I'm just gonna say it...

I could've lost my daughter on August 9th.
I could've lost my daugher in a very horrific, nightmarish way. 

I know that I didn't.  I know she is safe.  But the "what could have been" scenario keeps haunting me.  Every time I walk into our house, I look at the charred steps - now uncrossable - and the charred wall of Emerson's nursery.  I picture her running up those steps completely on her own, as she did numerous times every day.  I think about the days we spent at home when I would be nursing or rocking Eliot, so she would run off somewhere to play by herself.  I think about the fact that just one week earlier, my family and I very well could've been -- probably would have been -- home when our house went up in flames. 

And Emerson could've been -- probably would have been -- trapped upstairs alone. 

What would I have done?  The scenario changes every time I think about it.  I imagine running outside with Eliot, stopping cars on Spalding Ave and handing my child off to the first stranger I found so that I could literally scale the bricks of my home to get to Emerson.  I imagine grabbing a blanket and just running through the flames to get to her.  I imagine standing outside screaming like a madwoman and yet paralyzed in fear.

What would she have done?  The alarms and the flames and the smoke would have scared her.  Would she have hidden?  Would she have tried to run down the steps, into the fire?  Could she have heard me if I'd tried to yell directions to her?

My heart is pounding just typing this.  It is difficult to breathe.
But I have to "say" it.  I have to get this out.  This is what plays through my mind all day.

Seriously.  I could have lost her.

If I had lived, and she had not.......

If I had had to sit in my front yard, knowing my daughter was trapped inside....

Oh my gosh.

It is unfathomable. 

Last night, I had nightmares all night.  In all of them, for different reasons, I was desperately trying to get to Emerson and couldn't. 
Last night, as I played with Emerson's hair while she peacefully fell asleep, I had tears streaming down my cheeks, thinking about how different my life could've been.

My life?  She IS my life. 

When we rebuild our home, there WILL be an escape route from - and easily accessible entrance way to -- the upstairs.  I don't care if it costs us more money to build that than it does to replace every thing we lost. 

I have to stop thinking about this.  I know that.  But, for now, I can't.

Happy Day

Today was a happy day :)
Last night, I told Jesse I wanted us to spend all day as a family, "home" (not home! Auntie Ackie's house! -as Emerson is always quick to correct us).  Turns out, I had no idea how much that was needed.

This morning, Jesse cooked us chocolate chip pancakes and eggs, something that makes us feel "homey" because it used to be his every weekend routine.  Then, he and Emerson played while I did some laundry and graded papers.  I decided to take a break after awhile to play "Swiper" with the two of them.  The three of us ended up in the "big bed" in Emerson's room and she alternated hugging us both.  Finally, she said, "Come here, kids," and wrapped her arms around us.  She continued, "You're my best friends."  The happiness was palpable.
So much so, that I guess it woke up Eliot from the other room because he started crying to join us.  I brought him into the bedroom and the four of played together.  Eliot's face lights up when he sees Emerson - it is a beautiful thing to see.  He follows her around the room and smiles the entire time.
After Emerson's nap, we took our little family to Danville for some Orange Leaf, then we went to the park.  While I nursed Eliot in the car, Jesse and Emerson found their way to a bridge overlooking some ducks.  What a peaceful sight to walk up on.  Jesse and I switched kids, and I spent time racing Emerson down side-by-side slides.  Finally, we left, went through Long John's and ate fish on the way home.

I'm giving the details of today because I don't want to forget them.  It was a great day.  A simple day.  Exactly what we needed.

Stages of Loss and Grief

Stage One:  Denial and Isolation
I bypassed this stage.  It's pretty hard to go through denial when you spend hours watching smoke pour out of your windows.  There was no denying that fire.

Stage Two:  Anger
This is my current stage.  To be frank, I'm pissed off.  I'm mad this happened to us.  I'm mad that my daughter has lost all of her favorite toys... her Mickey cup... her books... I'm mad that I can't cook breakfast for my family without feeling lost.  I'm just mad, and I'm lashing out.

Stage Three:  Bargaining
I wouldn't say that I'm thinking, "If only we'd..." because, thankfully, the fire was of no fault of our own.  However, I am constantly imagining what could have happened "if only we'd" been home when the fire erupted.  Terror.  Pain.  It makes my heart hurt thinking about it. 

Stage Four:  Depression
This stage creeps in and out.  My heart feels heavier than it ever has.  My mind constantly races with thoughts about our home and our situation - whereas, before, I just lived in a blissful state, even mentally.  I still cry sporadically.  I still need to be alone sometimes.  But there's also...

Stage Five:  Acceptance
Yesterday, as I lay my head down on the pillow, I actually thought to myself: Today was the first day I have thought about the fire and not felt sad.  Earlier in the day, Jesse and I had to go through what was left in our house to see what we may want to keep for sentimental reasons.  This, I thought, would be a daunting task.  Turns out, though, we didn't have much to sort through.  Thankfully, and hopefully, the restoration company took almost everything to try to restore.  Even what we did have, I was able to look through with a sort of practicality.  One thing I've learned from all of this is to not put so much value in material things - even the sentimental things - so it was a lot easier to let things go yesterday.  I do think, at times, I'm starting to accept it.

I miss my clothes.

I miss my clothes.  I miss being able to choose what pair of jeans I wanted to wear on Jean Day at school.  And I miss the plethora of school t-shirts I'd collected from which I usually chose on Fridays.

I miss the new pair of pink shoes I just bought a few weeks ago and felt so proud to wear because they were actually kind of trendy.  I also miss the new L.L. Bean flip-flops I just bought because I finally decided to splurge on comfortable flip flops.

I miss my Bellarmine Alumni t-shirt, especially after just receiving an email from my principal saying that next Friday is College Colors day, and I know I used to always proudly sport my Bellarmine gear. 

I miss my bathing suit - the one I just bought this summer that somehow flattered my I've-had-two-babies-and-am-nursing figure.  I don't really want to go to the pool anymore because the only suit I own is the one 2 piece they had left in my size at Wal-Mart that I bought so I could take Emerson swimming in the hotel pool. 

I miss my cropped jogging pants because they were so absolutely perfect to wear when I wanted to change from my dress clothes after school on a hot, summer day.  Now I just keep my work clothes on (and pray that Eliot doesn't spit up all over them so that I can wear them again one day this week).

I miss my bathrobe.  I keep forgetting to buy one, so when I get out of the shower, every day I debate whether I should struggle to keep my towel on while drying my hair or if I should put my pajamas back on and get them soaked.

I miss my pajamas.  Two different people gave us pajamas, and I love both sets, but every time I put them on, I'm reminded that I no longer own some of those worn, comfortable pjs I used to love.

I've never been that into fashion.  I've never been that much of a shopper.

But man, I sure do miss my clothes.

How ya doin?

I'm starting to resent the look of pity.  Well, pity in general.  Both the look and the "How ya doin.....?" question in a tone of pity.  Every time someone sees me for the first time since the fire, that's what I get.  The worst is when they start to smile and give the standard, "How ya doin'?" but then I can actually see the look in their eyes say, "Oh wait, that's Coury, her house burned..." and the look and the question change.  It's like they feel guilty for being happy or expecting me to be happy.  I understand.  I'm pretty sure I do that too.  Or, I did.  I'm learning a lot about how to handle people during a crisis after all of this.

It is true, though... people don't expect me to be happy.  It shocks people that I returned to work so quickly and that I'm smiling when they see me.  But that puzzles me.  What do they expect?  I can't walk around crying all of the time.  I can't stay home huddled up on my couch all day.  For one, I have two children who need me to be their mama - the smiling, energetic mama they're used to.  For two, I have a job, a job that I love where principals and students and co-workers depend on me.  These things inspire me.  Am I probably sadder than I look?  Yes.  But are there many moments in the day where I'm genuinely happy and not thinking about my house?  Definitely so.

This should be exciting...

Today, we officially hired a company to reconstruct our home.  The man who owns the company spend 20 minutes showing me some of the details in our home he found most impressive.  He seemed impressed with the quality and the beauty of the woodwork and promised to do his best to replicate it.
Now we get to see our house become new again, and this time, we can fix the changes that bothered us from before.
So I should feel excited, right?

But I don't, really.

I feel overwhelmed, and I feel sad.

I never wanted to build a home, because I didn't have to have to make all of the decisions that go along with it. 
I don't want to picture my house in any way other than how it used to be.
I really don't want to think about them gutting my home.
It's simply too much.

Moe

There is sadness.  There is emptiness.
But the emotion I feel the most when it comes to Moe is guilt.

Since Emerson's birth, I did not treat Moe well.  That worsened with Eliot's birth.  It was just so difficult. If Moe ever saw me on the couch alone, he'd quickly jump up and plump down right beside me because those times were rare.  But those times -- time when I got to just sit by myself on the couch - were rare!  I didn't want another body against mine, another being demanding my attention.  So sometimes I'd push him away.  I'd ignore him.  I didn't pet him like I did just a few years ago.

Or when I'd eat breakfast, Moe, without fail, would be at my side.  Any time food was around, Moe was around.  I'd get frustrated, though, because he'd get cat hair on my dress pants.  It was my own fault.  On the weekend or in the summer, I'd welcome his little purr and laugh with Emerson as I gave him the leftover milk from my bowl.  How was he supposed to know he couldn't do that Monday-Friday? 

When we tried to find pictures of Moe after the fire, the majority of the ones we found were from my old house - the house we lived in before the kids were born.  It is depressing that I didn't have one single picture of Moe on my iPhone.

I still struggle with Moe's death.  I know the guilt is a lot of it.  The way that he died is another big reason.  I cannot imagine his last moments.  Animals are so intuitive, I am confident he knew something was wrong and he was very scared. 

I didn't ask to see Moe that day because I didn't know if it was fire or smoke inhalation that killed him, and I was too scared to ask.  Thankfully, it was smoke.

I am glad that, I was starting to think Moe knew I would take up for him when Emerson tried to throw toys at him, chase him around the house, or yell at him for no reason.  He was starting to ignore her, which is a good thing, and he would sit close to me when she was near.  I am glad that we recently bought a brush to help with his shedding, because it made me give him some attention. He'd roll around and purr the entire time I brushed him. 

I just wish I'd taken advantage of those times a little more.

I miss you, Moe.  I'm sorry I didn't give you more attention.

What I Miss...

I'm sure this will be the first in a series of posts, but I want a record of what I miss from our house...


I miss Emerson helping me do laundry.  She'd hear the buzzer go off and she'd run into the "new room" with me to help.  One day she beat me in there and when I walked in, this is what I found:  she'd put two dirty towels from the floor in the washer and she'd emptied the lint off the dryer and was walking towards the garbage can with it.  Obviously she was no amateur.

I miss looking around for Emerson only to realize she was already up the stairs.  "I go upstairs, Mommy."

I miss her playing with her tent in the big bedroom.

I miss her jumping in her crib, even though I hated when she did it.

I miss her rocking on her rocking lion and demanding that I or Jesse rock in the chair beside her.  She'd point out the shapes on her lion and point out that I didn't have shapes.  She'd say she loved her lion.

I miss seeing Emerson asleep in her crib, holding Dolly tight.

I miss watching Emerson stand in front of our TV watching Doc McStuffins, while holding on to her own Doc bag full of necessary equipment.

I miss Emerson jumping on the couch, even though I always told her "TZ DOWN!"

I miss rocking Eliot on the front porch swing by myself while Jesse took Emerson to bed.  I especially miss the times that a friend or family member would visit during that time.

I miss that moment at 8:30 when Bubble Guppies ends and Emerson says, "It's night night time!" and heads up the stairs on her own.

I miss lying on the couch with my entire family.

I miss seeing Eliot in the nap nanny, happy as can be, no matter where we stuck him.

I miss Emerson sitting at her little table in the living room while eating her breakfast and watching TV.

I miss poor Moe getting chased around the house by Emerson, always ending up under our bed for safety.

I'm over it.

There is one sentence that keeps replaying in my mind:  "I just wish it would end."
This post is kind of personal, but it is something I want to say without it be misconstrued.  So I'm just going to say it:  I can see why some people get suicidal.
I am not.  Let me repeat - I am, in no way, shape or form suicidal.  There are way too many blessings in my life for that.
What I mean by that comment is simply that I can't stop hearing myself say, I just wish it would end.  And I imagine that is the point that drives some people to suicide. 
I told Jesse the other day that we are lucky.  We are surrounded with so many blessings that we won't get that low. 
But sometimes it is hard to just get up in the morning and face the day.  I just want to go back to August 8th when life was normal and I stressed about the silly stuff that everyone else stresses over.  I just wish this nightmare would end.

Changes

Tragedies change you.  This is true.
I'm just worried this one may change me for the worst.

Since the fire, I have been more selfish and less sensitive than I ever was.
If someone tells me she had a bad day, I want to laugh at her.  Really?  Your boyfriend dumped you?  Well, I lost my house to a fire.
One of my students puts his head down in class and I snap.  You think you're tired?  You think you're overwhelmed?  Walk in my shoes!

And I know I'm far from having the "worst situation in the room" if we want to get into that.  There is no one dying.  My aunt gave us a place to live, so we aren't homeless.  No one is being abused.  I know all of that, and yet, my sympathy for others is very limited right now.

In addition, my focus and dedication to my job has changed.  I don't really care, to be blunt.  ACT scores and AP scores and daily lesson plans and walk throughs... what difference does any of it make anyway?  Why am I stressing out about stuff like that when, obviously, there are biggest stressors in the world.

I know, or at least I hope, that the changes above may just be because the fire is still new.  I'm still recovering.  Hopefully, over time, these will cease.

There are two positive changes I've seen in myself already.  One, I am dedicated to giving back now.  We have been so overwhelmed with the generosity of people - some who don't even know us - that I promise to return that favor when we are back on our feet.
Two, there are three people who mean more to me than they did even before now: my husband and my children.  The three people I've "survived" this with.  The three people who also have lost their home and their belongings. The three people staying with me in a foreign house, trying to cope and regroup (even though two may not even realize it).  My little family.

Our house is stinky: a fire from a toddler's perspective

In the two days right after our fire, my biggest concern was how to give the news to our toddler.  What should I say?  How much do I say?  Should we take her there?  I knew she'd want to know why we weren't going to our home.  I also knew I didn't want her to have a lifelong fear of fire after seeing what it could do. 
When I finally saw the house, I knew we couldn't take her there.  Her toys are thrown about the living room, covered in soot.  The steps -- at least, the ones that are left -- that lead up to her bedroom are charred and dangerous.  The kitchen ceiling has fallen in and rubble is all over the floor.  It is no place for a two year old.

At first, we just did what we could to make it a fun adventure for Emerson.  She stayed at Ma Dee's house because that was comfortable for her.  We took her to the hotel pool to swim because it was something new.  We surprised her with new clothes and new toys (which she did not know were used and donated from someone else).  It was all fun for her.

Two days after the fire, though, we were driving past the house when Emerson spotted her daddy and her grandparents standing outside in the front yard.  She screamed, "I want my house! I want my house!".  Still sensitive to her needs, I pulled into the driveway, freaking out.  I was not ready for this.
As we walked onto the porch, my husband said something for which I am still so grateful:  "We can't go in right now, honey, I don't have my keys." 
As it turns out, that was true.  I thought he was just quick on his feet to find an excuse.  My keys were sitting in my ignition, but I desperately grabbed on to this toddler-proof excuse and went with it.  Yeah, Emerson, we can't go in.  We're keyless.

So we walked around the outside.  She could not stop staring at the boarded windows.  "What's that, Mommy?"  "Those are boards.  Aren't they silly?" I responded in my best I actually think this is funny voice.  Then Jesse pulled out another gem.  "We can't go in right now becuse the house is stinky."  And together we told our, "Our house is hurting right now, but people are going to fix it!"

And those words of wisdom has become my daughter's string of comments about the house.  "Our house hurting.  It stinky.  We have silly boards."  She repeats these sentences over and over, sometimes at random times and sometimes when we're actually talking about the house.

She has started to mention various things from the home.  Yesterday she was watching Doc McStuffins and started talking about the people who were in her Doc notebook.  The other day, someone gave her a doll and said, "Here's a Dolly!" to which she replied, "That's not Dolly!" (the doll she has slept with since she turned one).  This morning, she told me she wanted to "watch Max and Ruby on Mommy's Kindle."

And she refuses to call Aunt Ackie's house "home."  If we are at my mom's and I say, "Are you ready to go home?" she quickly responds with, "We not go home.  We go Ackie's house."  It never fails.  I find this both sweet and sad.

Now, when we drive by the house, our whole family has to wave to it and say, "Hi house!  We miss you!  Get better soon!  Love you!"

We plan to take Emerson to the house when the reconstruction process begins.  I think - I hope - that part gets her excited.  I dread the day she asks about Moe and about certain toys, which I think will come once we return to our home.

But until then, we just can't go there.  We're having a "sleepover" at Ackie's, because our house is "hurting."  And that's simply enough for her.

Accepting Charity

When Jesse and I bought our house, it needed work.  Lots of it.  There were layers upon layers of wallpaper in every room on every wall and ceiling.  Until I got pregnant and school started, we scraped that wallpaper and painted the rooms ourselves.  We stood on scaffold in the  middle of July in a house with no air conditioning painting every single detail of our dining room ceiling.  We spent hours spraying and scraping, spraying and scraping.  Our family and friends all offered to help, but it was very rare Jesse and I ever asked for it. 
When it moved, it was the same.  We did as much as possible on our own.
That's just how we are.  We're both fiercely independent and a little bit private.

Until now.
Now, help from others is the boat keeping us afloat.

It is a humbling experience to have to accept help from so many people.  Usually, if someone says, "Here, take this..." I'd politely say, "No thank you."  Now I have to accept it. Whether it's a $100 bill or a bag of used baby clothes, I don't have the right or the privilege to say no.  And it is driving me crazy.  I'm not used to the pity.  And it isn't a feeling I want to get used to.

What Not to Say

Here are a few things NOT to say to someone who is watching their house go up in flames...

It's just stuff.  I realize this sounds comforting.  I realize this is the silver lining of the entire situation.  But, to me, the belongings in my home weren't just "stuff" -- and they never seemed less like "just stuff" than the moment I'm realizing I've lost it all.  Although I can buy new blue jeans and a new Kindle, when you suddenly have nothing, that "stuff" takes on a whole new value.
Not to mention, it isn't even the "stuff" that you mourn the most.  It's the memories in the home.  It isn't the actual couch that I am now mourning -- it's the fact that my entire family could fit on that couch to watch Bubble Guppies before it was Emerson's bedtime.  And it isn't the stroller that I miss, but the daily walks my family would take together on clear nights.  That "stuff" had sentimental value.

It can all be replaced.   Because let's be honest, it can't all be replaced.  My daughter's crib was in that fire.  Sure, I can buy another crib, but my mother and I spent an entire day in Louisville going from baby store to baby store trying to find the perfect crib for the perfect child I had growing in my womb.  I can remember I ended up in tears at the end of the day because it was all just so overwhelming.  We made sure the bed could transition into a toddler bed.  We pictured the bed being passed down to our second child.  It was no easy task. 
Also in that fire was my wedding gown.  Talk about a shopping struggle!  And since my wedding day, that gown has remained stored safely away in a box so that, one day, Emerson could see (and probably laugh at) the gown her mommy wore when she married Daddy.  Maybe Emerson could've even used material from it to make her own or put on her veil.
Also in that fire was a notebook that I'm still desperately waiting to find.  In that notebook were letters from me to Emerson -- letters that I began writing to her from the beginning of my pregnancy and just wrote in a few months ago.  I can never recreate those letters to her.
Not everything in a home can be "replaced," even if the fire didn't take any human lives.

Everyone is alive.  This one is tricky.  Do not say this to someone unless you know for a fact that the person did not have a pet, or if she did, the pet survived.  People kept saying this to me on Friday.  At least everyone is alive... at least no one was home... at least you all made it.  Well, guess what.  We aren't all alive, someone was home and he didn't make it...  Moe.  My cat.  The pet that I've had for 12 years - longer than I've known Jesse or owned that home - perished in that fire.  And I was mourning him.  I sat the bundle on the porch where the firefighters had wrapped him in blankets.  I saw Dr. Cook come to take his body away.  I was hurting.  And it hurt even worse when I felt (in the moment) that people were minimalizing his death.

At least now you can build your house how you want it!  Sure, there were quirks to my home that drove me crazy.  We had a toilet room - a room where there was literally nothing but a toilet.  Our bathtub and our shower were separated.  Basically, our bathroom was crowded and didn't make much sense.  And yes, we will now fix it.  But for the first few days after the fire, in my mind, our home was perfect.  I didn't want to change it.  After all, we'd only lived in it for three years.  We hadn't had time to get tired of it yet.  We loved it how it was, that was why we bought it!  If I'd wanted a newer home, I would've bought a newer home.  If I'd wanted to build a house from scratch, I would've built a house.

Let me clarify -- I know that people mean well.  I do.  And I know that finding the right words in a time like this seems impossible.  I'm not judging the people who said any of the above (hell I can't remember who has said what at this point anyway), but it still hurt to hear.

So what can you say?  I'm sorry.  I'm praying for you.  I'm here for you.  How about a hug?