The memory of the
fire is etched into my brain, as are the emotions tied to it. I don’t think
I had been that scared for myself, for my family or for our pets as in my
entire life as I was during those short few minutes of a blaze I almost didn't escape. As I watched, helplessly,
while the surging flames engulfed my home, the terror attached to that can not
adequately be put into words. I don’t think I will ever forget gasping for air or the unadulterated panic and terror that wrapped it’s
suffocating arms around me as I was rushing through the house to save what
mattered to me most: life. However, aside from the flames there is more;
something bigger, something far more profound that I took from this experience.
First, you let go…
When you go through an experience like this one; the trauma of having to be rushed to the
hospital, intubated and waking up dazed and confused in a burn unit ICU, flames
of change can be ignited in your soul. You find yourself letting go of petty
arguments, of outmoded beliefs, of the fear of not being “ready” for something.
You realize that there is never any time better than right now. The ‘right nows’
to say “I love you”. The ‘right nows’ to say, “I miss you”. The ‘right nows’ to
say, “I’m sorry”. The ‘right nows’ that put your ego to sleep and the 'right nows' that allow the
grace in the very depths of you core to awaken, and to stay awake; to find grace and gratitude in a permanent state of insomnia. Because you realize for the first time and for the
last that life is fleeting; everything can change in a matter of mere, precious moments. You never
want to hold on to anger, resentment or regret ever again; you want to cling to
happiness with both hands and never, ever let go. But, even more than that, you want
to become a beacon that reflects the light, not just the flame that ignites it.
So begins part two…
When I arrived home late Thursday night, I dared not even
venture upstairs to see the carnage the flames had left in their wake.
However, I did find myself wandering up the staircase the following morning.
As I stumbled upstairs, slowly moving forward step-by-painful-step,
still groggy from the painkillers, I could feel the smoke hanging cold and
harsh in the air. It was still, unmovable, stagnant. The ceiling was black. The
carpet, covered in soot and ash. My door was closed, but I could see
immediately where it had been blackened by the hands of the fire that gripped
it just 48 hours before; the fire that almost gripped me as well, the fire that -- if it had it's way -- would have taken me away from those I love the most in this world. I hesitated before I opened that
door. When I touched the knob, I could still imagine the heat I had felt two
nights before as I closed that same door in order to flee my home, struggling to breathe. I was scared to see what was
inside. I wasn’t sure I was ready. Still, I closed my eyes and turned the knob, "ready" as I ever would be to succumb to the aftermath; of my newfound reality.
And this is just some of what I saw:
I froze. I stared blankly at my broken windows and melted
curtain rods. I surveyed the room to see how badly my furniture had been
charred and broken. I looked up at what used to be my ceiling, which was now laying in pieces on the
ground. My gaze shifted to the insulation piled on the floor. I slowly moved
inward, toward the epicenter of the damage. I looked in my bathroom. The mirror
was black, covered in smoke, cracked and broken. The floor was black..soot-ridden and stained. Everything
I had left on the counter was charred and melted. I went numb. I stood there
for what felt like an eternity. I didn’t even know where to begin. I was overwhelmed, but I was also grateful that I was able to escape, and even more grateful that my loved ones were safe; happy that it was I, and I alone, who sustained injury. Pleased that my loved ones were unscathed.
Then…I laughed.
Maybe I went crazy for a minute, maybe it was a coping mechanism. But the reason I laughed was due to the gentle irony surrounding the totality of the situation. You see, just 48 hours before, I had
written a list of things that I wanted to see manifest into my life; circa ‘The
Secret’. As my gaze floated across the remnants of what was once the most sacred
place in my home, I saw the notebook that I written the list on. It, too, was
charred and black; destroyed by the flames.
However, the reason for my laughter was that the first thing that had been written on that list was: “Remodel my home by December 31, 2013.”
How ironic. How beautifully, horribly ironic.
Because of the fire, that particular item had no choice but to manifest itself into my life -- even prior to my self-imposed deadline. As I stood there, I remember thinking, “Yeah, this manifestation stuff works, but they need to include a disclaimer specific for me: Whatever manifests for you (Shauna) will manifest in the most fucked up way possible.” Then, I laughed a little more.
Hey, if you can't laugh at tragedy, you may as well already be dead. Right?
However, the reason for my laughter was that the first thing that had been written on that list was: “Remodel my home by December 31, 2013.”
How ironic. How beautifully, horribly ironic.
Because of the fire, that particular item had no choice but to manifest itself into my life -- even prior to my self-imposed deadline. As I stood there, I remember thinking, “Yeah, this manifestation stuff works, but they need to include a disclaimer specific for me: Whatever manifests for you (Shauna) will manifest in the most fucked up way possible.” Then, I laughed a little more.
Hey, if you can't laugh at tragedy, you may as well already be dead. Right?
And I laughed until…it wasn’t funny anymore
I had avoided mirrors for the past 48 hours. I knew that I
had lost clumps of my hair. I knew that my face was blistered. I could see the
damage to my arm each time I changed the dressings on my wounds, I saw the bruises left from the needles and IV and I knew it
was bad. However, I hadn’t yet looked in the mirror because I was terrified of what
I was going to see, I wasn't 'ready'. I knew that I wasn’t quite prepared for how the flames
changed my outward appearance, even though it was already changing inside for the better. But, I also realized that it was time to put on
my big girl panties and survey the damage…all of the damage.
I walked out of my bedroom, shutting the door behind me and
summoned up the courage to peek at the damage to my face. I walked into the
secondary bathroom and turned on the light.
I remember standing in front of that mirror for a very, very
long time. I was by myself in the house, the girls had left me alone so that I
could rest. Clearly, resting wasn't on my agenda. Then again, I have never been exceedingly good at following
directions.
I stood gasping at my newly manifested reflection. There
were blisters all over my forehead. My nose was charred and blistered and the
blisters carried over underneath my right eye. I could see where the fire
burned my hairline, where it took much of my hair nearly down to my scalp. I
saw the missing pieces, the singed ends. Even my eyelashes were gone.
I felt sick.
I felt like I was going to throw up.
I felt like I was going to throw up.
I felt ugly.
No, I felt hideous.
It was at that moment I fell to the floor and the tears flowed freely. I sobbed for a good hour. I let it all out. All of the panic, the rage,
the fear, the longing, the bitterness; I let it all go. Finally, when I stopped
and dried my tears, I felt better. A lot of things finally left me. And while
the journey ahead still felt a little overwhelming, I felt like the worst part
of it was over. I knew what I had to contend with. And it was nothing a wig and
some false eyelashes and some make up couldn’t fix for my face…at least after
the blisters heal. So, I picked myself up, dusted myself off and -- for no real
reason at all -- looked down at my wrist.
Because sometimes simplicity says it all…
I hadn’t taken off the bracelets they had given me at the
hospital. And when I saw this one, it brought a smile to my face.
"Fall Risk"
Because of the copious amounts of Morphine and Percocet I had been given during my hospital stay, they branded me as a fall risk; i.e. I was at risk for standing up and hitting the ground. Yet again, right then and there, I found the beautiful irony of it all.
I am, indeed, a fall risk. I risk falling, not because I expect anyone to catch me, but because I realized that I would rather fall than put up a million walls ever again. I would rather fail and then try again and fail better. In fact, tenacity is one thing I do well; perhaps even the only thing. I would rather risk it all than live a life full of regrets, now…probably more than ever.
Because of the copious amounts of Morphine and Percocet I had been given during my hospital stay, they branded me as a fall risk; i.e. I was at risk for standing up and hitting the ground. Yet again, right then and there, I found the beautiful irony of it all.
I am, indeed, a fall risk. I risk falling, not because I expect anyone to catch me, but because I realized that I would rather fall than put up a million walls ever again. I would rather fail and then try again and fail better. In fact, tenacity is one thing I do well; perhaps even the only thing. I would rather risk it all than live a life full of regrets, now…probably more than ever.
Timing. Is. Everything.
It was 2:42 pm on Friday afternoon. I remember the time with amazing clarity because I looked at my phone, as I clutched it in my left hand; the same hand the bracelets rested on. And at 2:42 pm, I felt a smile cross my face. A smile because I had found my phone, unscathed from the fire, hidden under the drapes in my room. It was one thing I was able to keep, regardless of how much else I had lost. But a smile even more so because I realized that this was the moment that really began changing everything else. A switch went off. A spark ignited. The outward flames of my house fire changed something in me, in a way I never really, truly thought possible. Then again, I suppose a brush with death can do that in a way that nothing else can.
It was 2:42 pm on Friday afternoon. I remember the time with amazing clarity because I looked at my phone, as I clutched it in my left hand; the same hand the bracelets rested on. And at 2:42 pm, I felt a smile cross my face. A smile because I had found my phone, unscathed from the fire, hidden under the drapes in my room. It was one thing I was able to keep, regardless of how much else I had lost. But a smile even more so because I realized that this was the moment that really began changing everything else. A switch went off. A spark ignited. The outward flames of my house fire changed something in me, in a way I never really, truly thought possible. Then again, I suppose a brush with death can do that in a way that nothing else can.
To find out what it changed, how it changed and how it will continue to
change and manifest itself in my life -- and maybe even if yours if you are
willing to take the risk with me -- you’re going to have to stay tuned for part
three.
In Conclusion...
In Conclusion...
As always, I hope you enjoyed my simple words on the page. I
cannot begin to express my gratitude for all of the love that surrounds me
right now. The uplifting messages and the correspondence mean the world to me.
Yet, I don’t write what I write to merely put words on a page or on a blog. I
do what I do because I know that there are so many people out there who are
going through their own struggles tragedies and setbacks -- just as I am --, but many of these beautiful souls opt to suffer in silence.
My hope, my wish and my dream for all of those people, for you reading this right now, is for you know you that you are not alone. You are never, ever, ever alone. Sometimes all you have to do is reach out with humility and tell your story. And, when you tell that story in a beautiful and empowering way, something changes inside of you, and it changes forever…and it changes for the good. So I hope you will join me on my journey down the Gratitude Project, which is coming after part three of this series.
My hope, my wish and my dream for all of those people, for you reading this right now, is for you know you that you are not alone. You are never, ever, ever alone. Sometimes all you have to do is reach out with humility and tell your story. And, when you tell that story in a beautiful and empowering way, something changes inside of you, and it changes forever…and it changes for the good. So I hope you will join me on my journey down the Gratitude Project, which is coming after part three of this series.
I wish you all happy
days ahead.
If you found this blog interesting, inspiring or even infuriating,
please share it, with my gratitude.
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