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The Ashes of Hindsight

We noticed the smoke on our front door camera and headed outside to look. Dad had come back inside but saw a small family across the alley. He told me to see what they wanted, so I did. As I approached, the kid on the phone told me a house was on fire. So, I looked down the alley. We owned our home, the two behind us and the one beside us. But I didn’t see anything. It didn’t even dawn on me to check in our own backyard.

Still not understanding, I returned to tell dad there was a fire. He was on the phone in his bedroom when I found him. I informed him, but it seemed he was already aware, for he told me he was on the phone with 911. Under the impression it was at one of our properties and that he would need more info about what happened, I went back outside to ask the kid some questions. But he was still on the phone, apparently also with 911, and I was still somewhat freaked out and unable to make much sense of anything he said. The only thing I caught was that we needed to get out now.

Those words shut down my thought process as I ran toward our house. All I did, though, was run up the front ramp, open the door, and yell at my dad that we needed to get out now. Once that was done, I ran back down the ramp, through the yard to the fence, opened it, and headed into the backyard.

The kid shouted at me, but I ignored him and headed straight to the door of the smaller house. My thoughts were to warn my mom and brother and get their dogs out before the fire hit us. I didn’t have the time to think on what day it was to figure out if my mom and brother were at work. Somehow, neither the smell nor sight of the smoke caught my attention. When I reached their door, I didn’t bother to knock. Instead, I just pushed it open. Heat rushed me, and as I froze as I felt it touch my left arm, terror and dismay filled me. When I looked toward my left, I saw the place full of smoke.

My gasp drew in some of it, and it was as if that was enough for my body to enter flight mode. One of their dogs was right at the door, and a thought passed through my mind to unchain him. But my brain quickly shut that thought down and overrode it with an insane desire to run. I obeyed and began to run away, but as I did so, I cursed myself inwardly for what I’d just done. How could I just forget about Pupper? About Cocoa and Cookie in the bathroom? Another passing thought went to the one tied in the other room, but since the smoke came from that direction, it was a near certainty she was already gone. Was I more worried about my dad and how I needed to get him to safety since the fire was only a few feet from our house? Or did I subconsciously know I could have hurt myself if I tried?

Either way, I ran. On my way toward the back door of our house, I’d only made it about ten feet before I felt weak, saw black, and pitched forward. My knee hit a wooden planter border hard, and my hands went before me in a subconscious attempt to protect my face. The pain and fear were enough to keep me conscious. I faintly heard the kid yell out to me from the other side of the alley, a question as to whether I was okay. Another thing I barely noticed was that my fall had knocked some of the removable trimming of our house out of position toward the underneath of the house. That could be fixed later, though.

But I didn’t respond to the kid. Instead, I pushed myself to my feet with a whimper and a groan. Then, I continued through the space that separated the houses and toward the back door of our home. As I reached the back doorsteps, I got up two steps before my mind went blank, and again, I fell forward. Tears filled my eyes, and this time, it was much harder to get up. When I entered, I could hear dad still on the phone in his bedroom, so I ran to his door, opened it, and cried out. “It’s not where I thought it was. The fire is right behind us!” I was vaguely aware my words were slurred.

Still surprisingly calm, even with my freakout, he replied, “I know.” His lack of fear did some to help calm me down, which was why, as he left and made his way out the front door, still on the phone with 911, I had a few moments of clear thought. Before I followed him, I paused to put on my boots, which was slightly painful. But only barely. Was I still filled with adrenalin? As I put them on, the dogs re-entered my mind, and I was certain that since only thirty seconds or so had passed, I still had time to rescue three of the dogs.

As I ran out the front door to the small house behind us, I could hear a dog scream. Unable to bear it, I ran to the door with the intent to unchain him. But as I got within five feet of the building, my dad called out my name—in that parent tone that brooked no argument—from the other side of the yard. For a split second, I hesitated, but was not in control of my thoughts and actions. It was as if the sight and smell of smoke and fire had activated my primal instincts. And so, again, I obeyed, even though my heart broke with each step I took away from the door.

Now safe beside dad, I did my best not to look toward the building. I heard myself say, “I’m sorry, baby,” but my words were soft and distant. The arrival of the firefighters grounded me somewhat, and only then did I look toward the building while I hoped they would be able to save the dog. The one firefighter who had managed to make it into the backyard yelled across the yard for the others to turn the water on. After a few seconds, he yelled it out again and then called them names under his breath. The dog fell silent right before the water activated, and I went into hysterics.

Only about a minute or two had passed since the firefighters arrived, and he’d been off the phone with 911 for most of that time. Once my mind returned to reality, I realized I should probably call my mom and brother and let them know, even though I questioned why since it wasn’t as if they could do anything about it. So, I asked dad what to do. He told me they’d need time to clean out the spare room to sleep in and bury their animals, so it would be best if they did come home so they had plenty of time to do that before dark, but that I should only call their work if I thought I could do so calmly.

Though I told him I could, I wasn’t entirely sure. I opened Google to search for the number and then called it. When a Customer Service person answered, I told them what happened and what I wanted to be told to whom. They questioned it several times to ensure they understood what I was saying. Or perhaps I didn’t make sense, but it sounded like I was. After they let me know they would tell my family, they hung up.

There was tense silence for several minutes, and then my brother called me through Facebook. Dad held out his hand, so I handed the phone to him after I answered the call. I couldn’t hear any of my brother’s words, but based on the responses, he desperately hoped this was a joke. Immediately after my dad responded, “No, they didn’t make it,” the call ended.

About a minute after that, mom texted me to tell me to get the dogs out. After I told her it was already too late, I decided I should give her more than that. I called her, which I knew I shouldn’t have done. And I was right, for she was in tears. She asked about Stormy, and I told her she was likely the first to have gone and apologized I couldn’t do anything. The call barely lasted a minute. Before it ended, she told me they would clock out and head home.

After I spoke to her, my hysteria returned, and I couldn’t help but think of how I could have done things differently. If I’d noticed five minutes earlier, I might have been able to save the others. What if I’d had the clarity of mind to not only free the one dog but head to the bathroom and free the others? My mind was doing everything it could to convince me this was all my fault somehow. That my mom and brother would blame me for the loss of their dogs. Worse yet, just yesterday, I’d saw a video on Facebook of a man who ran back into his house that was on fire to save his dog. How could I not have had the same courage?

I spoke my fears aloud, and dad told me that there was nothing I could have done. That it was done and over, and no matter how badly I wished things had happened differently, it wouldn’t change the results. He told me that even if the fire department had arrived thirty seconds earlier, the damage done to the lungs of the last dog would still have been too severe to save him without huge cost my mom didn’t have. Assured me that if I could have gotten to the bathroom, the flames would have been at the only exit, so I would have been stuck in there with the other two dogs and likely have suffered damage from the smoke.

He tried his best to convince me that anything I could have done would have resulted in injury or death. That my mom and brother might be heartbroken over the loss of their animals, but they’d have been even more distraught if they lost me, too, especially if from an attempt to be a hero. None of it really helped then.

While we watched, we saw the flames lick the air as they tried to jump the distance between the houses. As upset as I was that I couldn’t have done anything to stop their home from burning down, I was relieved it hadn't gotten ours. My dad’s bedroom was the closest to the fire, and I had several cats I was worried about. Did that make me a horrible person? Or would anyone have focused on the “thankfully” parts of such a situation?

Eventually, we made our way to the front yard. Dad went to talk to the firefighters, and I went inside to take some medicine for my anxiety because I could feel the shakes and dizziness. While inside, I took my boots off and tried to get the mental energy to head to my room to find and put on some more comfortable pants.

Of the sudden desire to speak to someone, I called a few people because I wanted something to occupy my mind until my mom and brother got home. But none of the people I called answered. I was somewhat upset, but I figured they might be at work or busy. And besides, what could they have done? Did I even have the right to talk to anyone when I wasn’t the most affected?

Instead, I called my mom to ensure they were okay on their way home. She sounded better and said they had to pull over for my brother to take over because she had broken down in hysterics again. There were a few questions, which I answered the best I could. As we finished, dad came inside to get fresh air and a facemask.

My worry returned to him. He was a lung cancer survivor and had a hole in his lung from treatment, so he had breathing problems already. That was the only reason he hadn’t rushed inside to save the dogs. Well, that, and because he’d forgotten all about them because his focus had been to call the fire department to mitigate the damage as much as possible. All this smoke and stress was probably really harmful to him. His new inhaler hadn't been filled yet, so he borrowed mine. After I ensured he was alright, I took two puffs of my inhaler and returned to thoughts about pants.

Though I knew I could have talked to dad, I didn’t want to distract him from the important conversations. My mind must have needed that distraction, though, for, despite the fact we had everything needed to tend to my wounds, I asked him if the EMTs would look at it. I was partially concerned about deeper damage since it hurt so badly. Could it just be I felt more pain now that the adrenaline wore off? He told me I could if I wanted to and walked with me down the ramp and into the middle of the yard to ask someone.

Within seconds, their EMT arrived to lead me to the ambulance. He offered to stabilize me on the way there, but I was stubborn, so chose to make it on my own. I allowed him to help me get in the vehicle since my knee hurt to bend. As he helped me up, he asked if I felt hot or cold. After I answered with ‘hot’, he gave me water and turned the AC on. I had him leave the doors open because the sky looked pretty, and I wanted something to focus on.

It took a minute or so for me to get onto the table so he could tend to the wounds easier. He asked me to lift my pants, but when I could only get a few inches above the knee, he asked me if he could cut them. I didn’t want him to because I did like them, but I didn’t want to walk back into the house to change and then walk all the way back to the ambulance. Later thoughts would tell me I could have just said ‘no,’ and he might have worked around it. But it seemed that my brain was still scrambled.

By this point, the smell of the smoke was too noticeable, so I had him close the doors. My paranoid mind was active now in all the ways I could be injured since the inhaler hadn't taken effect yet. He calmed me down and helped me breathe. After a few minutes, I felt the inhaler and anxiety pill begin to work and was relieved.

Surprisingly, whatever he put on my wounds didn’t hurt the left knee, the one with the most damage. But I cried out when he applied it to the right knee. How could two small cuts hurt so much more than an extremely swollen, inflamed, and likely bruised scrape? He apologized for the pain, though he didn’t need to.

He wrapped my knees in gauze and had me sign some paperwork to say that I had refused to go to the hospital—why, for small wounds that could be monitored at home?—and then helped me out the side door. I’d barely taken ten steps back toward the yard when I saw dad approach, concerned. Had I been there for long enough to cause worry? The EMT explained to him that I’d refused to go in, agreed that it wasn’t bad enough to do so, and said to watch the wounds and go in if the pain, bruising, or swelling got worse.

After he left, I followed dad out to the backyard. The fire had long since been put out, but the firefighters were still doing assessments. At this point, Pupper had been brought out and placed under a tarp. They hadn’t gotten to the other dogs yet. I turned around and saw my mom and brother walking into the front yard. I was sure the sight of the firefighters and smoke must have made it real for them. We consoled them and discussed things.

Dad paid attention to the burnt home and the conversation and, after a few minutes, said it looked like the firefighters had another dog and that it might be best to head inside now. My brother and dad began to head off, but mom wanted to look. I grabbed her, turned her around, and walked her out of the backyard before she could see anything. At least, I assumed it was before she could, for she didn’t give a reaction. I hoped the firefighters had had the foresight to cover it, but I didn’t look either.

Once inside, dad went back out to finalize things. I just stood there and provided as much support as I could—not that anything could really help them just then. My brother headed off to what I assumed was to cry out of sight. When dad came back in, we gathered some money and told them it was for food and clothing. We let them know they could clean and stay in the spare room as long as needed.

An hour later, they left town to get the supplies and talk to their work to ask for time off to mourn and take care of things. Before they left, they mentioned they wanted the dog collars if they weren’t too burnt. I told them I would tend to that since I knew how hard it would be for either of them to do it. After all, it was bad enough that my brother would have to bury them by himself.

Two months later, it still doesn’t feel real. I still blame myself for not being able to do anything. And I know mom blames me for leaving the one dog in the only chance I had to help him. It’s what hurts me the most, still, too. Though mom hates herself the most. She says Stormy had been acting weird that morning, and if she’d only listened to her gut instinct—something she always did—that they would have caught the problem before it destroyed everything. Maybe, though. It could have been a sudden explosion that harmed or took them out as well, so I personally feel everything worked out in the best way possible. Not that that helps anyone get over it.