Damsel in Distress--When the Best You Can Do Ain't That Great
Last picture taken of our house on 8/18/2020 as the sun set. I would evacuate at 1:30 am the next morning.
Grief has a way of washing upon you without expectation. Like those sneaker waves along the Pacific coast that claim the lives of unsuspecting beachgoers each year, the sting of tears and burning sensations that sear my heart as grief pounds me into the sands of life always surprises me.
It’s been six months since the fire, and while I don’t believe I should be “over it” I do wonder where this round of melancholy is coming from. Processing a loss takes time and I’m not rushing to get out of this situation. Rather, I seek to tend to this pain so that it doesn’t get stuck inside of me and instead moves through me in awareness.
One of the tools I’ve found that helps me during any transition is ritual or ceremony. I recently discovered a grief ceremony created by a woman who also went through her own profound loss when her son died unexpectedly. She called this activity the “Honoring the Rocks” ceremony. I was to envision myself planting a new tree on my property, concentrating on the way the shovel felt in my hand. The first few digs were to be easy, scooping through smooth dirt, but as the hole grew deeper, there were stones in the way. I was to imagine my shovel striking the stones blocking my path forward, pull the stones out of the hole, and identify what part of the trauma they represented. When I was done uncovering all the grief-rocks, as she put them, I was to go up to my real property and find actual stones to represent each stone I’d pulled out of the imaginary hole.
This was an interesting exercise and one I recommend to anyone uncovering the layers of grief that come with large loss. As I dug, I thought I’d find all sorts of stones, and the usual ones came up—the loss of my cat, the loss of my goats, the loss of D’ougal and the other trees, but that was about it. I no longer miss the things I lost, just the animals, trees, and the place I call home.
The next day, I went to the property to find real stones to represent the grief-stones from the visual activity. Turns out, I wasn’t really clinging to what I thought I was clinging to. As I sat next to the grave of my pets, looking at the Standing Dead around me, I realized that yes, I missed Sebastian, Barttimus, and Abagail so much, but that’s not what is blocking my heart. My chest burns not from the loss of these beloved creatures, but from deep shame, because I was the one who left them behind. When it mattered most, during a dire emergency, I had failed to think clearly. My rational self, the part of me I prize more than anything in the world, was nowhere to be found and instead I fled into the night, dragging my son with me, unable to figure out how to save all of us. Even the next day, after equine rescue and the SPCA said they were unable to rescue my pets, I should have gone into action and found a trailer and a cat carrier and gone up there myself. There are lots of examples of such heroics on the Facebook groups. Instead, I was unable to think, unable to leave my son’s side, and I refused to let him back up there. It’s all a blur now, but I know I could have done more, and was unable.
Everyone says I did the best I could and they’re right. The shame comes from knowing that my best is actually pretty shitty and that I can’t be trusted to do the right thing in the event of an emergency. In normal life, I’m the boss. I get shit done. More than anyone else I know. I love that about me. So where was that Nicole when I needed her most? Why was it that the moment I saw those blackened leaves, the edges singed like lit cigarette butts, the best part of me fled and all that was left was a scared, disembodied woman, who managed only one thing—save the boy.
As I walked around my now empty land, I found a pretty white rock, right where my front porch used to be, the exact place where those terrifying leaves rained down around me. I tugged at the rock, but it wouldn’t move. I took the shovel and dug around it, discovering that this white rock was much bigger than first appeared. Like an iceberg, there was more than met the eye. I pulled the dirty rock from its place and sat down as if there were still front steps there, feeling it’s cool surface as I brushed off the dirt. At that moment I knew my shame also went deeper than simply failing that night. My true shame is that I know without a doubt that if my husband had been there, those pets would have been alive. He would have grounded me and helped me find solutions. If “my man” had been there, I wouldn’t have lost my mind, because for some reason he has always been the one to keep me focused. I needed him, and I came to realize that hate myself for it.
A woman should be self-sufficient. She shouldn’t need a man. There’s nothing worse than a damsel in distress. You should be able to handle it all alone. Each person is an island unto themselves. To need another is weak. Vulnerability is liability. You are able to live your life alone. This is the ultimate goal. Independent woman is the only woman worth knowing.
These messages have been fed to me my entire life. I can’t recall a moment when I wasn’t being told by my parents, or teachers, or the media that I was to be competent and that meant to be able to live completely without a man. Without anyone for that matter. As a novelist, the people who have hated my work the most have been women who felt the bond between my main characters was sexist, misogynist, etc. I’ve been counseled by editors to make my women fiercer, the winners of the moment, without any help from anyone, men in particular. Yet I’ve noticed that those who give me five stars or write to me (my favorite readers) are the ones, both male and female, who love the love story in my novels. The companionship, the cooperation that is built into their stories. So strange to have such conflicting opinions. No wonder my heart hurts. I am the woman who needed another and failed when she was alone and that woman is out of style, disdained, and politically VERY incorrect.
As I held that rock, I allowed the sting of shame to grow into a fire within my chest. I don’t want to need my husband, but it appears I do. I hate not being able to trust myself—I’ve lost a certain part of my identity I don’t think I can get back—for it’s a lie that I’m an island unto my own. If he’d been there, I would have focused on the child and the evacuation route and he would have focused on what to bring and how to save as many animals as possible. We’re used to being a team. Yet why do I hate myself for this fact? I don’t think he hates being a part of a team. He has confessed many times that he fears that if he’d been the one left behind, they’d all be dead, because he never would have checked the phone to get the evacuation notice (true, he wouldn’t have, he doesn’t touch the phone nor the voice messages) and he’s not on Facebook so he doesn’t keep up with the mountain news. He would have gone into the cabin to work that morning, unaware until the sheriff came, that he should get out of there. Or worse, until the cabin caught fire from the embers falling from the sky.
I doubt it would have gotten that far, I have more faith in him than that, but it’s quite likely he would have been there until the sheriff came, that’s his Mo for sure. I’m the busy bee, the one who gathers information like pollen on a spring day. He’s the boy scout, always prepared and ready with a plan in an emergency. Together, we could have saved more. Apart, we’re left with regrets.
The beehive in the meadow where the goats used to graze survived the fire. I visit them weekly and give them updates about where we’re at. After finding my rock of shame, I walked down to them and took a seat, watching them fly in and out of their little front porch, opening the viewing window so I could see the flurry of activity inside. I need to know they’re still there, as if from them all the new life will radiate out across the land. As their droning buzz relaxed me, I realized how they cannot survive alone. The queen would die without her workers. The workers would freeze to death in the winter without enough drones. No bee can eat without the hive. Together they are greater. One bee is nothing, but a swarm of bees is awe-inspiring. They are one as many and there’s no shame about that in the hive.
Humans are social creatures and a couple is the smallest society we can create. It’s hard to face these trials alone and I’m glad my husband is here now, at my side, helping me with the rebuild of our lives. I’m on task when it comes to all the details of being a climate refugee for sure, as if to make up for being so useless in the evacuation. He’s verifying the plan, asking the right questions, and dreaming along side of me. I like it better together. I’m not a complete damsel in distress, that much is obvious. I’m here, my son is here, and the dogs are here. So there’s that. But I sense that part of letting go of this shame and healing from the loss of the wildfire is accepting that my best isn’t that outstanding, and it’s the others in my life—whether it’s my husband, friends, parents, my children, or mentors, who fill in the gaps. That way I don’t have to be the one and all for anyone, much less myself. Instead, I’m one with all and we share the burden and joys of life together.