That’s it. They smell it on me. They must have read the article that headline that screamed out “Attempted Homicide” on front page. Channel 11 News. Channel 6. Channel 8. They must have seen it on the news this morning at breakfast. Dark circles. They see them under my eyes because I hadn’t slept in forty eight hours. Borrowed clothes. My usual uniform of jeans and brightly colored tie dye t-shirts was replaced with black sweatpants and dark, oversized hoodies that covered every inch of my body. I sat quietly through my classes that day, and even for the rest of the week.

“Unsalvageable,” I heard the contractor say about my house. My dad and I sat at the rented kitchen table in the rented kitchen of the rented house. The dinner I had just eaten began to churn in my stomach. Not my house, I thought. “We should go visit it one last time before they knock it down,” my dad turned and said to me. Knock it down? Tomorrow? Already? Fighting tears, I nodded.

Standing in the driveway, I watched the crane take apart the walls that once held family pictures, and more recently, my musings. In the rubble that used to be my house, I saw for the first time a potential for a new house, a new home, that would contain new memories. Beginnings.

I never got the smoke smell out of my favorite hoodie. Flames. Burned my memories, past and present.

Yesterday, my mom asked me what color I’d like to paint the walls in my new room. “I don’t know yet,” I responded, “maybe I’ll just write on them.”

Hyperbaric oxygen therapy

2011-04-11T08:37:00.000-07:00

I've had a really busy couple of weeks, and I'm always amazed at how easily time can get away from me when I'm not sitting in bed watching reruns. It's a good thing; I'm not complaining! But my blog can sometimes get neglected.

I've been down in Southern California getting treatment for residual Lyme symptoms. I feel like I'm in a weird space where I'm so so much healthier than I was a year ago. I feel so much better and am able to engage in my life finally. And yet, I'm still not back to where I was before I got pregnant. I know that there are so many in the Lyme community who would trade everything to be at 85-90% of normal. And I know how fortunate I am to be there. But (and maybe I'm selfish), I want more.

I scheduled the hyperbaric oxygen therapy a few months ago, before I started doing heavy metal chelation. I was still dizzy then. Amazingly, the chelation has been the answer for my dizziness. I got sick after getting a flu shot, and apparently the mercury was just enough to tip my body over the edge. My doctor said that normally he wouldn't even treat a patient with the slightly elevated levels like mine. But we both know how sensitive I am to meds, and we thought it was possible that I might just be more sensitive to low levels of heavy metals than an average person. Given how well the chelation has worked, I'd say it's a good theory.

My hyperbaric schedule has been two one-hour sessions per day, four hours apart in what Kellen calls my "spaceship." It's demanding. I've watched over half a season of House. But I do feel better.

I'm home for two weeks because I had a few scheduled things I needed to be back for, and then we are back down for another three weeks of therapy. I'm hoping to get long-lasting results, to finally find myself back to 100% health. It's been a long road and a long-time coming.

In other news, I'm currently in the middle of development of the Life After the Fire organization website. Lots of resources, articles, and a community for fire survivors. I'm hoping to have it done mid-May. And I'm starting an internet marketing consulting company that focuses on brand and company positioning on the internet in addition to web design and online marketing strategies. I'm actually working from my office right now. I think these are all signs of my improving health. It's been almost a three-year detour, but I do see my life starting to come back to something resembling my previous life.

Happy Birthday Dad

2011-03-23T07:15:00.000-07:00

Today is my dad's sixtieth birthday. He shouldn't be alive to celebrate it.

It's been nine years and eleven months since that phone call, the one where I realized that phone calls could change the course of your life. That phone call wouldn't be the first one.

"I have cancer," he said. I was eighteen, had just finished my finals, was planning a summer job in the Southwest corner of Virginia, nearly two thousand miles from my dad in Boise.

It was that moment, though, that exposed my strength, picked me up off the floor, and sent me straight to the internet, before the internet, was, well, what it is. There were few online support groups. The web pages were low-quality templates with clipart(!). There was no Facebook, only an away message on AIM to communicate my change in plans.

That was the summer I expanded my vocabulary, opened up a new file in my brain and placed words like "Rituxan" and "follicular b-cell" and "non-Hodgkin's." I argued with the oncologists over treatment protocols and effectiveness and response rate. I thought about med school.

They told my dad he would be lucky to live five years. It's been ten. In a world where it seemed impossible he'd ever make it out of his fifties, today he does. Cancer complicates birthdays, makes each one not just the passage of another year, but truly a recognition of our ability as people to overcome disease and reclaim our lives. You are not another year older, another day closer to death. You are one day further from it. Today is my dad's birthday. It's a cause for celebration.

It's a bummer actually because the photo I wanted to use,
of us spraying his hair, was lost in the fire.

My Red Cross story

2011-03-21T10:43:00.000-07:00

This is a hard post for me to write. I’ve avoided it for two years, talking around the subject while not actually addressing it. The Japanese earthquake has unfortunately kicked me over the edge.

The night of August 25, 2008, was obviously one of the most difficult of my life. I learned within a matter of minutes that everything – EVERYTHING – was gone. We were directed to the local elementary school where we thought we’d be given information. Instead, there was a television and some pizza and a few volunteers helping us find a place to sit around a cafeteria table. And in the gym, some cots (which I don’t think anyone ended up using).

There was actually very little information provided at the school, and, other than the pizza, we were offered nothing. I hate to sound ungrateful (especially because SO many people were so generous over the next days and weeks), but I expect an organization that claims to specialize in disaster relief to provide SOMETHING in the immediate aftermath. Where was a grief counselor? A man lost his wife. What about a bag filled with toiletries since we had none? Or some clothes in a few different sizes (even a Red Cross t-shirt that fit would have been welcomed)?

We were asked repeatedly in that night and then a week or so later what we needed.

YOU ARE THE F*ING RED CROSS. Aren’t you supposed to have an idea of what’s needed? I lost everything. All I was trying to do was hold it together long enough to get to the birth of my son. I didn’t know what I needed, quite frankly. I needed everything.

It wasn’t the Red Cross that brought water in coolers for the friends, family, and strangers who helped us sort through our things. It was local people who went out of their way to make sure our needs were met. There were no masks, no shovels. We purchased buckets and buckets to sift through our things, buckets that now are taking up space in our garage with little use at this point.

Nearly two weeks after the fire, Red Cross volunteers met with each of the families to ask what we needed. Again, you are the Red Cross. We told them I had been waking up nightly screaming and that I needed counseling. We had so little energy and resources to seek out a therapist, even though it’s well known that getting mental health assistance immediately following a trauma is the best way to prevent it from becoming more entrenched PTSD. Do you think we heard from a counselor? No. When we told one of the other non-affiliated volunteers what had happened, she called and complained, and that’s when we did hear from someone, weeks after the fire. By that point it was too late.

What really pisses me off is that my name was used to fundraise. Donate to the Red Cross to help the victims of the Oregon Trail Heights Fire. But they actually didn’t help. The only assistance we really saw was that from the Burn Out fund (we love you) and community members who stepped up on their own to be our guardian angels (Chip and Patti and so many others). And yet, everywhere we looked there was the Red Cross taking donations under the guise of disaster relief for the victims of our fire. For US.

To make matters worse, this was brought to the attention of the local chapter of the Red Cross by one of the volunteers. Instead of contacting us and talking about how we felt about the whole thing (or even getting some advice as to what they might have done differently for future disasters), we got a letter informing us of what was done, which I have detailed above. To them, that was enough.

I am SURE the Red Cross does great things. I am sure that they are helping in some way in Japan and that they helped with Haiti and in New Orleans. I have to believe that. But I am jaded by my own personal experience. I have read numerous articles questioning how the Red Cross spends its relief money, and I know I am not the only one who has a story like this to share (because I’ve been talking to people privately about this over the last few weeks).

And I’ve been trying to decide how I was going to address this… and whether to even share my story. What tipped me over the edge was the woman at Kellen’s Montessori school putting up a donation box to collect money “for Japanese relief efforts.” I wanted to ask them how they knew that the money would actually help those in Japan or if, like us, the Red Cross is using another tragedy to stock their general fund. I wish I knew of a local organization in Japan to donate to instead as I am certain that aid is needed. Because I don’t, I am choosing to donate to local organizations, who help out in disasters that are equally as traumatizing but do not garner international media. It’s the only way to ensure I know where my money is being spent, and, as a donor, that matters to me.

Detour

2011-03-18T10:15:00.000-07:00

I was Franklin Covey's dream client. I had years of planners and the binders to save my life's plans. I loved the space where I could plan out the following year, even though it was still January of the previous one. I house hunted in cities I thought we might move one day, knowing full well those houses wouldn't be on the market in a couple of years (back in the housing boom), but I still envisioned my life in them while sitting on the plush green microfiber couch in my three bedroom house in Boise.

The thing is, life isn't predictable, even if we want it to be. I was no stranger to detours. My parents divorced when I was a young child, and I was left to deal with the cross-country custody arrangement, certainly not my ideal. When my dad was diagnosed with cancer, I left behind plans to be a counselor at a special needs camp to shave my dad's head and attend to his new special needs. Even meeting Dan at twenty-four wasn't a part of my life plan. It certainly hadn't been scheduled into my light blue planner the year before when I was still living on the Upper East Side.

When you stand over your leveled house, staring down into an ash pit, it's hard not to imagine the life you planned and the path you start down. The thing about detours, though, is that they are supposed to intersect back with the road they left behind. But in life, our detours often don't find their way back to the life that was. The choices we make as a result are often quite different than the ones we would have made had the event not occurred. The road in front of us too, often isn't even there yet. It's as though once our life takes a detour, we become the construction crew as well, laying down the pavement as we go.

This post was written as a response to the prompt to write a piece in which you take a detour.

I don't mean to be jealous

2011-03-07T09:58:00.000-08:00

A lot of my friends are expecting their first babies right now. And by a lot, I'm pretty sure I mean everyone I know! Photos of their perfect nurseries have taken over Facebook in the last couple of weeks, walls impeccably painted, family heirlooms incorporated, cribs assembled. I don't mean to be jealous. But I am. I might even admit to tearing up a little.

I look at the pictures of perfectly placed bumpers and mobiles and curtains, and I can't help but think about Kellen's nursery, or what was supposed to be his room. I picture the crib sitting up against the wall, blue and brown Restoration Hardware bumper firmly in place. I see the refurbished dresser from my childhood with the brass knobs still so new. I imagine myself sitting in the glider in the corner, pulling a book off the shelf and reading to Kellen. And I can even visualize what that room would look like now, as Kellen's toddler room. But it's gone. And it's hard for me to be happy for my friends - even though I know I should be - when looking at those pictures causes me to mourn again a loss that I know I should be healed from but yet is still so raw. I know what it's like to be so excited, to have the love of this unborn child carefully and thoughtfully placed around a room. But, for me, that was burned away, and instead of saying, "That's so beautiful," I want to say, "Now imagine that you lost this."

It's not just the nurseries. I don't have a wedding video to watch. The small cassette was sitting on my desk, next to the ironing board and the just-finished Christmas stockings I quilted. I don't have my senior yearbook to reflect back on. All these things that others can do to help bring back memories of love or joy or even heartbreak, I have lost.

I was telling another fire survivor today (we've bonded at the gym!) that I feel so far away from my memories because I've lost the tangible things that held me to them. I have to search my memory and hold everything only in my mind instead of being able to relinquish those memories and let the things, the stuff of my life, hold them. It's taxing.

And now, when I'm brought back to my memories of things that should bring me joy, like thinking of that first nursery with friends' pictures of theirs, my first emotion is jealousy. I don't mean to be jealous, but I am.

Water gives life. Water takes it away.

2011-03-04T10:09:00.000-08:00

By the time we pulled up to our neighborhood the night of August 25, one house was already engulfed in flames. The smoke was so thick I nearly hit the fire engine in front of me with my Prius. That would have really helped the situation!

I could see water spraying through the air, but it seemed to vanish into the smoke before touching the fire. The flames towered at least twenty five feet over where the roof to our neighbor’s house once stood. There was little to enclose now, though the black rod iron fence gave the illusion that there was.

Our house was on the other side of the street, and I wanted to believe it would be safe even though the flames shot through the air. It would take one gust of wind – and they were at least fifty miles an hour that night – blowing in the right direction to catch our house on fire. Unfortunately that’s exactly what they did.

While I was waiting for Dan, who had run in to rescue our dog and some photos and whose phone had died in the meantime, I willed him to turn on the sprinklers, believing that they could somehow save our house. Apparently I had little faith in the capabilities of the firemen’s hoses.
In the days that followed, I would hear side conversations about men who boldly stated they would have stayed and fought the fire themselves, their chests puffed. It was hard to hear such brazen statements, especially since one person died in the fire. As sad as it was to lose our house, losing my husband would have been infinitely worse. Beyond that though, the sentiment was illogical. Firemen were drawing all the water in the area. Dan did turn on the garden hose, and a little dribble escaped. Sacrificing one’s safety to fight with the wrong tools only makes one a fool!

Bonus: two posts for today. This is based on the prompt: Water gives life. Water takes it away.

The sound of normal

2011-03-04T08:13:00.000-08:00

If you've ever been in a room with me, there's a good chance you've heard me laughing. We may never have spoken, but you would still remember the full body laugh that starts in my soul. And it's genuine. (We won't talk about the people who find it obnoxious.)

The problem is, I lost my laugh. In the days after the fire, I still had humor despite my tears. I could take one major life trauma and still access my laugh. But then there was the Bell's Palsy and the PTSD and the undiagnosed Lyme. By the time we moved home six months after the fire, the laughter was gone. It had been replaced by silent tears and usually loud, angry rants. Frustration echoed through my hallways, most often directed at whatever was in my way, even though the objects of my anger were never really why I was mad. How do you yell at a fire? A bacteria? Nightmares?

I was at a doctor appointment today, and the office manager commented that it was good to hear me laugh again, that it had been a long time since they had heard that unforgettable noise. It's strange. That laughter is a part of who I am, but it sounded foreign even to me the last two years. When I caught myself laughing, I noticed it in a way I hadn't before because it was so rare. I find myself in those moments more and more now, which I think means they are becoming less rare. Laughter. The sound of normal.

What I wish I could say...

2011-02-28T13:29:00.000-08:00

I've met so many amazing people because of this journey, this blog, people I never would have met if my house hadn't burned down and I hadn't been willing to chronicle our journey home. I know this is just the beginning. Hopefully when the non-profit site gets up and running we will serve as a resource to thousands. I will know heartbreaking, painful stories, but we will all heal by sharing.

But I sometimes find myself stuck, struggling to find the right words, when someone sends me their story.

I want to say, "It's going to be ok" or "You'll find your way back to normal" or "There's a reason for all of this." But I can't. Those aren't the words that have settled into my heart.

Will you be ok? Maybe. Probably. Hopefully. I've survived. Some days that's enough. Other days it doesn't feel like much at all. There are still plenty of moments where I long for my life to return to the path I followed on August 24, 2008. I don't want to hold these lessons. I don't want the scars on my soul.

My life is so so different from where it was the hours before the fire. I've yet to intersect with the path I was on before the fire, and I imagine that I never will. I likely will not return to teaching. We probably would have moved. I can't find my way back to that normal because that normal doesn't exist anymore for me. Maybe others find their way back to their "before" life, but I know I won't. Normal will always be different.

When someone shares their story with me, sometimes the best thing I can muster is, "I'm sorry" (which we all agree is better than "At least you're ok" right?!). I wish I had more wisdom, some sense of how to help you heal. I hope my words are enough.

Mayfield

2011-02-22T12:11:00.000-08:00

The fire crested up over the ridge, taunting my ten-year old imagination. I was inside, safe, and the fire was still a mile or so away. But the vivid orange and red hues scared me as I hid in the daylight basement of my grandmother’s house. I was supposed to be sleeping. It was well after midnight. Instead, I pulled the blanket up to my chin and watched the blaze conquer the mountaintop.

My mom was out there somewhere, pretending to be a hero. I wanted her inside, helping us assemble turkey and roast beef sandwiches for the firefighters.

Mom was in Idaho for her annual summer visit, a diversion for me from child care and a father too caught up in his life as an attorney to enjoy our “vacation.” I spent the weeks leading up to her arrival planning our time together: lunch at Vista deli, a few nights at the ranch, sliding down the dusty slide, riding along in the early morning to feed the cattle, pretending I knew something more about a cow than the noise it made.

We picked her up at the airport earlier that day, drove down the street to Vista deli where my mom ordered a grilled cheese on rye. We piled back into the car, my mom, sister, grandmother, and me, leaving Boise behind via the interstate. We passed the orange and white water tower that sat on the edge of the city and entered miles of sagebrush and dirt. We pulled off I-84 at the Stage Stop and started down the dirt road that led to my mom’s childhood home. Years before it had been a town complete with a one-room schoolhouse and a dance hall. All that was left now was the cemetery.

In the days that followed, that fire circled my grandparents' ranch, destroyed acres of land, and threatened the structures that held so many memories of a town far beyond its time. The houses remained.

Now that I’m older, now that I’ve been through my own wildfire and have lost my house, I can better understand that fire, understand my mom's desire to fight for her childhood home. Home is more than just the physical walls we set up around us. The land that my grandfather lost, the cattle that died are a part of his identity. His home is far more than the bed where he lays his head. It’s so easy for those looking in to assume that as long as the house is still standing and we are still breathing that those losses can be recaptured. But there are invisible losses in a fire, whether it be identity or security or memories. As a ten year old, watching the fire crest over the rim, I lost a little bit of my naivety. That summer visit wasn't about sliding down slides or picking raspberries. Bad things sometimes do happen. And sometimes, unfortunately, we lose it all.

This week's TRDC prompt:

Part I

Make a list of some of your most vivid childhood (or more recent) memories. (Maybe it’s an image of your father or mother doing something they did regularly; maybe it’s a visit to a grandmother’s house.)

Jot down a few memories and then pick one and write it down in as much detail as possible. (Take 10-15 minutes to do that…)

Part II

Now I want you to investigate what this memory means to you. Ask yourself the following questions: Why has this stuck with me? What did this mean to me at the time? Why did I (or someone else in the scene) react the way I (they) did? How does it feel to look back on it? How does it still affect me (or not)? (Take 10-15 minutes to do that.)

And the winning logo is...

2011-02-16T12:36:00.000-08:00

Click over to my Facebook page to see which logo I selected. I took into account some very helpful advice from my friend Erin about how the logo would look when printed. I also love how the logo I chose really embodies the spirit of the Life After the Fire organization.

Recovering from PTSD

2011-02-16T00:16:00.000-08:00

At this weekend's Light My Fire event, I had the chance to sit next to some incredible people, old friends and new ones. Because most of the attendees are members of the insurance industry, we had to explain our story when asked, "What company are you with?" This conversation led to another one about PTSD, and one of the women at the table shared her own story, unrelated to fires, but heartbreaking nevertheless.

"Are you better?" she asked, the desperation in her tone only audible I imagine to those who have walked that path.

"Yes," I said. "Mostly."

It was then I realized that I hadn't talked much more about my PTSD here, even though there are a number of other fire survivors who have found me specifically because I HAVE talked about it.

For me, the worst part of the PTSD was the dreams. I could try to escape fires all day long, making conscious choices that kept me from having to relive the fire. But the fires always came to me in my dreams, burning my house down more frequently than Channel 2's repetitive news reel. Two years later, the nightmares are finally gone. Do I think it's likely that I won't ever have another fire dream? No. And I'm sure when I do, it will be jarring. But at least for now, I can sleep at night.

The anxiety is still present. After Kellen's swim lesson this morning I heard several fire engines screaming down the road, and I panicked. Please don't go to my house. I think I have gotten a little better about not needing to look out my bedroom window every time I hear sirens, but it is a conscious effort not to do so more than it is because I am not concerned. I still take xanax frequently, especially at night when my anxiety seems to escalate. I've stopped fighting my need for this medication, but rather look at it as a tool for recovery.

I don't like when Dan goes out of town. I worry about what I would do in the event of a fire, if I trusted myself enough to go into the smoke to get Kellen and get out of the house. I know it's a sick thought, but it keeps me awake when I am home alone. Sometimes I bring him in with me, and then I worry if I were to die in my sleep what would happen. Sometimes this PTSD kicks your ass, you know, even if it's irrational.

I still don't know how much of my health is related to the stress and anxiety after the fire. My nervous system seems to be having a hard time finding normal, and it operates mostly in a hyper-alert state.

But I am better. Mostly. I spent over a year in therapy. I went to a hypnotherapist, which has worked to reduce anxiety. I write frequently about the fire, the emotional trauma, the reasons it caused me so much pain. I think that helps make sense of our loss. I try to focus my energy on helping others who have to go through this experience. And on the days that are really bad, I remember that this is just one day, that I am only required to tackle the moment immediately in front of me. With PTSD, that's enough.

Good night Kellen

2011-02-15T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Red Dress Club gives out weekly writing prompts and links up other writers and bloggers. This week's prompt was:

Imagine that after you have died and your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see? Tell us about them in the finest detail.

“Where’s doggy and binky?” I ask, ready to say "good night" and take a deep breath after a full day of parenting.

“I no know,” Kellen says, looking up at me with his bright blue eyes, head slightly cocked. “Where?” he asks, lifting his arms and shrugging.

“Let’s go find them,” I say.

I open my arms wide, extending my hands out to my side. “Neerrrooommmmpppp,” I say, hoping this game will minimize resistance. Kellen opens his arms behind me and repeats the sound.

“Airpwanes,” he says.

We fly down the hall, my bare feet sinking into the carpet.

I round the corner into Kellen’s room.

“Coming in for a landing,” I say, picking Kellen up over my head and gently rolling him into his bright blue and orange comforter.

He grabs his crocheted dog. After the fire, we were given so many stuffed animals, but it was the blue handcrafted dog that he gravitated to in the days where his only forms of communication were averting his eyes and crying or laughter.

“Which books?” I ask.

“Uhhh,” he says. “Llama ‘jama.” I know he’s going to pick Llama Llama Red Pajama and already have it tucked under me as I lay in bed next to him.

“Two more,” I say. I limit the stories to three a night, knowing I would never get time to read adult fiction if I didn't.

“Goodnight Train,” he says, and then, “tired,” referring to I’m Really Not Tired.

I lug myself out of his twin bed and walk over to the half-painted bookcase my step-father made. I lay back down pulling Kellen into my chest. He holds doggy by the tail and rubs it along the base of his nose. If I had to bottle up the feeling of love it would be this moment.

I start reading about Samuel McKay and his ardent belief that his mommy and daddy have all the fun once he goes to sleep. It’s one of my new favorites.

“CCCCRRREEEAAAAAAKKKKKK,” I say when I get to the part where the noisy step gives Samuel away. Kellen chortles, a laugh so genuine it could only come from an unhardened two year old.

We say good night to the McKays and then the train and move on to the last book. I'm both anticipating and dreading the end of story time, my mommy identity colliding with my individual one.

I quickly thumb past the title page of Llama Llama Red Pajama when Kellen whines. I start over and turn every page slowly, pointing out the pictures.

“Keln,” he says, just like he does every time he sees an “e” written anywhere.

“Llama Llama Red Pajama reads a,” I say.

"Story with his mama,” Kellen continues. We trade off as we turn the pages, Kellen finishing each line and pausing for me to kiss his head or call down to mama llama.

“Baby llama goes to sleep,” Kellen says.

“And now Kellen goes to sleep,” I say.

I move Kellen’s head from my chest to his blue, train pillow.

“Car blankie or green blankie?” I ask, holding each up.

“Green blankie,” he says, laughing.

I pull the green blankie over his body, careful not to lose doggy under the covers. I put car blankie on top.
“Mommy kisses,” I say, kissing him. “Butterfly kisses,” I add as I brush my eyelashes on his cheek.

“Other butterfly,” he says, turning his head so I can kiss his other cheek.

“I love you Kellen,” I say.

I walk over to his Leapfrog in the corner and turn on his ten minutes of music.

I blow a kiss. Kellen presses his tiny hand into his car binky, then puts it out to blow.

“Oh, thank you,” I say, grabbing the invisible kiss.

“Oh, thank you,” he repeats with his hand on his ear.

I turn off the light.

“Sweet dreams punkin,” I say.

“Sweet dreams punkin,” I hear him say as the door closes.

Good night my sweet boy.

Life After the Fire logo options

2011-02-09T13:47:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, I am working on getting a website up to provide valuable information for those who've lost their homes in a fire. The web designer has a tentative completion date of the first of May. I also had a design contest on MycroBurst.com to get a logo designed.

I have five days to pick a finalist, and I'm struggling with my decision, so I'd love if you had any input! One of the designs I loved I actually decided against after a few people gave me their impression. It wasn't the look I was going for! I have a poll at the bottom, and I'd love more specific feedback about why you liked or didn't like a specific design if you're willing to share!

#1

Which design do you like best?

Oh the wonderful world of rejection

2011-02-04T10:12:00.000-08:00

Today's Stats:
Queries sent - 15 (all email)

Form rejections - 4
Rejection but pass on to colleague - 1
Requests for material - 2
Rejection on full proposal - 2 (though one is from an agent who is transitioning out of publishing and no longer taking on new clients, so that's like 2 with an asterisk)

Queries still out on submission - 9

For those writers out there, Querytracker.net is AMAZING. I love that I can keep track of all my submissions and read helpful information about turnaround time.

I got a very helpful rejection from the agent who had my material. I don't believe in copying personal letters, so I won't do that, but I will say that it is perhaps the nicest way I've ever been rejected before. The start of the book seems to illicit the most discussion from writing professionals with impassioned proponents on either side: (a) to start the book AT the fire or (b) to start the book before the fire so that the reader is invested in the narrator before everything is lost. It's this back and forth that has stalled my writing before. I'm trying to press on despite another mark in the start at the fire column.

I've revised my query a little bit, and I'm likely going to submit different sample chapters to the next agent.

I'm also trying to remember that I'm in good company. There are dozens of stories of very successful authors being rejected over and over (John Grisham rejected by 16 agents for A Time to Kill).

It's really tough getting rejected especially when I believe so strongly in my story and my writing, but I'm learning to let myself cry for a minute and then pick up the computer and send out another letter. After all, it only takes one person to say "yes."

Updates on Life After the Fire

2011-02-01T09:46:00.000-08:00

If you read the blog on the web (as opposed to subscribing through a blog reader), you will probably notice that I am redesigning again. As a kid I used to rearrange my bedroom a few times a year, and changing my blog's look is my way of rearranging.

You might notice a Facebook link on the sidebar. I'm working on making that a little less obtrusive, but I wanted you to know that I now have a FB site. This allows me to maintain a presence on Facebook while also keeping some degree of privacy on my regular page.

I also have been working with a blog designer to start the process of actually creating the Life After the Fire website. I'm really excited about this project, and I've already been contacting some experts for interviews, specifically on PTSD. In the meantime, you can read some of their projects (The PTSD Workbook, Treating Traumatic Stress in Children and Adolescents, The Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Relationship).

I'm also going to be setting up a resources page on the blog, so you'll likely see a move to a three column design soon to accommodate that. I get a lot of hits to my post about What to Do When Someone's House Burns Down. I am going to be adding a few more posts to provide even more information for those who lose their home as well as family and friends who want to help.

The same web designer is going to be building my personal website where I can link published work and my blog.

I already feel so much more productive this year. I am, unfortunately, still sick, and I don't know when or if we'll ever know why or how to help. But I am happy to be off antibiotics, and I'm hoping to stay Lyme-free for a long time.

Thanks for reading the blog, for liking me on Facebook, for holding my hand as I sorted through the ashes of my home and survived facial paralysis and killed off bacteria and now worked on my book and other projects. I have the best family and friends and internet pals. Thank you!

Finding a literary agent is like buying a house

2011-01-31T10:40:00.000-08:00

Dan and I first started looking at a house to buy in 2006 (you know, BEFORE the market crashed and there were a thousand properties for sale and you had to jump on everything, or at least that's what the realtor said because it would be gone tomorrow).

My mom was encouraging us to buy a townhouse because that seemed like a good place for a mid-twenties couple to start. We looked at a row of light yellow townhouses that sat near the river, the Greenbelt, and the newly opened Bown Crossing with two of our favorite restaurants in Boise. My step-mom had owned one of these units a few years earlier, and the price the owner of the unit I wanted to buy was asking a bit more than she had sold hers for. And my step-mom had a hard time getting it appraised for even that. My dad told me not to buy, but I loved it, and I placed an offer, an offer that was less than the asking price.

And then I waited.

I jumped every time the phone rung. I checked in with my Realtor every ten minutes. I envisioned my life in this townhouse and started mentally placing furniture in every room. I even talked to Dan about how cool the nursery would be (even though we weren't married yet and didn't have kids).

And then our real estate agent called us and said the offer was rejected (not even a counter offer!!). They had a likely full-price cash offer coming in. I begged the agent to let us know if the deal fell through. I had already made plans to live there, and now I was having to start all over. My dad had warned me not to fall in love with a house too soon and promised me that even if one deal fell through I would find another house to love.

We looked at several more houses, each one complete with an imaginary scenario of my life in that house, my kids in the backyard, the renovations, holidays. When I walked in the door to the house on Sweetwater Drive, I knew I was home. I loved it even more than the townhouse I had been so pained to lose. We placed an offer. And we waited. And then waited. The sellers accepted our offer, threw in some extras. We held our breath through the inspection. And finally, finally, the realtor handed us our keys to our new home.

Getting published is a bit like that.

You research agents, trying to find one that looks like a good fit. QueryTracker is a bit like the literary equivalent of the MLS. Instead of examining the neighborhood and schools, you are looking at their location, contacts, and book lists.

When you find an agent you love, you send off a query, an offer if you will (though we have to stretch that metaphor a bit). And you wait, checking email obsessively, heart quickening each time the red light on the Blackberry flashes. Some queries are immediately rejected (like my lovely townhouse). Some times an agent comes back and says "I like it, but..." and encourages you to make revisions and resubmit (it's the counter-offer stage). And if you're really lucky, the agent you love comes back and says, "I'll take it."

I have a proposal out to an agent at the moment, an agent I have known for a whole three days. I've done my research. I've envisioned my book in her hands, my future as her client. She has been amazing about keeping me informed of the process and giving me concrete deadlines when she'll get back to me. For those who've been waiting for an update, you'll have to wait until Wednesday to hear more. You can obsess with me. Ultimately, this process is about finding someone who is the right fit for both of us. You don't just want to buy any house that's available, right? You want the one where you feel at home. I want an agent who love my stuff as much as I do. And just like buying a house, I'm reminded that even if ultimately this agent rejects me, I will fall in love with another one, will be able to envision my book in their hands, and I will find myself at home there just as I did with my house on Sweetwater Drive.

Getting a book published, memoir edition

2011-01-28T12:54:00.000-08:00

Since I'm fully immersed in this whole process, I thought it might be helpful to friends and blog readers to know exactly what it takes to get a book published. I worked for a short time on the other side of publishing after attending the Denver Publishing Institute after graduating college. I have to say, knowing the process doesn't make it easier!

Memoir is complicated. It's technically non-fiction, but it's obviously quite different from a book on how to shell a crab or decorate your house as a neo-con. Non-fiction is most often sold on proposal with one or two sample chapters. Fiction is almost always sold after the entire book is written. No one can agree on what to do with memoir! It reads like fiction, and the author has to be able to tell a story. But it's still non-fiction, so some agents and editors want the proposal, not the whole book. Confused? I have opted to try the proposal route first.

I've spent months (and months and months) working on the proposal and sample chapters. I believe my mom said to me, "When is that first chapter going to be finished?" because I've been working on it for so long. The challenge for me has been deciding how to structure the book and what the central theme is. I'm too organized to write without an outline, so until this structure was in place, I kind of felt like I was floundering around. It's a good thing I'm a writing class addict as this has really helped pull all the pieces in where I think they should be.

Anyhow, I've finished the proposal and I've written my sample chapters.

The next piece to this confusing puzzle is understanding how the publishing business works. Companies like Random House and Hyperion and Penguin are all publishing houses (usually owned by some European media conglomerate). You can't just send them your stuff. Well, you can. But it's a bad bad bad idea. In order to get your stuff in front of an editor, you need an agent, and literary agents exist in abundance. Finding the right agent is important in terms of a working relationship with them as well as getting your book actually sold.

And that's where I am right now. I have a list of agents. That list grows every night actually. I send off a letter that summarizes my book as follows:

His nursery was finished: the star knobs adorned my refurbished childhood dresser, the crib was assembled with the blue and brown Restoration Hardware bumper firmly in place, the books sat quietly in the bookcase beside the rocker, the onesies were washed and hung, ready for my son to come home. But instead of packing my hospital bag on Labor Day weekend, I stood over the charred remnants of my leveled home, looking for anything recognizable that could help me reclaim my foundation. Sweetwater Drive: My Road Home tells the story of preparing our house for our son’s arrival and the journey we had to take to find our way home.

And then I wait. If an agent is interested, they ask to see my proposal and sample chapters. If not, I get something like this:

Thank you for thinking of me, but this isn't quite right for my list.
Best,
[agent's name]

So far today I have received the rejection above and then another sort of rejection where the agent passed on my query to another agent in the office. She requested my proposal, which I immediately went through to make sure it was as clean as possible.

And now it's the weekend, and all I can do is continue to wait.

If you have more questions, ask. I'd be happy to answer.

Writing is not for the impatient

2011-01-27T21:10:00.000-08:00

I have no patience. None.

Which is why this week is torture.

I currently have queries (letters of interest for the unindoctrinated) out to a few agents, and I am stalking my email like it was Christmas Eve and I was four and couldn't sleep for fear I'd miss something. In fact, I didn't sleep all that well this morning because right below that layer of consciousness was this knowing that I had sent these letters out, that someone could be reading them right now and sending me a response. Of course when I woke up and checked the Blackberry there was nothing but spam.

I also realized that my letter wasn't as good as it could have been, so I re-vamped and sent out to a couple more agents tonight. Researching agents after Kellen goes to bed has become my routine, actually. By next week I could have a real problem in terms of the number of queries I have out in cyberspace. I should be patient and wait for some responses. Or maybe I should channel my nervous energy into writing Chapter 2, which is currently angering me.

Instead, I'm wandering around my house, anxious for some patience juice while obsessively refreshing my inbox, even at 11 p.m.

It's ok to say "This sucks"

2011-01-21T07:25:00.000-08:00

If you follow me on Twitter or are my friend on Facebook... or are my real life friend (does anyone even have those anymore ;-)), you probably know that my brother had an unfortunate accident with an IED yesterday while serving in Afghanistan as a Marine.

When I got the news, I was somewhat upset, both because well, he's my brother and he's hurt and because we have a somewhat strained relationship and I really don't know how to reach out to him to let him know that I am thinking about him. In the middle of sorting through these complicated feelings, I posted a general note to the world about my displeasure with it. I mean, I know I'm supposed to be SO GRATEFUL for all these life lessons, but FUCK. I'm over the lessons. Hear me world? And then I got called out for not feeling so blessed that my brother is alive.

Let me stop and say it here. I am glad my brother is alive. So very glad.

But blessed? No. Blessed would be not getting your fingers blown off by an IED, actually. I think this whole thing sucks. His foot is damaged, and he lost at least one of his fingers. (I have complicated religious feelings, so blessed actually isn't a word I use much. Let's just replace blessed with "great.")

I started thinking about this whole "great" concept. Actually, I was on the phone ranting. And I was thinking about the fire and how there were so many people who didn't understand the grief and looked at me like a twenty-headed monster who couldn't possibly see how wonderful it was to have my house burn down because... we were alive.

Ok. Seriously people, if there isn't SOME spectrum between dead and "great" then we need to seriously reevaluate our standards. I can't possibly be the only person who thinks that being "great" (or blessed) is more than just being alive. I know I've been criticized on this blog even for not being the shiny ray of sunshine that sees all positive. I guess I just expect more. I expect that when my house burns down I can cry and say, "Hey, I really wish my house hadn't burned down, and I think it really fucking sucks and I'm not feeling all that blessed actually. Even if we all survived." I'm only allowed to be sad or upset if someone dies? Man, that's harsh.

And my brother? He's lucky that it wasn't worse, sure. But I imagine that there will be a time when he misses that little finger and thinks, "Hey, I really wish my hand hadn't gotten blown up. And man, I kind of actually want that finger back now." Is he supposed to suppress that feeling and just say he's so very blessed?

If you're the kind of person who is always optimistic and can find the good behind every black cloud, good for you. Me? I kind of like to set my expectations a little higher and think that there must be something between dead and great. Like maybe "This sucks," even just a little.

What is home?

2011-01-19T08:00:00.000-08:00

As some of you may know (and are now all about to find out), I finally submitted pieces of my book to an agent. It was a big step, and I'm still really freaked out about it. I've gone back and forth about what the underlying story is, and ultimately it's about the idea of home. What IS home? What are the things inside that define your home? How do you define yourself when your home and everything inside is gone? I'm going to start tackling these questions, and I'd love for you to join in. Each post will have its own question for you to reflect on, whether you post your own blog about it (and hopefully link back) or whether you leave your thoughts just in the comments. For those who post on their own blogs, I will certainly link up at the bottom.

To start: What defines a home?

In the two years since the fire, I've learned that our home is much more than the four walls (ok, there are far more than four walls!) and roof that surround us. For me, it's a feeling, an internal sense of comfort and familiarity.

When I went back to Virginia Beach this summer, stepping off the plane into 105 degree weather with immediate sweat-inducing humidity was familiar. It smelled of salt-water and sand. Those things were home in the global sense. I remember once driving home from college and pulling off the freeway and passing by the "Welcome to Virginia Beach" sign and crying. I felt warm inside, even though I wasn't really physically warm, and I started to tear up. Home.

I've had lots of homes since high school. A college dorm. A studio apartment in D.C. Denver. A two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. An old apartment complex in the historic district of Boise across from the Co-Op. And Sweetwater Drive. Each of those places was home because I made them so. It wasn't just merely living in them that made them my home, but rather the stuff inside that differentiated my two-bedroom from the one down the hall. The green painted walls. The pink bathroom. The butterfly rug. The books, signed and not. My photos. And the home at Sweetwater Drive felt even more like home, both because we owned it and also because of the work we put into it. I could tell you a story about building that large deck in the backyard. Even the sod had a story and made it ours.

After the fire, even though I had shelter (first in the form of a hotel room and then a rental), I didn't feel home. Nothing was familiar. Even the pillows I bought that were identical to the ones I had owned were not mine. I hadn't mashed them in 400 directions, indented my head every night for two years. I had a spatula, but it wasn't the same brand, and it didn't feel the same. When I went to Labor and Delivery to have Kellen, I didn't have any old clothes, any comforting items to remind me of home, remind me of all the things to come. A spatula or t-shirt or pillow might seem inconsequential. In fact you might wonder how I can possibly define my homes in terms of that "STUFF." But that stuff, for me, is what makes this place a home... and not just four walls and a roof.

What defines your home? Is it the structure? Is it an item? Is it the way you feel when you look out the window into your garden? Or something else entirely?

Critter Chronicles - Lovely response from a military perspective
Am I a Funny Girl? - Family and Laughter
Before the Baby Wakes - Matter Holds Memory

What I love about my house

2011-01-18T13:38:00.000-08:00

I know I've written a lot about the things that make me crazy in this house (the possessed microwave being at the top of the list). We're quickly approaching the two year mark of living in this house (time is crazy like that). And there are things that I absolutely love.

I love my staircase. It took a while to adjust to having stairs since our old house was very much a single story. When we went to pick out the railing shortly after Kellen was born, we talked about just doing a standard railing, but I'm really glad that I added in the decorative element. It really is just a small thing, but I think it makes our entry way stand out, and it just is really pretty. Also, it's right above the piano, and they kind of look a little like treble clefs, right?!

I love my office, which just happens to look straight at that staircase. I limited the pink in my house, but I do have a pink office with a pretty corkboard I made all by myself to hang cards and such on. I love the Pottery Barn desk, even if it's covered in paper most of the time. I love the closet, which has shelves for my scrapbooking supplies.

My favorite room in the house is the guest bedroom, and sometimes Dan and I fight over who gets to sleep in there because it is probably the calmest room in the house. I love the colors, the furniture, the peace. And I love the Vinyl lettering a friend sent me after the fire: Everyday holds the possibility of a Miracle.

I also really love the oversized red chairs that are currently in our living room. The colors don't match since they were originally intended for our master bedroom, but it doesn't matter. They are brilliant reading chairs, not to mention great for playing Wii Bowling or a game of Monopoly City (the ottoman is a great stand-in card table).

I've been thinking about the whole idea of home, of feeling at peace within the boundaries of one's life, and for me these things bring me comfort, allow me to accept the fire. I had no choice in those circumstances, and this isn't the way I would have decided to build my forever home. But it is what happened. And I have power in the situation by being able to decide if I will forever resent this place (which wasn't the intent in rebuilding) or if I can find peace in our new life. Finding things to love, truly love, here has allowed me to finally settle into this as our home.

National Delurking Day

2011-01-14T15:22:00.000-08:00

I'm working on my Decade in Photos post, which will hopefully get posted before the end of this next decade.

In the meantime, it's National Delurking Day (which extends to tomorrow or next Wednesday or whatever day you finally read this post!). I know there are a lot of you out there who read my blog. I'd love for you to say hi (you too, Uncle Jeff).

And if you're feeling up to it:
How did you find this blog?
And what keeps you coming back?

Why the Burnout Fund matters

2011-01-06T14:07:00.000-08:00

As you might now if you've been reading this blog for a while, the Boise Burnout Fund and the Light My Fire organizations are very dear to me. It's getting to be that time again for the annual Light My Fire fundraiser, and I thought it would be a great time for me to share why the Burnout Fund matters and why I believe so much in supporting this cause.

Every year there are between 370,000 and 400,000 house fires across the United States. Depending on your perspective that may seem like a huge number, or a relatively inconsequential number. Regardless, when you multiply that number over a decade, assuming that most people don't lose their homes more than once in that time span, we're talking about four million people. I think we can all agree four million people is a lot of people. Even so, I never thought I'd be one of them. But I am.

August 25, 2008, changed my life, and even if I can recognize the good that's come from an incredibly horrible situation, that doesn't mean I wouldn't undo it if I could. I learned that night what it's like to not have anything. No underwear, no toothbrush, no pillow. I had the generosity of a friend who provided shelter and interim supplies. And I had insurance, which would allow me to eventually replace those things.

Once we moved into the hotel, we didn't have cooking supplies. No can opener to open food. No pots and pans to cook. No food in the refrigerator. Our insurance policy provided for some meals, but we still had to take care of one or two meals a day, which for over a week consisted of easy to eat or takeout food.

The Burnout Fund is not a replacement for insurance. It cannot possibly cover all of the expenses after a fire. But it does cover an important gap between losing your house and the time insurance does finally kick in and you're back up on your feet. It also helps cover some of the costs of things that just aren't covered by insurance, like the constant eating out, the extra fuel used by driving to and from everywhere. It allowed us to buy buckets and shovels and masks for those coming to help us sort through the ash. I bought a pillow so that I could get some sleep given that I was eight months pregnant.

In some ways we were lucky that our fire was so high-profile. The community outpouring was unbelievable. But fires happen year-round, and I know that the assistance given to other families is far less than what was shown for us. It's why I believe so much in giving back to it in every way that I can.

If you live in Boise, I encourage you to help support this cause, hoping that you will never have to be a beneficiary but knowing if you needed it, it would be there. There are several ways to help:

1) Attend the Light My Fire event. Details are at Light My Fire. It's a silent auction complete with a great dessert auction. Every year they've auctioned off a really cool painted fire hydrant. Last year they had a puppy.

2) Donate. If you can't attend the fundraiser, please consider donating to this great organization, whether the Boise Burnout Fund or Light My Fire, which donates to the Burnout Fund and also provides fire prevention education.

3) Provide items for the silent auction. One of the most important aspects of the fundraiser is the silent auction. Do you have a talent you could provide? Does your company have a service it could donate? Are you a good baker and can donate a dessert for the dessert auction?

If you aren't in Boise but are interested in donating items for the auction, I'd be more than happy to facilitate that. Also, I encourage you to look into your own local organizations that provide fire assistance. I'm sure they'd be happy to have your help, whether financial or time.

I can't wait to post pictures from this year's event!

Last year's fundraiser:

Reflections on 2010

2010-12-30T09:38:00.000-08:00

I used to spend most of my time looking ahead. Now I spend a lot of time looking back. I'm pretty sure this reflecting is supposed to happen later in life, but with the traumas of the last two years, I've changed (perhaps into an 80 year old little lady in a 28 year old's body).

I'm not sure at what point I stop looking back to 2008. Everything is viewed in terms of "Before the fire" (or "BF" at our house) and "After." When I reflect on 2010, I am actually reflecting on the last two years, viewing my year through the lens of a woman whose life changed in the course of an hour. I think back on the person I was before the fire and make comparisons. Maybe it's because I'm immersed in writing about the fire right now. Or maybe I really will be an eighty year old woman, sitting in my chair, talking about the summer of 2008 and the person I thought I'd become. And instead, the person I did become.

Twenty-eight. Less than two years to thirty. I attended a seminar four or five years ago about goal setting. I was a planner. Two days of listening, of creating lists of how I envisioned my life would be. A millionaire at thirty I wrote. A foster mom. On my way to creating a camp for foster kids. One hundred items of ambition, drive, a plan.

Nowhere on that list was there "Home burns down" or "chronic illness." I expected to be conquering the world, not quietly watching it go by. But, you know what? I'm not always sad about those events. The person before the fire couldn't possibly imagine the person I was going to become. Maybe she needed these huge life altering events to make meaningful change.

I've learned you don't get to plan your obstacles. And worrying about potential threats does you little good because usually those aren't the things that are going to actually stand in your way. You probably couldn't even possibly prepare for the life changing moments ahead. And there's no use wasting energy on anything but the day, the moment in front of us.

I've learned to live in the moment. I never thought it would be possible for ME, Ms. Five Year Plan, to stop and live in this exact moment, enjoy the laughter of a two year old without thinking about who he'd be in first grade. I can sit and watch the birds. Or look at the stars. And just sit. Who knew?! Part of this change is grounded in fear, fear that I won't live to tomorrow, fear that some new devastation is lurking right around the corner. And that is unfortunate because it often clouds my ability to see the absolute beauty of this moment. But I'm working on letting go of that fear because I know that tomorrow is out of my control.

I've also learned through the last two years to let go of my need to save the world. In planning out my life, I thought that it was my job to save everyone else from their own life and circumstances. If I could protect them all from making mistakes, then I would have lived a productive life. I don't have the energy to do that now, and I've actually come to believe that trying to save people from their own mistakes is actually not helpful at all. That's not to say I don't value caring and compassion and giving. I do very much value those things. But I have let go of the need to save others. And that's allowed me to direct my energy to helping in more constructive ways.

This is the week for RESOLUTIONS. But I don't believe in making unnecessary promises. Change doesn't happen on January 1. For me, change started on August 25, 2008, but it is ever evolving. I hope for a calm 2011, but I don't worry about it because I know I can only focus on today, and if life throws us another curve ball this year, I'll worry about it then.

Merry Christmas!!

2010-12-24T06:14:00.000-08:00

(Our Christmas letter):

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

2010 has been another doozie in the Linville-Thurber house.

Dan finished another semester of school, finally passing that pesky college algebra course! We are expecting a Spring 2013 graduation with his degree in IT Management. We continued to root on the Broncos in their quest to become a football powerhouse and were crushed when they lost to Nevada, but we are excited for next year’s season already.

I spent the year on heavy duty antibiotics dealing with late stage Lyme Disease. We spent last weekend in Seattle and got the news that I can stop antibiotics. Unfortunately, it’s looking like there may be some permanent nerve damage, so while I’m excited about not having to take meds any longer, I am learning to accept the limitations created by chronic dizziness and make adjustments as I can.

I also published a story about our first Christmas in our new house in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic, which was released in October. I continue blogging at http://lifeafterthefire.com. I’m hoping that I’m able to dedicate time this year to establishing a non-profit to help other families deal with the emotional stress of losing a home. It’s amazing how many plans though don’t seem to happen when you have a two-year old at home.

Speaking of Kellen, he’s becoming quite the opinionated and stubborn child. We’re still trying to figure out exactly which side of the family he gets those genes from because I was definitely a meek and quiet child. He started Montessori preschool in October and loves his teacher. We love the school, and it’s proven to be a great environment for Kellen. He makes us laugh with his language development with phrases like “Get out of here Mommy” and “Where’s Daddy’s be butt (belly button)?” He also has quite the fascination with trains and gets out his wooden tracks at least once a day. He likes his “ups” (hills) the best.

We are all looking forward to an uneventful and healthy 2011.

We hope you have a great holiday season (though this card will probably reach you at the tail end of it). We are wishing you all a very healthy and happy new year as well!

Our halls are decked

2010-12-12T18:58:00.000-08:00

Christmas is such an interesting time post-fire. It's so rooted in tradition, family heirlooms, the past. And yet, for us, that is gone.

The ornaments are all new, with a different kind of significance. We don't think back on generations past because the ornaments they handmade no longer adorn our tree. Rather, we look at several ornaments and think about my mom's generous friends who gathered ornaments for our first Christmas. Each year, I try to add more, though our tree is still quite bare. I'm sure ten years from now, we'll be having to decide which to put up on the tree (especially if school projects have anything to say about it).

We got a great Santa last year, sitting at a table writing his Christmas letters. I haven't found the right spot for him, but this year, he sat on the piano, which worked ok.

The white-glittered JOY letters sit on the red ladder bookcase in our living room and remind us of the first Christmas in our house that wasn't yet complete, a fold-up table and plastic chairs the only furniture inside. Speaking of which, have you picked up your copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul?

After the fire, I re-bought the photo stocking holders from the old house, but they don't work the same now. The stairs are such a great place to hang them. I've found this happens a lot throughout this reacclimating process. I thought I wanted the same things I had in the old house, but they just don't work the same. It's a bit of a struggle letting go of that desire to recreate instead of just doing what works now.

I am having a hard time getting into the Christmas Spirit this year, but I know that Christmas morning this year will be magical. Kellen knows who Santa is, and we read "Twas the Night Before Christmas" nearly every night. He's been practicing Jingle Bells, and as soon as I can get a good video I will post it. He may not FULLY get it this year, but I'm sure that his expression and excitement will be a great moment to treasure.

Merry Christmas!

Lyme blog

2010-11-27T09:27:00.000-08:00

I WAS working on a switch to Wordpress, but I've decided not to because I don't want to lose my followers or blog stats. Is that sad?! I also get a good number of blog hits from Blogger's "Next Blog" feature, so I'm just going to keep this blog right here.

One of the features of Wordpress I liked was the ability to have one blog with several categories, but since I'm not switching, I decided to reactivate my Lyme blog that was private when I was first diagnosed. I've copied my Lyme blogs from here and from Mommy in Chief to that blog.

There are links at the top of the page, which makes it easy to click to the other sites. I know I've been lax about posting on my mom blog, but it's mostly because there's not much parenting going on from my couch!

I'm going to try to be better about posting to all three. The new Lyme blog is Lemon and Lyme, and I'm hoping it gives me some space to explore some of the more complex issues involved with Lyme, treatment, and long-term health repercussions.

A box of memories

2010-11-23T14:19:00.000-08:00

My mom found a box of my things in a back closet of their house. They moved out of my childhood house the week I got married (actually, both of my childhood houses: mom's and dad's, were sold the week of my wedding). Mom had shipped some of my things a couple of weeks before the fire. A few more things she sent shortly afterward, knowing that I would be glad to have some of my old things. Had she known about this box, I'm sure she would have shipped it then as well. I'm kind of glad she waited.

I love my things, if that isn't obvious from this blog and from the enormous grief I felt when I lost everything. I miss being able to go into my garage and rummage through an old box and laugh about high school letters. I miss having the tangible items that remind me of moments I wouldn't otherwise remember. This small box reminded me how important it is to have these things.

Inside was a velvet rabbit that sat in my room most of my childhood. It's a perfect addition to my Christmas decor. I don't even know who gave it to me. It reminds me of The Velveteen Rabbit and my fear of loving my stuffed animals too much for fear something would happen to them. Stories have always been so real to me.

The box also contained a number of old cards, several of which were from my 16th birthday. Were it not for those cards, I wouldn't be able to tell you that I attended the Warped Tour in Boise that year. Have I mentioned how much I love cards?

I also got a number of things from my academic life. I was always a good student, and I've always been a writer. I have a sick fascination with my standardized test scores, and I loved looking over my eighth grade tests. My favorite item from the box was my illustrated Three Little Pigs booklet. I was never very good at art, and the disconnect between my creative writing talents and my drawing is somewhat embarrassing.

I spent yesterday reading through my high school creative writing journals and even being a little taken aback by my observations. I loved writing poetry then, and I am thankful to have these books to look back on.

I also have several composition notebooks for books I *read* in high school (Cliff Notes count, right?!).

And my mom found copies of my high school newspaper, where I was the editor for two years.

I am saddened about losing so many of my yearbooks, so I'm glad that she found these as well. There is nothing like compiling a list of ancient phone numbers from your friends in first grade!

And my high school graduation cap and honor cord.

I have a life of memories in just one box. And that was the box of the things I didn't think were that important, that I left with my mom because I couldn't justify sending them all over. Perspective is a funny thing. Because of the fire, everything in that box has more significance, more relevance than it would have otherwise had.

Thankful for recovery

2010-11-12T13:01:00.000-08:00

So apparently daily blogging is too much for me. But I'm trying.

Today I am thankful for recovery.

I am not 100%, but I have continued to feel better each day. I have help so that the tasks that were overwhelming are now off my shoulders. The med adjustment in September was critical I think. One of the infections had obviously come back, and the addition of another antibiotic quickly kicked that bug down. I am still dizzy, but I'm managing that and at least have an idea that it's coming from an imbalance in my inner ear. I also have some lingering cognitive deficits, but I'm coping with those as well. I honestly feel like I see a light at the end of this tunnel. I feel like I am climbing out of the Lyme hell and getting my life back. FINALLY.

Flexibility

2010-11-10T17:22:00.000-08:00

My dad is perhaps the least flexible person I know. When he had cancer, he would demand we go to the grocery store on a specific day even if he had just finished chemotherapy an hour before. It was crazy. I have never been that rigid, but I certainly have learned over the course of the last two years to be more flexible than I was before. Today, I am grateful for that flexibility, to have the understanding that decisions are not permanent, to be able to change my mind. If only we could give some of that flexibility to our world leaders :-)

Thankful for remembering

2010-11-09T11:58:00.001-08:00

I forgot yesterday... again!

But I wanted to say yesterday that I was thankful for cookbooks so that I could recreate the Bellagio eggs benedict that had consumed my thoughts for the better part of 24 hours.

Today, I am thankful for our ability to remember, and share in that remembering. I am thankful for this blog, that my words have been able to reach out into a vast space and touch the lives of others, many of whom have felt lost and alone as they struggle with losses, real losses, that many cannot understand. Today we remember Roni and acknowledge her loss one year ago. It's a journey that no one should have to walk, but I am glad that we can walk it together.

A weekend of thanks!

2010-11-07T19:22:00.000-08:00

I didn't get a chance to post this weekend because I was on a girls' trip to Vegas. Here is a weekend worth of gratitude.

Friday- I am thankful for an airline system that is safe. As much as I hate flying, I appreciate everything that happens behind the scenes to make sure that I can fly safely around the country.

Saturday- I am thankful for great girlfriends, whether they be the ones locally, those I know through a message board who take trips to Vegas with me, or those I have met through Twitter and blogging. I love you all.

Sunday- I am thankful for Kellen kisses ("misses"). As good as it was to get away, I was so glad to come home and hold my baby and get a few kisses. I even missed reading reading "My Truck is Stuck," which I have read at least 150 times.

What are you grateful for this weekend?

Thankful for a writing community

2010-11-04T13:53:00.000-07:00

As many of you may know, I am working on a book about the fire. It's been a long journey, two years in the making. Today I am thankful for a wonderful online writing community, from an incredible memoir writing instructor at Gotham to nearly everyone at MediaBistro. You have all pushed me to be a better writer. I realized today that I have nearly 60 completed pages. I never would have done that without your help. And I am thankful for you.

Thankful for quiet moments

2010-11-03T09:06:00.000-07:00

I am so thankful that Kellen started Montessori school and is going three mornings a week. I'm thankful for the time it gives me to reengage in my adult life, to try to put together a string of words into coherent sentences that I can then work on selling off, one essay at a time.

When the lady at the front desk asked how Kellen was doing, I responded: "I don't know. All I know is that I get three hours where I don't have to talk about trains and tractors."

Today I'm thankful for those quiet moments. They make me a better mom.

Thankful

2010-11-02T12:11:00.000-07:00

The Thanksgiving after the fire was perhaps the hardest day (other than the fire) I've had in my life.

My house was gone. My face was paralyzed. My baby wasn't sleeping. I was in the middle of my first dizzy episode. And I was SUPPOSED TO BE THANKFUL?! My mother in law's tradition is to go around the table and say what we were thankful for. I asked her not to. Honestly, I wasn't thankful. I was bitter. Angry. I wanted to scream at the universe and tell it to fuck off. I was done with the challenges, the lessons, the heartache. And I didn't even know that I was REALLY sick and in for an even more challenging battle ahead. When my turn came, I told them I was thankful for my son because that's what you're supposed to say, right? I had wanted him so badly, and here was this beautiful innocent baby who I did love.

But I still wasn't thankful. I knew that having a baby at that moment made the house and the illness that harder to deal with. We had to haul a baby seat with us to meet with contractors. I had to bundle him extra warmly because the seasons were changing and had to be extra careful about how much time we spent at the build site because it was too cold, and our home had no heat. I was exhausted from sleepless nights, and I knew that stress wasn't going to help regain function in my face.

Last year at Thanksgiving we had just lost my grandmother. It was hard, and this month is a bit bittersweet that way.

This year though, I can say that I am once again thankful, that the bitterness has subsided. I'm still angry some days, but I think that's ok. I'm thankful that I allow myself the space to be angry.

A friend of mine on Facebook is posting something she's thankful for each day leading up to Thanksgiving. I'm going to join her, sharing with you the little things that make me thankful.

Today I am thankful for the people who are willing to put themselves in the public eye, to avail themselves for criticism, as candidates for elected office so that our democracy can continue to flourish. While I may have my own opinions about them and disagree (many times vehemently) with their politics, I still am thankful that they are willing to do a job many of us only ever talk about. And I'm thankful to live in a country that respects the citizens' right to pick their politicians.

What are you thankful for today?

Fire Friday- Tammy Jo's story

2010-10-29T16:57:00.000-07:00

I am a wife and mother of three children. My son is 10, my daughter is 8 and our youngest girl is 2. We had been married nearly 10 years and bought home in 1999. My husband had changed it quite a bit and although I needed a new kitchen, I loved my home. We live in Massachusetts and my husband is co owner of a cabinet making business. We were having money troubles of course with the economy and I was trying to work and take care of the kids and school work and everything most moms do.

The night of our fire, I was folding laundry on the coffee table watching tv. We heated our home with a wood stove and had been using it for years. It was a very cold night and I even made sure to put enough wood so I wouldn't have to come down in the middle of the night to fill it again. I went to bed around 10 pm feeling confident that I had the lunches made and the laundry folded for the next day.

3:35 a.m. We hear the spoke detector beeping. It is a kind that speaks and says FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE. We raced down stairs assuming it was the wood stove acting up. We soon discovered there was a lot of smoke in the house. Our kids were screaming and the baby was still upstairs. ( My husband build a 3 car garage with three bedrooms and a bathroom above it) My husband told me to grab the baby and he went to check to see where the smoke was coming from. (at that point, I really thought the wood stove just popped the top and smoke had escaped) As I got downstairs with the baby and the other kids near me, my husband said the smoke had filled our finished basement and we needed to get the kids in the van.

Without thinking, I grabbed the kids and put them in the car as I picked up my phone to call 911. We live in a community where there is no full time fire department. The firemen were sleeping in their beds so we had to wait for them to wake up, go to the station and get here!! We backed out of our driveway and parked down the street. My husband called his parents and while crying told them he thought our house was on fire!

We were all crying by now, watching the smoke pour out of the windows. The smoke was so thick and so black. We had our family dog in our car and she was lucky because she didn't know what was going on. We were watching our home pour smoke out each orifice and I didn't know what to think. The tears were streaming down my face and I had to try to keep a brave face for my son and daughter. My baby was just sitting in my lap. She was 5 months old at the time.

The fire department came and my husband went to the house to answer the questions they had about where our source of heat came from. By this time, my in laws drove across town to our street and got into our car and saw the five of us crying and scared. They saw my son who had already suffered from anxiety wonder what was going on. They saw my husband cry for the first time in his adult life. I suffer from Irritable bowel syndrome and I had to use my mother in law's boots to walk to my neighbors house with really bad stomach pains.

Some family members came to our car and took our kids to their home so they could get some rest and not further damage their little minds. They were after all, very young tired children who needed food, and clothing and rest.

We watched while they were slipping and sliding down the street because it was so cold outside and the water froze on the street. Our neighbor told us to get our of our car and into their home. It was at our neighbors house where we learned that everything was gone. The structure was still in tact, but all our possessions inside were destroyed. The fire started form our chimney. The person who built it did not put enough mortar between the bricks and the wood of the house. Through use and time, it was inevitable. It was not our fault, and there was no way to inspect it, repair it or predict it. We were just lucky that the smoke detectors worked.

The fire chief came to the neighbors house and took us in and let us see our home...

These pictures were taken of the first things we saw when we entered the front door. We could recognize everything, yet see nothing...This truly changed us. It changed who we are as people and has changed how our children live and react to life.

We lived in a trailer on our property for just six months, but it felt like six years. We were cramped and uncomfortable, but alive and together. We had some amazing support from family, friends, and community. We received many donations and so much emotional support.

We were forced to knock down the main part of the house and rebuild from the foundation. The garage with the bedrooms above had to be gutted out and built up again. We moved into our new home in July of 09' thanks to my husband's business and a great insurance company.

This is our new home.

This is one of the first things seen when coming in the front door now...

My two children and myself have been seeing a counselor since the fire and I often stay awake as long as possible to make sure we are all safe. Just tonight, one year and a half later, my son is nervous about a heater we put upstairs to keep us warm. I know we are safe. I just don't know when my body will feel safe again...

This picture was taken May 2010. My husband Scott, baby Erica, Myself Tammy Jo, our son Matthew, and our big daughter Laura.
- - - -
Thanks for sharing Tammy Jo. I'm wishing you peace as you continue to heal from the pain of your fire.

Do you have a story to share? Email me at life_after_the_fire@yahoo.com.

Walking in my shoes

2010-10-26T13:37:00.000-07:00

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view - until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

-Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird

Last night, I was sitting in my oversized Pottery Barn chair in my living room, dizzy as I always am, checking my email when a comment came in for moderation on my Happy Anniversary post about accepting that life sometimes is "For Worse." It's hard to know the intent of a blog commenter, but it really made me defensive and has continued to bother me almost twenty four (dizzy) hours later.

Kathy, I do not know what your intent was, but I will say that you have not climbed in my skin and walked around in it to be able to criticize my feelings. I share with the world, or at very least those who read my blog, my feelings. You might not agree, and you are certainly able to express your disagreement, but ultimately these are my feelings.

Certainly I can agree with you that I am fortunate to live in a country where I have freedoms and (at the moment) health insurance. I have access to doctors (though not many who believe in chronic lyme disease). And I have a house that I am learning to love. I do not live on the streets. I do not have to beg for food. But does that mean that I am not entitled to say that my current condition sucks? Am I not able to look at the fact that my home burned down the day after I finished folding my son's newborn clothes and wish for it to be otherwise? Can I not wish for health and be even a little sad that I am sick? Your comment seemed to imply that because I am "privileged" (spelled with an "i" in case you were wondering), I cannot have unfortunate life circumstances. And that just isn't true.

Until you have walked a day in my shoes, stood in the nonexistent transom of a burned down home while waiting for your son's birth, until you've had your face come to a halt and no longer smile or blink, until you have watched your son learn how to smile when you could not, until you've had a PICC line placed and been happy about the fact that you were actually being treated, you cannot possibly know how unlucky I feel some days. I believe that I have walked this road with strength and grace. I've learned through the last two years that it's impossible to know how mightily an event might have impacted a person, and to always ALWAYS start with compassion. I invite you to do the same.

Fall

2010-10-20T14:54:00.001-07:00

I love fall. I know I've said this before. And I'll keep saying it.

I love the crispness of the air. I love that I can wear long-sleeved shirts that cover up my PICC line. I especially love the fact that this year I can love the cold weather AND eat ripe tomatoes because of the weird spring we had. I love the pumpkins. I love the lattes. And I love the anticipation for Christmas (speaking of which, have you picked up a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic? My story is on p. 132!).

Kellen is finally old enough to understand the concept of a pumpkin patch. We went to Farmstead this year where we rode ponies and watched pigs race and jumped on a big air trap and rode a tractor.

When we stopped to pick pumpkins, Kellen melted down because he didn't want to say goodbye to the tractor, even though we were getting right back on.

We went again today with some friends, and Kellen got to ride in a metal cow behind a tractor.

He was sad when it wasn't his turn.

And he played in corn. I didn't have such a good time, as I leaned up against a fence that was improperly secured, and I fell backwards with my feet over my head. My tail bone is royally sore this afternoon.

The other thing I love about fall is the delicious apples. I remember my freshman year of college taking an environmental studies seminar and having the local farmer bring in apples from his orchard for us to taste the varieties. I fell in love with the diversity of the apple, and while I love to eat Fujis and Galas the most, I appreciate others for different uses.

Fall also brings some sadness though, as it was a year ago that my grandmother suffered the stroke that would ultimately end her life. My grandmother's applesauce was legendary, and last Thanksgiving was the first family holiday I can remember where it didn't appear on the table next to the turkey.

Thankfully my grandmother's apple trees are still in the hands of family, and we were able to pick some apples for ourselves this year in hopes of canning apples for applesauce so that her legacy lives on. Kellen thought apple picking was great, and I am sad that it isn't an experience we got to share with my grandmother. I also hope I don't suck at canning!

I might not feel great, but it's still fall. And I'm happy for that!

Sometimes "I do" really does mean "for worse"

2010-10-07T11:54:00.000-07:00

Today is our four year wedding anniversary. Amazing to think it's only been four years.

Photo by Brad Hollenbaugh

** While Dan and I didn't recite the traditional vows, I'm going to reference them for this post.

It's hard for me to look at that picture, even though it hangs on my stairway, and I see it every day (just as I did when a copy hung in the living room of our old house). I look at that girl, and I'm jealous. She's happy. Life seems so full of promise. The idea that she could need someone to stick by her in sickness and through "worse" is foreign to her even though she'd already endured some of life's challenges. She was twenty four. Getting married "for better or FOR WORSE" was just something that people said. They didn't really have to endure it.

But we have.

Three years ago we went to Tahoe for our first anniversary.

Even that trip seems happy and full of promise. And yet on our anniversary, we spent the day wandering around Tahoe looking for a place to draw my CD3 fertility bloodwork. On our anniversary, I started Clomid to help us get pregnant. It didn't work.

Two years ago, we sat on the foundation of our new house feeling homeless and without the things that had been a part of our newlywed journey. The toasting flutes from our wedding were ash. The champagne from our honeymoon that we were saving for our son's birth or Dan's graduation, evaporated. My wedding dress. Our whole life was gone.

Photo by Bonnie Creevy

Last year I had just learned that I likely had Lyme Disease, and we were traveling to Seattle, where we spent one of the rainiest weekends of my life holed up in a hotel room with a child who wanted none of it.

And this year, I spend the day in bed, crawling out of my hell to go to dinner. I want to blow out my hair so that I at least look presentable, but that takes energy, energy I'm not sure I have.

Dan and I have been married four years, and our lives have been tried beyond what seems fair or reasonable. I didn't enter into this marriage thinking that I was going to put my husband through "worse." I wanted to make his life better. Instead, I feel like I've drug him through hell (with me).

I think all you can do is hope. Hope that one day we get to experience highs in our marriage and in our life that make up for the lows that we've had to endure.

Sometimes saying "I do" really does mean getting through the worst of times together. Even if all you ever wanted was "for better."

Chronic Disease choices

2010-10-05T14:39:00.001-07:00

My new website has been put on a semi hold while I figure out some coding stuff. It would be great if I could do that while I'm flat on my back in bed, but reading is a challenge, not to mention comprehension. If you've known me since I was a kid, you can only imagine how difficult that is for me to deal with.

This brings me to a larger point about choices we have to make when we're sick. I remember hearing a few years ago someone talk about the reality that when we say "yes" to one thing, we say "no" to another. That isn't any truer than when you are sick.

Some of the choices I have to make each day:

- Whether to go to bed early or read to my son at night. I have a portable IV pump, which was supposed to make this a moot point, but after the night when I had a line full (yes full) of air, I decided the best thing was to stay still during my infusion. We put Kellen to bed, and then I start my meds, which means I finish after 10.

- Coffee or extreme fatigue. Kellen gets up between 6 and 7 every morning. Since I don't finish infusing until after 10, I often am awake until close to 11. I'm lucky if I get eight hours of sleep. Dan goes to school, and then I have Kellen. He's taking swimming lessons, so my only real option if I'm going to survive the morning is some form of caffeine. I have stomach problems so this only complicates those. It also means that I likely won't take an afternoon nap, even though I should.

- Pain or well, pain. Speaking of stomach problems, I get to choose between the types of pain I get to experience each day. I have chest wall inflammation (pleurisy in medical speak). I went to the ER several times for chest pain before I learned what was wrong. Advil pretty much reduces the inflammation so that I'm no longer in pain (at least that way). But if I take Advil, I risk stomach pain and causing further damage to my GI tract.

- Sugar or no. Because of the systemic overload of bacteria, a lot of lyme patients have trouble with things like yeast overgrowth, and as a result are encouraged to eat a low carb diet. The problem for me is that not eating sugar has led to hypoglycemia, which causes dizziness. I'm already dizzy enough, TYVM. I am currently on the "fuck-it-diet."

- Pixar or Bravo. I would just like to thank Pixar for creating such brilliant kids movies. They are actually quite enjoyable for adults. As much as it saddens me that Kellen watches so much TV, some days that's how we survive. We have already decided that Kellen will be getting more DVDs for Christmas because I know nearly every word to Cars. I'd love to find Lion King (though I think it's in the "vault"). We're also looking at Ratatoille and Aristocats. I'd love other suggestions. I used to have a great disney collection, but they are no longer in existence! (The movies we do have are Cars, Up, Nemo, Shrek (all 3), Toy Story, A Bug's Life, Tarzan, Happy Feet.)

--
On another note, several blogging friends have asked what they can do to help. I've been thinking about that, and I think the greatest thing would be cards. There is something about opening the mail to find a personal card that brings a smile to my face. It reminds us we are thought of. I used to have a large collection of cards, which burned up in the fire. I've been trying to decide if I should post my address or get a P.O. Box. Our address has been so publicized that I don't know if publishing it again would matter much. But I'm also a little nervous about doing so. More details this week. Thank you all for caring. The support I've gotten in the last couple of days has been overwhelming. Thank you.

It's not enough to just be alive

2010-10-04T11:50:00.000-07:00

I apologize if the title is shocking.

I've been reading this morning more tales of Lyme and re-watched the trailer to Under Our Skin (which used to be available online but apparently isn't anymore).

Someone said it isn't enough to be alive. Oh how that resonated with me this week. There was a time where simply being alive was enough. I could appreciate the pleasantness of life just simply by being.

That's not enough.

Just being is too painful. My body hurts, my head spins, I feel exhausted both physically and mentally. Living for the sake of living is not enough for me. I have to find other reasons to live.

I was talking recently to another Lyme survivor on Twitter about good and bad days. She said something about counting the moments not the days or the weeks. That phrase has changed my life. I certainly am not yet able to count good months. I am barely able to count good weeks. I can sometimes count good days. But I can always count good moments. I am so used to quantifying my life more globally, so each day was good or bad. And when I strung bad days together one after the next, my life seemed pretty gloomy. Let's be real, it is pretty sad.

But no matter how bad my day is there is ALWAYS a good moment that interrupts the bad.

It might be Kellen giggling with me when we are singing on the couch. Or lying in bed with him asking to read the "Be Butt" book (belly button). There is joy in picking the ripened tomatoes off the vine or walking out to the mailbox to find an unexpected card.

This illness has made me painfully aware of how those moments can save us from our pain, our suffering. It's no longer enough for me to just be alive. I have to live in those moments, stringing one second of joy to another in hopes that I will create a necklace of days that turn into weeks and eventually into months.

Letter to friends and family: Lyme disease

2010-10-03T15:30:00.000-07:00

Has it really been over two weeks since my last post? Time just seems to melt, one day into the next into the next. Several of my symptoms have returned, and it was all I could do to hold it together for Kellen's birthday party. I'm now recovering from that day even though it's over a week later.

Last night I came across a post from Infectiously Optimistic with a letter to friends and family explaining her Lyme disease and the struggle she endures day after day (please read this if anyone you know suffers with chronic illness. It's really beneficial). I have been struggling lately with how to ask for help from those closest to me. As someone who finds care giving natural, I have a hard time with needing to directly ask for the support I need. I feel like I shouldn't have to explain how to care. But I'm learning that those expectations only breed resentment if I'm not clearer about my needs.

I'm borrowing some of the language from that post in crafting my own letter:

Dear Family and Friends:
I have late stage Lyme Disease.

"Late Stage Lyme Disease is a neurological disease, much like Multiple Sclerosis, Parkinsons, and ALS are. When a person is initially infected with the bacteria, the disease is not neurological in nature and is easily treated with a course of antibiotics, but if the infection goes unnoticed and is left untreated, the bacteria continues to replicate and spread throughout the body. The systemic bacteria is able to morph itself into a resistant form that can hide itself in places in the body that the immune system cannot easily penetrate, like the joints, eyes, and the brain. The patient then becomes a Late Stage Lyme Disease patient.

"I know that this information is controversial, and if you do a google search on it, you are likely to come up with conflicting information. The disease itself devastates a Lyme patient's life, but the controversy surrounding the disease makes it that much harder. Understandably, it breeds doubt amongst other doctors, friends, and family members of a patient. I like to explain it this way though:

"The way Lyme Disease is currently being handled is much like the way AIDS was handled when the AIDS epidemic first arose. Patients who were infected with HIV were doubted, because the infection was so rare, understudied, and controversial. The patients were denied treatment and made to feel as though they were crazy, and that it was all in their head, despite their obvious illness and failing bodies. One of the leading Lyme doctors on the East Coast was actually initially an HIV doctor, and diagnosed one of the first cases of AIDS in North Carolina. He stuck loyal to his HIV patients despite the controversy surrounding the disease. He now primarily treats Late Stage Lyme Patients. It is reported that unfortunately, Lyme Disease is shaping up to look like an even greater epidemic than AIDS. This doctor asserts though, that compared to the research that was being done on HIV in the beginning of the AIDS epidemic, Lyme Disease research right now is alarmingly elementary and rather non-existent.

"I'm sure that controversy exists in the early stages of any new disease or epidemic, because typically the initial reaction to something that we don't understand is to either fear it and avoid it, or ridicule it. Unfortunately though, as this happens, lives are coming to a screeching halt, much like mine has.

"When Lyme Disease moves from it's early stages to its late stages, the symptom list grows exponentially. Initially, a patient may have 2, 3, maybe 4 symptoms that are easily ignored. By the late stage of the disease, the official symptom list expands to over 57 symptoms. This may seem nearly impossible and like an exaggeration, but think of it this way: the brain is the control center for the entire body. If there's an issue in the brain, then virtually anything in the body can go wrong, because the brain is the commander of every organ, cell and function in the body."

I do not know when I was bitten by a tick, whether it was the bite in Virginia when I was ten or whether it was a bite when I was pregnant. I've struggled with bizarre medical issues since I was young and have had bouts of extreme fatigue that were inexplicable. But those episodes seemed to be controllable.

After having Kellen, my face went paralyzed, Bell's Palsy, seemingly benign. If I had known then that I had Lyme disease, I could have been treated with antibiotics and hopefully gotten better quickly. Instead, I was prescribed steroids, which is actually devastating to a Lyme patient as it provides an environment ripe for bacteria replication. Because of the fire, my diagnosis was even further delayed because it was easy to assume my symptoms were a stress response or related to my PTSD. Each day from November 2008-September 2009 I continued to get sicker and sicker as the bacteria ravaged my body, most notably my nervous system with profound dizziness, light sensitivity, peripheral neuropathy, shooting electric shock pains down my arms, migrating joint pain, muscle pain, and fatigue merely from waking up. In that time, I probably had thirty healthy days.

Lyme patients are often written off as head cases, merely imagining their symptoms. Why anyone would imagine this hell is beyond my scope of comprehension, and if you knew how badly I felt on a day to day basis, you would never accuse me of hypochondriasis or pretending to be sick for attention. By questioning my diagnosis, you create even further isolation when chronic illness is isolating enough.

Despite the pain in my body, I have continued to try to live something resembling a life. I know to some of you it seems that I am wallowing in self-pity, eager to share my pains with anyone who will listen. You don't see the strength it takes for me to get out of bed and take care of my son. There are days where my only goal is to be able to cook dinner. I endure great pain to live half the life that I imagined I would live at 28. When Kellen goes to the Little Gym, I experience increased dizziness because I'm so sensitive to light and noise. But it's important to me that he not sacrifice because of my illness. We have people over for football games because we enjoy it, and yet the energy I expend cleaning my house and cooking takes me several days to recover from, nevermind the dizziness that comes along with the noise. I can no longer do so many of the things I love (like reading and scrapbooking), so any activity feels like I've crossed the finish line of a marathon.

I know there are many of you who feel that we are neglecting you. My entire day is focused on surviving to the next day, and I'm sorry if I have hurt you or otherwise not been engaged in your life. It is not because I do not care (and I need to remember that just because I haven't from you that it is not because you do not care). As the other blogger noted: "A lot of the time though, when you're chronically sick, you're "out of sight, out of mind" because the nature of normal everyday life tends to swallow up those around you." And because of my illness, I am no longer engaged in normal everyday life with you.

There are also family members who don't understand why we don't make the effort to come over (more). They don't realize that there are days where simply getting out of bed requires incredible effort. I have to give myself an IV infusion everyday for two hours. I have to take my medicine out of the fridge one to two hours before my meds start. While you might not mind my infusing at your house, it feels like a hassle to bring my supplies with me, not to mention the inevitable reality that I will need to drive home connected to my IV. Additionally, if we are at your house, I have to spend more time corralling my son and making sure he doesn't break something or hurt himself. Ultimately it's just so much additional effort for me to go anywhere that we just stay home. On my good days (and hopefully weeks), I'm trying to make up for two years worth of projects. The reality is that I still have yet to fully move in to our house because I've been sick for so long. As I've said many times, we are more than happy to have you over as long as you don't mind the clutter that seems to overtake my house.

The doctor of that blogger said that this disease takes a village to overcome, both in terms of medical professionals and support. She says, "I also believe that at the end of the day, if the patient doesn't have their own village of supportive, accepting, educated family and friends to come home to, the puzzle is incomplete. You just can't do this alone." I know that I cannot beat this alone, both mentally and physically. I know that learning to ask for help is only one small part of my long journey in this life, and I am continually reminded that I need to seek out the support I need. I need you as a part of my village if I am going to come out of this on the other side.

Things you can do to support me:

- Educate yourself about Lyme disease. This is a very controversial disease, but I trust my doctor. No one would question me if the doctor said I had cancer. Please don't question this either. The doctors and patients are, in a way, unlucky to be at the forefront of this disease (possibly a major epidemic) because there is just so much that is unknown and treatment often feels like an arrow flying through the air in a dark room just hoping to land on the target... and if you're especially lucky the bullseye. The documentary Under Our Skin is a great start as is the book Cure Unknown.

- Don't assume that because I've had good weeks that this week is a good one. The worst weeks I've had have followed some of the best weeks because it's so mentally draining to have a bad day after so many good ones.

- Reach out. Chronic illness is, as I said, very isolating. The loneliness only enhances the depression that comes along with this disease. While I may not have the energy to go out to lunch or even get coffee, I need friends, whether you call or come over and hang out for a bit.

- Leave out the puppies and rainbows stuff. Positive thinking is great, but my sharing with you how badly I feel isn't negative thinking. It's just my sharing my struggle with you because I am trying so hard to get you to understand the pain I'm living with so that you don't think my laying on the couch is laziness or made up. I don't need you to tell me to think happy thoughts. If you do, I promise to annoy the heck out of you one day with the same rainbow up the ass crap, and I don't think you'll like it!

- Dinners. Evenings are especially hard for me, so having some frozen meals would be helpful.

- Other household help. Simply doing laundry takes an enormous amount of energy, much less weeding as my meds cause sun sensitivity. Any help is always appreciated.

- Patience. I do believe that I will get through this and get to experience health again. In the meantime, please be patient. If I'm short with you, I don't mean to be. I just don't feel well. If I cancel plans, please know it's not personal. If I don't call for months, I promise I still care.

This journey is hard. But I know I can't do it alone. I need you.

Be well.
Brooke

Status of Life After the Fire

2010-09-16T16:23:00.000-07:00

I know you've heard this from me before, but it's actually going to happen soon!

Life After the Fire is moving. I've copied all of my blog posts/comments to my new site. It's currently functional. It's just not ready to launch yet. I'm a perfectionist, and I'm not ready for its debut.

For those who get my blog via Google reader or some other subscription service, you will need to resubscribe at the new site. Because I have combined my blogs, I'm working on making sure you can subscribe to one or all of the blog types so if you don't want my rambling thoughts on motherhood or Lyme disease, you don't have to get them. I'm not certain about this functionality though at the moment.

And what about Life After the Fire? That's actually the most exciting part, I think. I haven't been able to incorporate as a non-profit yet, though that is on my list of to-dos for the fall/winter. In the meantime though, this will become a major website focused on information for fire survivors. I'm hoping it will offer practical information about immediate needs as well as answers to insurance questions and a large section on emotional trauma and healing. I know that in the long run it's not something I can do alone, and I'm hoping to see this project grow over the next several years. If you have expertise that you would be willing to lend to this project, please contact me at life_after_the_fire@yahoo.com. I also would like to continue to post others' fire stories, so continue to send those in.

Stay tuned over the next couple of weeks as I get ready for this transition!

College Football weekend

2010-09-05T06:50:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love about living in Boise is the fervor around the Boise State Broncos. I've always rooted for BSU and can remember sitting in a hotel room the night before starting college in rural Virginia watching BSU upset Fresno State when FS was considered to be the BCS buster of the year.

And now that Dan is a student there, it makes being a fan even better.

In honor of the game, a family photo:

Why we remember

2010-08-29T11:46:00.000-07:00

Today is the 5th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.

I feel a kinship with those in New Orleans, both because of our loss and because our traumas fall within days of one another. I know that there are very stark differences about the hurricane and our fire, but I think on an individual level, the loss of one's home and the struggle to reclaim it is very similar. The natural forces element binds me to that event as well.

I am sure that there are those who are tired of hearing about New Orleans (especially if they listen to NPR). I have to admit to having my limits as well. But I think remembering is important. I assume that we will hear less and less as each year passes with mentions at the major anniversaries.

I will be honest and tell you that the hardest part of last Wednesday wasn't the remembering. It was the being forgotten. Granted, I wasn't sorry to walk out of our house to see TV cameras towering over the power lines. But I still wanted to be remembered, especially by those closest to us.

It's only been two years. Seven hundred thirty days. I'm finally entering a phase of acceptance (probably because of the intensity with which I'm writing about it). But it doesn't mean I've forgotten. Or that I ever will. August 25 will always be a life-changing day for me. And I mean that in the least hyperbolic way. Dan and I might not be in Boise anymore had the fire not occurred. It is likely we wouldn't be living in the old house. It is possible that I wouldn't be sick. So many things changed in those few minutes it took the fire to consume our home. And I will always find time once a year to observe that.

Beyond my own very personal reasons to remember, there are bigger issues involved in remembering. We remember Katrina so that we learn the vast lessons that presented themselves that day. We remember the fire so that we can discuss fire wise policies like land maintenance, ranching rights, fire-safe home construction. We remember the fire so that when a smaller fire happens, there are resources available to help those in need (like the website that I will be developing this fall). We were, in a way, fortunate because of the magnitude of our fire. We had support and resources in a way that others with individual losses don't.

We also remember to heal. Telling our stories is part of that process. If you listen to any of the coverage about Katrina, it's not just a newscaster telling the story. It's those who were there sharing, exploring, discussing. Healing.

I know that for many, it feels like we should "move on." I will never move on and forget. August 25th is the defining day of my life, bigger than my wedding, bigger than Kellen's birth, bigger than my overcoming Lyme disease. And I will always remember.

Two years later

2010-08-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

August 25.

It's been two years.

Today is also the first day of school, just as it was that day. Kids once again don their backpacks, their hair done up just so with their brand new clothes still free from dirt. Parents line the parking lot, say their good-byes, maybe even shed a tear or two. I wonder if I would still be teaching...

Two years ago today I sat in a quiet classroom, creating accommodation sheets for the gen ed teachers with students on my case load. I walked through the hallway with a smile, watching the moms and dads accompany their kindergartners, thinking about that day five or six years down the road when Dan and I would do the same for Kellen. I wondered if he would be at Riverside as well and whether I would still be teaching there.

I got a massage after school, my back in so much pain from the pressure Kellen exerted on it. And yet, all felt right in the world.

Until 6:00.

I will never forget seeing smoke while driving home and the insta-panic that set in. I will never forget the knowing I felt in that moment that my life was going to be forever changed, even though our house had yet to burn down. I will always remember telling Erin that I had "five minutes left of hope" before Dan called back to tell me that our house was gone after he asked a policeman to find out.

You don't forget the details.

I still know what exploding propane sounds like. I know how the air smells when all of your memories have been consumed by it. I know how invisible shards of fiberglass feel when they slip down into your lungs. I know what it feels like to step on a foot of ash, crushing the things you most want to find. I know the difference between salvageable and recognizable. I know the joy of finding a charred pearl in the ash, even though it will never be worn again.

Two years have gone by, and yet I still can transport my mind back to those minutes, those hours, those days. It can't possibly have been two years.

And yet, in two years, I have grown up, changed. Like my new house, I am stronger, reinforced, maybe even more beautiful inside. As the new house settles, I too feel more settled in my new life, adjusting each day to the changing rhythms of being. My house has a few cracks in the wall, as do we all, some more visible than others. But I've realized that loss often gives us an opportunity to rebuild, creating a stronger foundation along the way.

I still wish I could undo the fire, recreate my old house, sit on my green microfiber couch watching my twenty-seven inch television. But I recognize that we don't always get to choose our paths, and it's not about wishing or wanting or expecting things to be different. In the last two years I've learned that your only real choice is what you make of your experiences... good or bad.

Thank you for joining us on our journey.

Lyme update

2010-08-22T19:59:00.001-07:00

As you know, Dan and I flew up to my doctor in Seattle a month ago and had the PICC line placed so that I could start receiving IV antibiotics.

I've been on some version of antibiotics since late last fall, first killing Bartonella and then working with a combo of drugs to attack the Lyme bacteria.

A year ago, I had no idea why I was sick. Each month brought with it an unknown set of new symptoms. I would cycle through the month with a flare up every 35-ish days. I often predicted when I would get sick again because the cycles were so regular. No one wants a diagnosis like this, but at that point, I just wanted to know what the hell was wrong with me!

I have had several people question whether I was legitimately sick and then a few more question the Lyme diagnosis since it is far from fool-proof. But a year later, I have to say, I feel SO much better and am so thankful for the doctors who risk their licenses to treat this disease. I may not be 100%, and I certainly still have some neurologic deficits, but compared to a year ago, I am so much healthier.

The shooting electric shock pain is gone.

Where I used to be tired from doing nothing, I now am only tired from doing. I may still get more easily fatigued than I used to, but at least I can be somewhat productive. (And this week has been a record for energy I think since before I got pregnant TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO!)

My joints feel much better and are only stiff momentarily in the morning.

The all-over body pain is gone.

I still get dizzy, but it's becoming more and more related to over-stimulation and florescent lights, as opposed to just being dizzy because I'm awake.

I still forget how to spell words sometimes and can find myself lost in a conversation. My eyes still get tired. And the Bell's Palsy isn't fully resolved.

But I am better, and that's a reason to be optimistic that I will make a full recovery!

Writing and writing

2010-08-20T14:10:00.001-07:00

I've been writing away, nearly everyday since we got home! I have forty cohesive pages, which is the most I've ever written of a straight narrative. I'm a bit proud of this, and I'm hoping if I keep up this pace that I will be ready to submit the proposal to an agent this fall. I've also entered a non-fiction writing competition, the finalists being announced on Tuesday. It's a day before the two-year anniversary, and it would sure help make me less sad on the 25th. I'm still not sure how we're going to mark that day.

Here's a little bit of teaser writing from the pages I've been working on:

While many had been evacuated, some were allowed to return to their home, sleep in their bed, be thankful they were spared a fire that could have leveled an entire neighborhood rather than a few houses in it. I wondered how different their lives would be if the wind had been blowing more southerly. I would be sitting in my house, curled up in my bed, feeling sorry for the neighbors down the street. I would be wondering how to help as I tossed my trash into the can and hauled it to the street.

But the winds hadn’t blown in their direction, and the fire had burned my house with my unborn son’s nursery. Whereas earlier in the week I had criticized the overgrown lawn and dandelions, I now envied them. I didn’t even have weeds to return to.

Chicken Soup publication

2010-08-17T08:47:00.000-07:00

While on vacation, I got final notice that my story about our first Christmas in our new home without carpet or paint will be published in the upcoming Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic.

I will be receiving a few free copies and will be hosting a few giveaways for signed copies leading up to Christmas.

In the meantime, check out the post of pictures of that magical day.

And head over to Amazon to pre-order a copy:

Sea salt and gasoline

2010-08-07T11:30:00.000-07:00

I stepped off the plane into the thick, humid air.

Home. Virginia Beach.

This place has a story; it knows mine. If we drive to the rec center, I can point out the spot in the woods where I kissed a boy, though I wouldn’t tell him it was my first. I can show where I was warned during driver’s ed when I forgot to yield when making a left turn. I can navigate the streets to my old home with precision, instinctively knowing when to push a little harder on the accelerator and when to back off and prepare the break.

Even though I’ve been gone ten years, I immediately recognize the cadence here.

I know the way the grass rises out of the bay. I recognize the sea salt that hangs in the air and settles in my pores. Salt water and gasoline is the smell of my childhood. Those on boats seem unaware that you could even live in a place where water isn’t part of your daily life, where bridges don’t dictate traffic decisions.

We ate at the local oyster bar last night. A twenty minute wait that would have annoyed me in Boise doesn’t faze me. Anything to be surrounded by the noise of a Friday night on the bay sitting on a picnic table eating fresh oysters that seem a little plumper, taste a little richer.

I watched the pink sunset behind the cumulous clouds and forget the thunderstorms that seemed imminent only hours before. Watching the sun set sitting on the bay has been a ritual since I was in high school. Whenever I get anxious, this sunset is what I return to in my mind as I ask peace to settle back into my soul.

I do not live here anymore. I may never live here again. But it will always be my home. This is where I grew up and returning here is like returning to a forgotten dream.

Am I always going to be afraid?

2010-08-03T20:33:00.000-07:00

I got a comment last night on a post I wrote shortly after the fire. The comment asked if they were always going to be afraid. It's a good question and one I think about often. It's up there with "Am I always going to assume the worst?"

It's almost been two years since the fire. Two years. Tonight I was sitting in our beautiful backyard watching Kellen play in his new pool and I tried to imagine us watching him play in our old yard. I imagined sitting on the wooden deck Dan and I hand-built with Kellen in the small yard off the kitchen window that we sodded ourselves. I could imagine him there, on that patch of grass instead of the one we are on now. I wonder if I will always be able to imagine our duel lives in that way.

We have a gas stove. I don't know how anyone convinced me that this was a smart idea. Apparently it cooks better. It also has the ability to make me jump into a full on panic instantaneously. Sometimes the fire doesn't catch immediately, and once it does, it's excited. But that first poof is frightening.

I still watch fire trucks out my second story window and track their movement down Amity to determine whether I need to go outside to look for smoke. This behavior isn't normal. Not for a normal person anyway. But I'm not normal anymore. This behavior is normal for a fire survivor I think. Or at least someone who struggles to overcome PTSD from a fire.

I rarely dream about fire anymore. It is the one area I've made progress in, and I think it's telling of the state of my unconscious mind. I don't know if it's time that's allowed me to progress or if it's the fact that I'm now scared of Lyme disease. Trade one trauma for another I guess. Or maybe it's just that we all sleep through the night now, so I treasure every millisecond of sleep and don't much remember my dreams anymore. I would remember them if they were fire related.

Our journeys are all full of crises, some less intense than others certainly. But growth is an inevitable part of our human experience. So I guess the answer to the question "Am I always going to be afraid?" is "maybe. But you'll change from it too." The fear will change you. And as the fear changes you, you will learn to manage it as it curls up into your life. I think I will always be afraid. But I've learned to cope so that it doesn't overrun me. I think that's key.

Countdown to 10 year reunion

2010-08-02T07:21:00.000-07:00

My ten-year high school reunion is this weekend. In honor, here are ten ways I've changed in the last ten years.

1. I'm blonde.

2. I don't think socks belong with sandals anymore.

3. I've been published in more than just my school newspaper.

4. I've had a baby.

5. I've lived in five places! (Lynchburg, D.C., Denver, NYC, Boise)

6. I don't worry as much about what people think about me.

7. I don't pass notes anymore. Thank goodness for texting!

8. I've worked in several industries, including a major NY law firm, publishing, political analysis, and teaching. I'm finally settling into writing.

9. I've realized that family is important, neuroses and all.

10. I am stronger than I ever thought I could be. In 10 years I've survived my Dad and his successful battle against stage IV non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, including a stint where we shared a studio apartment in D.C. I've survived miscarriages. I've survived my house burning down. And I'm surviving Lyme. I hope that usually I'm surviving gracefully.