Love is a lot like fire. A small
flame will be extinguished with the slightest puff of air, but put wind to
wildfire, and watch what happens. In my experience, tragedy was the wind- the
small wind that killed every small flame, the Santa Anas that caused love to
erupt in furious glory. This is a
story about fire, and passion, and total devastation, and love.
On
the morning of November 18th, 1994, mine was the happy family who
seemingly had it all; a strong marriage, two kids (one girl, one boy), a gaggle
of adopted rescue pets. My husband Troy and I each had our own businesses that
we ran from the large home we were renting. We volunteered at our kids’ schools
and in our communities, threw fabulous parties, took business trips, had lots
of friends and a busy social life.
But
that night, we went to bed in a burning house. A freak electrical short would
begin smoldering in the walls as we slept, erupting into hellfire in the middle
of the night. The fire pressed us up against the windows, gasping for air, our
skin burning. We were forced to jump from second story ledges with our
four-year old son, onto the cement below. (Our daughter, thankfully, was at a
sleepover). The inferno raged, windows blowing out, our animals trapped inside,
as we stood at the side of the road, helpless, sobbing, unable to get past the
walls of flames to save them. Troy put his arm around me, wiped the tears from
my face and said, “God’s got them now…and we will come back stronger.” I wanted
to believe him, with everything in me I wanted to believe. But just the night
before, I’d had a horrible, vivid dream that we would lose everything. Little
did I know, fire was only the beginning.
We
were released from the hospital the next day, November 19th, injured, homeless, jobless. We had not
a single possession. Our lives were a blank canvas, at once terrifying and
liberating.
We
thought we had lost it all that night; our five beloved pets, our memories, our
accomplishments, both our jobs, and our home- (with no renter’s insurance). But
in the coming year, we would suffer much greater loss that no insurance policy
could have protected us from: the betrayal by friends, the loss of faith and
trust, and perhaps the hardest to endure – the loss of self.
Until
that night in November, I was the strong, independent woman who owned a
national business, volunteered for my kids’ school, flew to New York every
season to sell my clothing line, was the Daisy Scout leader, and singing at
gigs on weekends. I was also the woman who had been carrying a secret all her
life. Standing toe to toe with Death
awakened me. I could no longer hide from the truth of my own life. First I
would have to unravel completely to find out who I was, what I was made of.
Everything I once felt certain of would be shaken loose like soil from the
roots of an upturned tree, leaving me raw, exposed. Eventually I would have to
find a new way to take root within myself.
While busying myself with so-called important things, I had managed to
outrun my past for a long time. But with all my distractions burned away, all
that was left was the real me- the girl whose father was in prison, whose
mother worked nights in a bar and had to use food stamps to buy
groceries. The truth was that I had been born to two teenaged rebels –
that my conception was a terrible mistake my grandfather had tried to end. My
real name and birth certificate were hidden. I was told by my mother to never
tell anyone who I really was, who my father was, where I came from. I obeyed.
Tragedy
weakened my fault lines - allowing my inner demons to come out and dance. The
strong image I had once projected evaporated like the mirage it was. Friends
who had been attracted by my strength and perfect image were repulsed by my
weakness, and began to pull away one by one, leaving me to experience this time
of intense loss alone. And then, as one catastrophe after the next hit, I
unraveled. I became clinically depressed, struggling with persistent suicidal
thoughts. I didn’t know it then, but I was in the grip of post- traumatic
stress disorder from both our fire and my childhood. In the coming years, I
would have to fight harder than I ever knew I could to pull myself back to
center- to be a woman my husband and children could be proud of.
My
sweet, kind and generous husband, who was and still is the love of my life, had
grown up in a Brady Bunch world. He had never been faced with anything like the
catastrophes we endured. The next several years would test his endurance and
courage, and his ability to love me.
Together,
Troy and I worked hard to come back from the edge of disaster, but experienced
such a long run of bad luck we began to wonder if someone had put a hex on us.
We were ripped off by shady landlords. We lost three homes in the span of two
years. While I was homeless, my business partner embezzled all the profits from
our company, destroying me financially. We lost our credit, were forced into
bankruptcy, and, because life has a sardonic sense of timing, both our cars
blew up (and then one was repossessed) and our son needed surgery. And yet,
through all this, we experienced beauty in the wreckage. There were new friends
that showed up at just the right time, work opportunities that saved us when we
were on the brink. And there were perfect, joyful moments with our children
that gave us hope. There were times when we were so destitute, our utilities
were cut off. Instead of crumbling in defeat, we chose to pitch a tent in the
backyard and camp with the kids, roasting marshmallows and looking at the
stars. Some days knocked us flat with depression. But on other days, we got up
and played guitars, wrote songs, made art, and had parties- just the four of
us. With nothing, we created, and celebrated, and found out that our hearts had
the amazing ability to regenerate after being shattered.
Tragedy brings out the best and
worst in people. It brings out the do-gooders and opportunistic scavengers
alike. It shows you who your true friends are, and who they aren’t. And it
widens every crack in the foundation of a marriage, until you wake one morning
to find the Grand Canyon running straight through your living room.
Troy and I had a deep, soul-mate
kind of love. We were optimistic people, believing in the golden rule, that all
people were basically good at heart. We believed that living honest lives and
being good people would insure us against tragedy. But life taught us otherwise. Bad things do happen to good
people. People are not always good at heart- in fact, some are just plain
rotten. In addition to the stresses upon us, our faith was shaken, our belief
systems shattered. We had each
brought our fair share of baggage into the marriage, and it was all dumped out
on the floor now. Weakened
and depressed, we were no longer able to be a light for each other. We couldn’t
keep each other afloat when both of us were drowning.
After
three years of taking life’s punches, we were pushed to the point of
separating. Troy packed the car with his belongings and we tearfully broke the
news to our children. But when it came time for him to drive away, neither of
us could move. It was too painful to stay together, and too painful to part. On
that day, we had to make a choice between love and fear. After days of crying
and soul searching, we chose love. We found ours was a big flame, the winds of
tragedy only making it more fierce.
Fire has a way of purifying and
reforming. During a forest fire, the intense heat causes seedpods to burst
open. After years of lying dormant, only catastrophe could make them take root.
The scorched earth then becomes fertile soil, making the forest lush with new
and different life. So it was with our lives. In the aftermath of all that
loss, new seeds were planted that blossomed in ways we never could have
foreseen.
Faith is not something that can be
manufactured, or gleaned from books. Faith is hard earned, and, like courage,
like a beating heart, is a muscle that must be worked. I had to try with
everything in me to believe, when there was nothing to believe in. If I didn’t,
my children would grow up in a hopeless world, and that was unthinkable. For
their sake, I had to find my faith. I had to believe that there was a reason
for everything we had lost. I had to open my eyes to see that there was hope in
the midst of every crisis. There was the kindness of others who came to lift us
back on our feet, like stars that shone brightly in the darkness. There was the
discovery that, although we had lost everything, we still had our ability to
dream, to love, to create, to hope, to remember. No fire could take that from
us.
Tiny sprigs of hope began to spring
up through the cracks, when we made the choice to risk our hearts and believe
in goodness again. And gradually, because of that faith, things began to shift.
After the bankruptcy we worked
diligently rebuilding our credit, and four and a half years after the fire, on
the day of our tenth wedding anniversary, we bought our dream home- a cabin
nestled in the side of a mountain- it’s foundation bolted on rock. We renewed
our marriage vows, and were given the keys to our home.
Eighteen years have passed since
the fire. Cristen and Taylor have grown up, and we have since been unexpectedly
blessed with another son, Evan, as well as a grandson, Ayumu. My house is once
again alive with rescued pets, cluttered with sentimental treasures, my photo albums full with new
memories. There is a comfortable distance separating us from that time, and yet
it will always be a part of who we are. We are stronger now, and dare I say,
although I would never want to re-live those years, we are better for having
lived through it. I found faith and courage in the ashes. I found my true self.
Our marriage, our family, and most importantly, our optimism and spirit
survived. There is not much that can shake us anymore. We shrug off challenges
others might view as catastrophic. We know what catastrophe is. We can still
see it in our rear view mirror.
What I learned is that every tragedy
holds a gift, an opportunity for us to learn and grow. I believed this the day
after the house burned down, in a Pollyanna sort of way. I didn’t know then how
hard I would have to mine for it, how deep I would have to dig, how much I’d
have to lose to find myself. Writing my book (What Doesn’t Kill You- How I
lost everything and found myself) has
helped me to see clearly the beautiful moments- the tiny miracles in the middle
of mayhem that bloomed like lilies in the muck.
I’ve learned that life offers no
guarantees, and no insurance policy will truly protect us from unexpected
tragedies. Our possessions, job titles, our stations in life are fleeting, and
even our relationships with those we most love can change. All we really have
is what we carry inside us; our spirit, our courage, faith, and our ability to
love.
Here is what I now know for sure:
Every day that we are alive is a new beginning. And just like that forest after
a wildfire, there is a seed of greatness in every one of us, waiting to break
open. It is never, ever too late to bloom.
We still live in our mountain home,
cemented in rock.
It is
one block from the fire station.
