Fire:

I never want to wake up to the word "Fire" again.  I was sleeping deeply for the very first time that night, I was finally warm, and my mother opened my door and said "Fire".  Instantly I was awake.  The smoke was so think I couldn't see anything, and I desperately searched the dark for two things: pants and my purse.

It was cold out that night, -47 C (without windchill), the coldest night of the year, but finally I was warm.  I didn't realize that warmth came from the fire that melted the lighting fixtures below my bedroom, and was melting barbie doll furniture from childhood that were stored under my bed.  In the middle of the night, in my sleep, I just knew I was finally warm.  I mostly likely would have continued to sleep, and just never woke up if my mother hadn't woken me up with that one word "Fire".

What that word represented, stole something from me that I didn't even know I could lose: safety.  Obviously that night, I wasn't safe, and as my family and I fled into the cold without jackets or shoes, we cared more about survival than frost burn or hypothermia.  But that night was the last night I ever felt totally safe.

I remember as a little girl, looking out the window at my grandparents house.  My grandfather stood beside me and together we watched the storm through huge living room windows.  I felt so save standing with my Grampa, watching the storm.  It felt like Grampa and my grandparents house could protect me from anything.  Lightning and thunder filled the sky, but I knew inside I was save.  I said so to my Grampa, and he said something very quizzical at the time: "I hope you always feel that way", and then he walked away.

I was only a small child, less than 9, and I didn't understand.  Why wouldn't I always feel save?  Didn't everybody feel save when they were inside?

What I didn't fully understand at the time, was the second world war, impacted his live.  He in fact didn't feel save.  The sound of thunder sounded like gunfire, and he never liked the sound of thunder.  And, although as I grew older, I understood more and more of just what the second world war was like, I never fully understood his comment until after the fire.

I have never been to war, and I'm sure I will never fully understand his experience in war.  But I do know what it's like not to feel safe in your own home.  My home is not a home anymore.  It's a house, that I live in, but it doesn't give me that save and cosy feeling that it once did.  It was the scene of danger, of fleeing for my live into -47 C weather without a coat or shoes or anything to keep me warm.  I didn't feel the snow beneath my feet or even know they were getting cold.  I didn't feel the wind on my bare skin.  Escaping was the only thing I knew.  Get everybody out of the house.  Call the fire department.  Wake up our neighbours.  Ask for shelter.  Those were the only things I thought about.

But after...

After is a different story.

Of all the things I lost that night (childhood pictures included), what I miss the most is not physical: it's the feeling of safety.  Now I know that nobody is ever truly safe.  It can all be changed in an instant.

I wish I had that feeling back.  I wish that even as I sit on this couch, that I thought nothing could hurt me.  But I don't know if I'll ever feel that way.

And although my childhood self can't go back and ask my grandfather what he meant, and if this is how he felt, I think that maybe this is what he was talking about, and I too wish that feeling of protection from the storm had always stayed with me.

"Reduce Stress", on of my doctors said. "But how?" I wanted to respond but didn't.

My dog is trying to get comfortable on the couch, having resigned herself to not being allowed to go outside and bark along the dogs already barking outside.

My mother just went to bed.

Colouring books and crayons await me at the table.  I bought new colouring books and new crayons today.  I wanted a crayon sharpener, but they only come in the big pack of crayons.  I'm glad I did.  All sorts of cool colours like metallic and gel colours are included in the large packs.

I like colouring with crayons more, than pencil crayons or markers.  There's just something about it.

In my psychology classes, I took I learned about regression and it's evils.  At this point I can't remember why it was bad, to regress, but I remember it was bad.  Am I regressing?  I don't know.  I do know that a whole bunch of other people are regressing along with me, because adult colouring books are very popular.  I'm not sure about the crayon's part, or the children's music part, but it is relaxing.

I need relaxation.  And I need to reduce my stress.  Apparently some of my health problems are due to the prolonged stress I've been under.  For the last 5 years, I've been under a lot of stress.  Deaths, illnesses (one that included neurosurgery and 100 days in hospital), a house fire, a dog dying, the family house being sold (it was in the family for 70 years), two car accidents (one a major head on collision), and a heart attack, have filled our family's activities in the last 5 years.  We've been moving from crisis to crisis, without much time in-between each crisis.  We've just had a really really bad string of bad luck.

And all that stress?  It's causing me health problems: unable to concentrate, unable to remember things, stomach aches, back aches, and many other things.

The doctor told me to cut down on my stress.  But how?  If I knew we'd have a house fire, I would have prevented it.  There wasn't anyway I could have prevented the deaths.  And know body knows what caused my mother's Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus.  I have no control over the health of my father's heart.  If I'd know that somebody would turn in front of me, on a busy 80 km / hr road, I would have taken a different road.

How?  Just how does anyone propose I stop these horrible things from happening?  I would have stopped them if I could.  Believe me I didn't want these things to happen anymore than my doctor did.  Or the librarian (when we told the library that they weren't getting any books back because they all burned in the fire, the librarian said "I hate fires", as if we had a fire just to make her live difficult.)

And so I'm doing small things.  I'm colouring in adult colouring books.  I'm listening to Raffi.  I sing loudly in the car.  I play with my dog.  I watch TV shows that make me laugh.  I blocked everybody who annoyed me in any way from all social media accounts.  I block every stranger on social media that offends me in anyway, because I have enough stress without arguing with strangers on the internet.

I've done big things like cut off all ties with a cousin, who was prone to calling me and telling me about the mistakes I made.  I didn't need to hear it, and although I love this cousin, I just don't want to have anything to do with somebody who is "only telling me the truth", when she says that back when we were children or teens or some other age along time ago that I did such and such and it was a mistake and if I hadn't done that then, I wouldn't be suffering now.

We bought another dog about a year after our last dog died (from smoke inhalation), and pet and play with her daily.  I try to make choices that will make me happy.

But the thing is: it's not really working.  I'm still living a stressful live, and that constant stress: the cortisone and adeline that pumps through the human body when it's under stress, is causing health problems.  Or at least that's one of the possibilities.  There are other possibilities of why I'm getting sick, and I am perusing those ideas with my doctors as well.

And there's one more thing I'm doing to help with my stress: I'm doing it right now - writing this blog.  And you, by reading this blog, have helped me tremendously, because as I said yesterday, looking at the stats, helps me.  It makes me happy when people read this blog.  And for that I thank you very much for reading.

I know that it's like to flee danger in the middle of the night.

I know what it's like to flee my house in the middle of the night, with almost nothing.  I know the panic of danger, and the urgent need to get everybody out.  And I know how hard it is to leave your own house, a house you lived in for years, because you can't find a way out.

No I am not a refugee.

Yes I do know.

What I was fleeing was: fire.  One of our doors had a fire blocking it, another was frozen shut because we never use it, and our escape ended up being a window.  It was -47 C (-52 C with windchill), outside, and being outside in nothing but pyjamas wasn't very safe, but it was safer than staying inside with the flames.

I know what it's like to flee into the middle of the night, and not know where you're going, only that you have to leave.  I know what's like to lose everything, but still be thankful that every living thing survived.

And that is one of the reasons I'm thankful that Canada is supporting 25,000 refugees.

I have other reasons.  When we were fleeing the fire, I grabbed my purse and my mother's purse, because I worked with somebody who was a refugee.  I'd heard how difficult it is to prove who you are, without an ID, and I wasn't going to be in that difficult situation of trying to prove I lived in the house that burned down.

It took us 9 months to work through the insurance, get our house rebuilt and move back in and then another 2 years of court cases to get everything settled.

And I wasn't a refugee.  I didn't have to move to another country, live in a refugee camp, risk my live, or learn a new language.  And still the wounds of that fire still hurt.  It's been almost 5 years and I still don't trust.  My home is not a place of safety anymore.  It's a place of hurt and danger.  I don't know if I'll ever feel save again, because I know now that anything can happen to me, even at home, where I once felt safe.

The refugees must feel that way too.  They didn't flee a fire, they fled bombings and gunfire.  Unlike my family, they didn't get a chance to go home.  If they don't get refugee status in some country, they will not belong to any country.  They will never be able to even have a chance to feel safe again, if we don't allow them to come to Canada.

Recently I saw a picture on twitter, of a home that was ready for a new refugee family.  It looked a lot like the furnished home, that the insurance agency settled us in, while our home was rebuilt.  I remembered how thankful I was that there were homes, available to those that had nothing because of fire.  Everything was in that house, including dish washer detergent.  We were given $50 each to buy clothing.  I lived with one pair of jeans, one t-shirts, one jacket, one pair of shoes and several pairs of underwear and socks for 9 months.  It it wasn't that hard to live with next to nothing.

I wonder if that's how the refugees feel?

There are other reasons that I believe refugees should be welcomed in Canada, and maybe I'll share those reasons with you at another time, but right now, this is what I'm sharing.

I don't know what it's like to be a refugee but I can imagine that it must be even scarier than fleeing from a burning house, because at least we had insurance, and we knew that eventually things would be replaced.  Refugees don't know that.  They truly have nothing, not even statehood, if we don't give it to them.