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?