Member-only story
After the Fire: A Community of Care
My first-grader came back from the doctor’s office before dawn. Not only did he have a shiny gray cream on his facial burns and hands — he also wore new clothes, thanks to quick recruiting by the family who kindly went along with him to the doctor’s and back again. Someone handed me his scorched and partly melted pajamas; he had on warm, comfy clothes just his size, and beautiful thick hand-knitted socks. I’d have to get winter boots for all of us as soon as I could.
Getting us out of the burning schoolhouse and carrying the children through the night at 23 below zero had used up most of what I could provide— I was so grateful that this couple from further up the road would go with my son this way. I stayed at the blessedly warm home of A and M, took a shower in which the worst of my burned hair went down the drain, dressed myself in kindly given clothes, and set aside my own scorched PJs and TR’s flannel shirt that I’d worn over them.
My younger son, age three and a half, sat on a rolled-up floor mat with M’s sister, a gentle person who turned out to be a child psychologist. She calmly asked this little one about his experience, and he filled her in, wondering aloud, “Why did the house roar at us?”
Later, I’d think that this “debriefing” gave him a head start in shaking off the trauma. My older son instead, for months, avoided…
