Other People's Grief

Insomnia made me do it

Didn’t think I was going to publish today, but sometimes the writing comes to me.

Other People’s Grief

In my professional field of insights and analytics, people tell me I need to be a kaleidoscope: I need to be able to zoom in, find the nitty gritty data, and zoom out to see the bigger picture. In life, no one really tells you that you need to be a sponge. You need to absorb other people’s emotions, and in the past few weeks, other people’s poignant grief.

Wednesday January 8th was inarguably the hardest day of my life. That’s the day we found out our house was torched to ashes by the Eaton Fire.

The night before, my friend Mayra called me and told me about the Eaton Fire, which ended up burning down more than 7000 structures in Altadena. Her husband is a forest firefighter, and she used to be a social worker. She’s been my unofficial natural disaster and policing alert for as long as I’ve known her.

We downloaded the app Watch Duty, and monitored it throughout our leisurely dinner. After dinner, my son and I packed our bags with essential documents, some artworks and photo albums, and one night's worth of clothes. Colette packed my favorite mug, a Hydroflask from Lauren Fleshman’s Wilder retreat, with a wilder sticker. I told her to put it back. She insisted on packing it for me, and said, “mom, if our house burned down, you’d be glad I packed this.” I said, “Ok, silly,” and put it in a duffle bag.

After a night of packing, loading the car, unpacking, dealing with other things, we slept decently at our friend Leamon’s house. When I woke up the next morning, our home was now in the red zone, mandatory evacuation. It was in the yellow zone the night before, evacuation warning. I woke my 17-year-old up. The two of us headed back to Altadena to try to pack more things.

The moment we got to the Arroyo exit on the 210 Freeway, the sky turned from heavy grey smoke to entirely dark. It was just past 8am in the morning, but it felt like midnight. We turned our headlights on. Smoke started to seep inside the car. We were in a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam. Everyone wanted to either get into Altadena, or get out. Streets were blocked. Fire trucks were flashing by.

At some point, we got redirected. The two of us got separated. I called my son to tell him to be safe. I parked my car at a gas station half a mile from the house. With all the streets blocked, I decided to walk. In the messiness of my glove compartment, I found a headband-turned-face-cover, a Covid-era remainder, and pulled it over my face.

The wind was still blowing at a high speed. Maybe 50mph? Maybe 80mph? I couldn’t tell. All I thought was, I should’ve worn my sunglasses. The sky was raining ashes. Soot was getting into my eyes. I was choking on the smoke. When the wind accelerated, I had to turn my back and wait for it to die down. It became impossible to walk.

That was when a car pulled over right next to me. It was my son. In his calm voice, he said, “mom, get in the car right now. We gotta go.”

I hopped in the car. He said, “mom, our house is gone.” “What do you mean our house is gone?” “Our house burned to the ground. There’s nothing left.”

It felt like someone dumped a huge bucket of cold water over me. “What?” was all my reaction. “What? Wait, what?”

He dropped me off by my parked car. We drove back to Tujunga. My heart sank to the bottom of the ocean.

At the bottom of the ocean, I thought I had tasted enough of the bitterness of my sadness. It is thinking about the second yellow folder of Colette’s artwork I didn’t pack. The bracelet my dad bought me last year. Sammy’s jackets he thrifted over the years. My spouse’s extra pair of contacts and his gray pullover sweater. It is thinking about all the gatherings at this humble little 1,000 square feet house. Sammy and I stringing lights for Jervey’s surprise 60th birthday party. . A recent New Year’s Eve party with hot pot. Colette drawing and sculpting with oven clay on the kitchen table while watching YouTube. A beautiful painting of the landscape of Santa Barbara from Jervey’s friends on the wall. It’s crying about all the things that carry so many memories and delight that I failed to pack.

My grief turned out to be nothing compared to other people’s grief. And I’m not just talking about my kids’ grief: Colette crying over her lost companion, and asking, “mom, why do I have to do homework when we don’t have a home?” Or my 17-year-old’s grief. Oh, Sammy’s grief. My boy is as stoic as can be. Growing up as the oldest and with a single mother for the first few years of his life, he’s been my steady rock. When relatives offered to help, and “just let me know what you guys need!” He put forward a simple request. It was immediately rejected. On top of that, he was told to watch his tone. Tears rolled down his face. I haven’t seen my boy cry in more than a decade. He has been the one loading all the heavy boxes into the car and risking his life to check out his house. When he drove by our scorched street, he felt the heat from the fire that was still burning. After he picked me up, he said, “mom, I knew it was very unsafe of me to see the house. It was also unsafe of you to walk on the street like this.” My boy, always thinking of others, always being responsible.

No, it was not just his grief and indignation that I was referring to. It was other people’s grief, hardened into spiteful anger, hurled at me at a velocity I never imagined.

Friday was a surprising day filled with media. The NPR story on our family came out (Her family thought they would return home the next day. Now, their house is gone, by Frank Langfitt). My husband and I spoke with Brittny Mejia from the Los Angeles Times the day before and the family got our photo taken in front of the national guides in Altadena (still couldn’t get to our burned-down house). (Altadena had soul, solitude and community. Can those qualities survive devastating firestorm?) Later that afternoon, my son and I appeared on the live show Stay Tuned NOW with Gadi Schwartz on NBC.

On Saturday, I received texts that I was negligent, sociopathic and greedy for publicity. I was told that I was going to get crucified for posting family photos on social media and allowing the LA Times to publish a family photo for millions to view. I was threatened on social media that the “truth” was going to get exposed.

I wailed at my bestie’s elegant marble kitchen counter. It was a beautiful morning. The sun lit up her beautiful living room, with tasteful artwork and uncluttered tables, unlike our old house. My crying woke her up. She came downstairs and put her arm around me. Her husband, in his engineer’s way, made me a coffee. “Here, coffee makes everything better.”

At that moment, I was reduced to a little girl, wronged, accused of committing a crime that she never did. At that moment, I heard my mom’s voice, “oh my girl. You’re suffering so much already. And now this.” At that moment, I really needed my mom.

Hours later, when the wailing stopped, I realized I was dealing with other people’s grief. They were also grieving, but it turned into bitter anger toward me. How dare you not do XYZ during evacuation? How dare you do ABC after this disaster?

That hardened grief was spitting fire on me. That type of other people’s grief was shooting bullets at a soul that’s already heavy with guilt. That other people’s grief pressed down on this sponge. The sponge could not absorb more grief, and it broke in its own way.

By Saturday night, I realized my capacity had been shrinking because I hadn’t run in 4 days. My bestie, in her thoughtful passion, has reserved guest passes at this fancier-than-Equinox gym. So we went. I got on the treadmill and ran 5 miles. I felt better.

(A defiant gym selfie)

I continue to deal with other people’s grief. With consistent self-care like running, I can be a good sponge that absorbs a lot of it. But maybe, just maybe, for other people’s grief that turned into hate, it can just stop.