Five Hundred Days

Five hundred days sounds like a long time. I guess it is — but as you age, time moves faster and faster, as if you are flying through your own life.

It’s been five hundred days since the Eaton Canyon fire. I am searching to put this into perspective. I think about how many different places I’ve stayed, how many meals I’ve cooked in an air fryer, a microwave, or had as takeout.

So much of this became the new normal — very hard at first, but once you start doing it, you just do it, and that’s what it is.

At first I missed my things, a sense of home, people gathering, a glass of wine in my favorite glass. I felt the loss of that so deeply at first. Normalcy was no more.

The new normal. It was already a time of transition for me, so this only made that gap wider. I am okay. I am just getting re-acclimated — waiting for construction, unsure exactly what’s coming next and when. I am comfortable, still occasionally confused by my surroundings, but because it has been so long, not quite sure what it is I am looking for or expecting. I’ve learned to accept, in part, the unknown.

I read some accounts from others about the 500-day mark. The mixture of emotions is real, some still raw. I think many of us, like me, have had to accept the new normal and just keep going. When I hear some of the stories of love and loss, I am profoundly moved — often to tears. When talking to people I know who have experienced this loss, sometimes what I see appears to be acceptance. Sometimes I think it’s a brave face masking despair.

I wonder: how does one accept and live with loss? We all experience it in different degrees and different ways. It is part of the human experience. Why does it seem so unfair?

Is there a balance? Maybe the sum total of a life’s experience creates one?

If that’s so, why have so many said to me: “I have never experienced something so awful.” “This is the worst thing I have ever experienced.” “I can’t even go forward.” “The grief is profound.”

It is the unexpected. We lose people we love, and we know that day is coming — though it sometimes arrives without warning. I have no reflection on the why of that. It has happened to me, in various ways. I knew that time would be my friend. You just have to walk through it.

I understand that it can feel as if all four walls are closing in and soon you will be unable to breathe. But you do breathe. You always do.

I wish I had wisdom for those so deeply hurt, those still suffering. I don’t. What I do know is that there will be joy again. It may look different. Your perspective may be different. But it will be there.

The things we carry and experience do change our lives. For me, I choose the “it is always better” perspective. I know that isn’t everyone’s truth. We become more complete in some ways — a deeper hue to our emotions, a perspective that deepens gratitude.

When will it come? Five hundred more days? Fifty? One hundred? When life — or home — returns?

The process is long, complex, ever-changing, and emotionally challenging. Hope helps. The rebuilding is layered with emotion — excitement, but also fear and uncertainty.

Is it going to be okay? Is it enough? Will I feel at home the way I once did?

Ever?

I don’t know. It’s personal, I think. Everyone needs to walk in their own shoes. And our role, as fellow Altadenans, is to help them put one foot in front of the other.