Flashbacks

As we watch the tragedy in California, and as our town and state graciously provide numerous "prescribed" aka "controlled" burns around Los Alamos, I can't help but flashback. I know it's irrational, because I didn't lose anything. You'd think after over 7 years, I'd be over Cerro Grande, but in reality, I guess I just keep waiting for the other shoe to drop and for Cerro Grande II to strike. Stupid also because now I know many firemen, and I know the "inside lessons" we learned, and rationally I know that shouldn't ever happen again. I know that I'll be one of the first to know if there's even any hint of danger of it happening again...but it's hard not to go back in time.

Maybe that's why I'm a little more sympathetic to the callers that call in a panic asking about evacuations. Maybe that's why I listen to each caller's story of where they were years ago during it all. Maybe that's why I don't mind the millions of 911 calls about smelling smoke. Maybe that's why I myself can picture myself digging the ash out of my ears and nose and mouth again.

I can't make those that didn't live here during The Fire understand what it's like to be all alone in the town--even though there were 3 other dispatchers, hundreds of firemen from all over, multiple police agencies and the National Guard here. I can't make people imagine what it's like to not know where your family is or where they're staying or what they've done with your animals, because you're too busy answering the frantic calls of those that stayed behind during evacuations and attempting to coordinate rescue efforts--just to have those same frantic people refuse assistance once your officers have put themselves in danger to rescue them and their young child--to talk with your family. I can't begin to tell of the fear I felt when I had to tell several officers that they were trapped because the fire had taken over the bridge back to downtown and back to the station. I don't know how to describe the pain of returning the messages neighbors and judges and community members begging for information about their homes just to tell them that everything they had to leave behind in the mass evacuation is gone. I can't explain how it feels to know that every citizen but the 4 or 5 that refused to evacuate the town, every member of the fire department, every member of the police department but those 3 dispatchers and your supervisor and one officer and 4 National Guard members have been taken out of the town with the promise that somehow someone will be back for you all while the ash is so thick that you can't see more than 2 feet in front of you and you hear the roar of the fire echoing against the sound of the helicopters. I can't make someone feel the dirt and grunge and ash on a uniform that's been on you for over 40 hours as you've had literally 5 minutes of sleep, and you're still trying to smile and reassure those that ask that things will be okay. I can't imagine where the strength to hold scared co-workers or, once everything is gone and the town is reopened, the citizen that lost or that almost lost everything, in your arms came from, nor why I tried not cry with them. I don't know how to describe what it's like to watch grown men with badges and guns hold their heads in their hands, soiled with ash from fighting flames themselves, and cry like little boys. I don't know how to explain that those of us that lived here are bonded together--and those of us that worked emergency services then have an unbreakable respect for each other. It's a horrible club, and one that more and more are becoming a part of.

I don't know how to make myself forgive and stop reliving the emotions, so how can I help others understand why the majority of the town also cannot move on?

I totally forced myself on another blogger, The Imperfect Complainer (she's linked on the side of this blog), and I read tonight that she and her husband have had to evacuate. Please keep her and her husband in your prayers. I know many of us have been where they are, and I know that things can look very bleak for a long time--once the flames go out, the memories and the damage left behind can last forever.