On Oct. 8, 2017, my son celebrated his eighth birthday with four friends who all had birthdays within a few days of each other. We moms had decided this group party was the easiest way to celebrate, and the Epicenter on Coffey Lane has virtually everything a kid could want for their birthday shenanigans. They partied in the arcade, downed copious pizza, played laser tag and sang “Happy Birthday” over their custom Pokémon birthday cake.
The party ended and we went home. I remarked that we almost lost one of the precious Pikachu balloons on the gusting winds. Wesley’s real birthday was the next day, the ninth, and we finalized plans to have a barbeque the next night at my parents’ house for our family party and gift opening.
My son fell asleep clutching one of his new toys. As I drifted off that night, I listened to the howling wind, and remember thinking it was so strange for it to be so loud and violent on such a hot night.
Just before midnight, my cellphone rang, it was my neighbor yelling that the hills were on fire and we had to get out. I jumped up and looked out the window, and sure enough there was a glow to both the south and the east. After conferring for a moment, we decided to take Wesley to my parents’ house, and then return to evacuate the farm.
As we drove towards their house, a small voice popped up from the back seat. “I guess we’ll always remember my number eight birthday, huh Mommy?”
To say the least.
By now, I feel like I’ve told the story a million times. As we drove towards Santa Rosa, it became clear that we were driving toward the fires, not away from them.
I called my parents and told them they had to grab whatever they could and get out; we’d meet them on their driveway. We dodged downed trees and thick smoke. My parents got out just in time from their home off Wallace Road. Driving home, the police were closing Fountaingrove Parkway behind me, as the fires loomed closer and closer.
We’d end up evacuating from our farm for 10 days, 50-plus animals, including horses, goats, chickens, dogs and donkeys. Our place was spared, other than wind damage to roofs and fences. My parents weren’t so lucky.
It’s a story that thousands of people here can tell, because no one was untouched by the firestorm. If it wasn’t you, it was someone you care about.
In the year that’s passed, I’ve seen the changes wrought by those flames, and despite all the #SonomaStrong rhetoric, their damage persists.
In my own family, I’ve seen my parents; both tough, strong and competent people, become inexplicably fragile. Their ability to cope has been diminished. Not in the act of doing what needs to be done, but the toll it takes on them.
Perhaps because of the areas hit worst by the fires, I have many friends whose parents were burned out. And we notice a lot of the same issues.
Emotional fragility. Physical fragility. Lack of ability to make decisions. A sense of unending loss.
One friend had to 5150 her own mother because of how unstable she became in the months after the fire. Another’s parents took off in their motorhome and from day to day she’s not sure where they are and what their plans are, except when they call her randomly to tell her she needs to meet their insurance adjuster for them.
Another has had to try to comfort her mother when she found out that the tile she installed in the house they built 60 years ago is no longer available, meaning the rebuilt house will not be exactly the same.
For the victims, it’s still Oct. 8, 2017. It may always be.
Another friend of mine, in the days and weeks after the fire, housed her parents, a sibling, her ex-husband, his new wife and his parents. She has a different kind of post-fire trauma, even though the fire never came close to her west county home.
My own parents spent the first nine months post-fire dedicated to rebuilding. Then suddenly, three months ago they started to question the wisdom of it. Maybe they were too old to rebuild. Maybe it was too hard. Maybe it would never be the same. Maybe it couldn’t be better. Maybe it could only be worse.
So, we’ve been looking at houses. It’s like Goldilocks — it’s been tough to find anything just right, and having it just right is why they built their own house in the first place.
For now, things move on parallel tracks, rebuild plans are moving through the county, and they continue to look for the just right house that’s already built.
A real estate agent friend of mine said my parents aren’t unique. She said all the survivors she’s worked with are “so desperate to move on with the next chapter” and put Oct. 8, 2017 behind them they just want to be done with things and move into a house.
But, a house is the most exact replica of a person’s soul that most people ever have on public display. It’s so much more than four walls and a roof. People are desperate to move on and be settled, but what they really want is to be back in their old house, safe and intact. A new house can’t turn back time.
In my son’s class, five families lost their homes. One of them was one of our fellow birthday celebrants. He won’t be celebrating with us this year, because his family moved away. The fire wasn’t the only reason, but it certainly played a role.
This spring, when everything burst into bloom and green, it helped hide the blackened scars of the fire from casual view, but if you live in the burn zone, you can’t escape the reminders. In some places, the carpet of green exacerbated the blackened trunks and decimated tree canopy.
The native plants fought back from the flames, evolved as they are to use the fire cycle as part of a normal life cycle, and it’s amazing to see what has sprouted through the ash. But, there’s still a lot of dead, one more reminder survivors can’t quite escape.
Recently, Nightline did a piece about the fires, in which they interviewed local law enforcement and other figures and showed body cam footage from that night. It’s very hard to watch. At the end, one of the officers, visibly emotional, admits that he doesn’t think everybody is doing OK. He says that while everybody talks about recovery and resiliency and being strong, that out on the street it’s a different story. That resonated strongly with me.
Yes, it’s great to see houses being rebuilt and occupied, but there are still thousands to go, many of which will never be rebuilt. It’s wonderful to see the strength of those who stayed, but a lot of people have left and won’t return. There’s been a lot of support, but the flipside is that victims are expected to be strong and happy and “recovered.” They’re expected to be survivors, not victims.
Many struggle with mental health and PTSD. Sound sleep is a thing of the past for many of us, especially when there’s any sort of wind. And barbeque season was fun this year, wasn’t it? They say smell can be the strongest memory trigger of any of the five senses. I think most people who lived through the fires would agree.
I’ve told the story of October 2017 so many times. To friends from out of state. To coworkers. To relatives. To all of you. It sometimes feels a bit like I’m dwelling. Like, I can’t move past it. Sometimes I feel sick of talking about it. Sometimes I feel like I can’t hold it in anymore.
So here we are, a year later, and we’re still trying to cope. To understand and make sense of what happened and try to put the pieces back together. Maybe in another year they’ll fit better.
