ADRIFT . . . AGAIN
By Doreen Zimmerman
On November 8th, 2018, my life changed forever, and I thought—wrongly, of course—that nothing could ever devastate me like the Paradise Camp Fire that took not only my home but also the homes of my two daughters and my entire community. It was surreal; the smoke was a deep orange as items on fire fell out of the sky, and all at once, it seemed as if the whole world wasn’t real. Tod, my husband, in a desperate attempt to warn me before the fire reached our home, called, yelling into the phone, RUN! So, I ran. I ran from the roar of the fire and the madness of the wind. I ran for my life. I ran for three hours with twelve newborn puppies and their parents in tow.
My journey out of the fire zone took approximately three hours, which was over two hours longer than usual. My husband’s journey took eight hours, and when we were reunited, both of us were charred and exhausted. We fell into each other's arms, saying over and over, “Thank God, thank God, thank God.” I kept patting his head and shoulders, touching him to make sure he was real and safe and with me. I kept saying, “You came back to me; you came back to me.” At that time, I did not know how significant those words would become in the last months we had together.
The fire changed me profoundly and fundamentally. For the first year, I felt like I was on a tightrope walking over an abyss. One wisp of wind, one toe off the line, and I’d fall into that abyss from which I could never recover. Every decision I made seemed to have the potential to be life-changing, not only for me but also because I immediately became the matriarch of my family. My girls had lost their homes; their husbands had lost their jobs. Grandchildren were displaced from school and friends; all familiar surroundings were gone. My husband was beginning his journey into dementia, and every little financial, emotional, and purchase decision was up to me. I had to become what I was unprepared for—stronger, smarter, lighter on my feet, fluid beyond belief—and do it with patience, unending energy, and a deep commitment to being kinder than necessary. The grace I needed was not given; I had to seek it and fight for it. And in my fight, I found it in silence, in a space between breaths when I was finally still enough to be kind to myself and understand the true universal gift of being kind to others.
The day after the fire, all ten of us found ourselves homeless. At 9:01 a.m., I called a friend, Melia, who owned a property management company in a different city. She answered the phone with, “Doreen, is that you? Thank God, you're alive. Come get the keys to your new home.” And so, a new chapter in our lives began—with help from Melia and many others.
As you progress in life, you may find, as I did, that even fierce independence has its limits. My husband and I had always prided ourselves on being self-reliant since the time we were 15 and 17. But now, we had to accept help, and I learned that accepting kindness, especially in the form of help, is not a weakness. It is a strength. It is a strength that is distinct from, apart from, being kind to others. It was a hard lesson to learn so late in life. But to survive, I had to set aside my pride and open myself up to the generosity of others.
I also had to feel the pain—feel it to heal it, as they say. I let it wash over me, sobbing uncontrollably, then finally whispered, Okay. I see you, I hear you, I feel you. But now, I must go forward—or I will be forever lost in this place, and I cannot stay.
In the months after the fire, I began to uncover quiet strengths deep within me, wound like a ball of string at my center, waiting to be drawn upward. I would visualize pulling it up, and as it rose, so did I, with deeper confidence, more ready laughter, and a blossoming kindness that felt nearly limitless. That string became a rope—a storm-defying lifeline—letting me climb to heights I could never imagine.
Captain’s Blog closed… for now. Part Two to follow.