At the risk of completely jinxing myself by uttering these words, I have lived an inordinately lucky life. I have remained relatively healthy for the most part— no broken bones, no major surgeries. I’ve had no one really close to me die, save for my grandmother, and at the time she was 102, so despite my initial (and somewhat unreasonable) shock, her passing wasn’t entirely unexpected. Of course, as with every life, there have been disappointments in mine — goals not attained, relationships that haven’t worked out — but in general and in hindsight, there’s no event that I can think of in my past that I would call an instance of true, profound heartbreak. As a result, I had become convinced that there wasn’t any unfortunate circumstance that I wouldn’t be able to overcome.
This conviction weakened considerably when my daughter Alex was born. Something visceral happened when I became a parent: along with the love came this instinctive, animal-like drive to protect my child at whatever cost. And the consequences of failing to do so … well, they’re really too horrible to think about.
My first realization of this fact came when my daughter was about two years old. My family and I had returned to my homeland of Trinidad: my husband, Marcus, had quite serendipitously received a job opportunity there, and since much of my extended family remains in Trinidad, we leapt at the chance to return. Soon after we picked out a home, and our furniture and all our belongings arrived, we settled into a simple life. Marcus would go off to his job working with people he enjoyed and respected, we found a wonderful Montessori daycare and preschool that Alex adored, and I spent my days at home alone, writing to my heart’s content.
As it happens, Trinidad lies along a geologic fault line; so experiencing small tremors isn’t uncommon. When the first few happened, Marcus and I would regard them with a certain measure of amusement. “Can you feel that?” we’d say to each other. “Urn … no … wait, yes!” was the common response. We’d sit silently for a moment and marvel at what was happening.
One particularly beautiful, sunny morning, however, after I had dropped Alex off at her preschool and Marcus had been at work for several hours, I sat in front of my computer in time to feel a small telltale tremble. I stopped typing. Is that an earthquake? I thought to myself. Oh wow, I think it is! I waited for it to stop, and for a second, it felt like it was waning. I turned my attention toward my computer screen.
And then, things became much worse.
The ground began shaking violently, and cupboard doors started opening and slamming shut. A picture suddenly went askew on the wall before crashing to the floor. The computer screen went black, as all electrical power suddenly ceased. I leapt from my chair and ran outside and away from the building, trembling, while the ground continued to jolt unrelentingly. Oh God, please don’t let anything happen, I remember praying. Please.
As the shaking abated a bit, my cell phone began ringing inside. I hesitated, knowing that it was likely Marcus, knowing he would be worried if I didn’t answer. The shaking wasn’t nearly as intense as it had been seconds earlier, so I raced in to grab the phone and ran back outside.
“Hello?” I answered tentatively. The ground still shook.
“It’s still going! It’s still going!” I heard Marcus speaking to someone in his office, his voice faint and tight with fear. Suddenly, he seemed to remember that he’d called me, and I heard his full voice as he turned his attention to the receiver. “Hello? Karen? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I said, my voice breaking.
“It’s still going,” he said.
“I know.”
And then a few seconds later, everything stopped moving.
“Are you okay?” Marcus asked again.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “A picture fell off the wall. But I’m okay.”
“That was something, wasn’t it?” he said, laughing weakly. “That was crazy!”
“I know,” I said. “Alex must be freaking out.”
There was a small commotion in the background. “I have to go,” he said abruptly. They’re evacuating the building. I have to go.”
“Okay, I’ll call Alex’s school,” I said. He hung up.
Before I could dial the number to Alex’s school, the phone rang again. It was Alex’s school director, sounding very unnerved. “Karen?” she said, “we’re closing the school. We have no power, and the children are scared. Can you come pick Alex up?”
“Of course. I’m on my way.”
I immediately grabbed my keys and jumped in the car. While I was driving, I couldn’t stop thinking about the earthquake, or trying to imagine what might have happened if there had been serious damage. Her school was about five miles from home — not far, by any stretch — but if it had been a devastating earthquake, it might have taken a lifetime to get to her. When I arrived, Alex was still frightened. “Mummy, the walls!” she said excitedly. “The walls!”
“I know, baby,” I said, strapping her into her car seat. “It’s over now.”
Later that day, after the power had returned, there was an aftershock— not nearly as strong as the first quake, but it didn’t matter, we were still on edge. As soon as the tremors started, I ran to Alex, grabbed her out of highchair and ran outside. By the time we made it outdoors, the quake had stopped.
“Mummy, the walls!” she said again.
“I know, sweetie,” I said, kissing her, still shaking myself. “It’s okay. It’s over.” But still, I couldn’t help thinking about what would’ve happened if it wasn’t over. What would’ve happened if there had been catastrophic results? The thought of losing Marcus and Alex — in an instant — was too horrible to consider. What would I do? How would I continue with my own life?
That night we learned that the earthquake had measured approximately 6.2 on the Richter scale. There was no widespread damage, and while there was one injury, there were no deaths. Despite the movement in our own home, nothing really valuable broke, and the only reminder of the day’s events was a suspicious crack that had suddenly appeared in our bedroom wall. In the grand scheme of things, this earthquake was minor, an insignificant occurrence. It was nothing.
Years later, after we’d moved from Trinidad back to the United States, a devastating earthquake hit Haiti, another Caribbean island, decimating its capital, Port-au-Prince. As I watched the images on CNN of people trapped in the rubble, frightened children calling for their parents, distraught parents screaming for their children, my memories of the earthquake back in Trinidad came flooding back. It can all change in an instant, I thought. How would I make it if something awful happened to my family? How are these Haitian families going to make it?
But here’s the thing: in the days after the Haitian earthquake, as news of aid, heroic feats and acts of bravery and unmitigated generosity started rolling in, I was reminded that whenever something horrifying happens — a natural disaster, an act of terrorism, the diagnosis of a potentially fatal disease — one of the beautiful by-products of these heartbreaking events is the way that people, strangers and friends alike, really rally together to help one another. No matter what nasty, horrifying curve ball life decides to throw at us, as crippling as the circumstances may seem, we are never alone. There is always someone willing to help, to offer support, to lend a hand. If only we are willing to rely on each other, it is possible to emerge stronger on the other side, ready to pay it forward if we are able.
I’m reminded of a video that my cousin once sent me. It was taken at a “going away party” of an acquaintance of his: this person wasn’t moving anywhere, but was imminently dying of cancer. In the video, this man had stepped to the microphone to speak to the huge gathering of friends and family who had come to celebrate his life. After he had thanked everyone for coming and assured them that he felt particularly blessed to have the opportunity to tell each of them how much he loved them before he passed on, he said the following beautiful words:
“Just because we have this profoundly sad thing — the end of a life in our lives — doesn’t mean that all the other things that bless our lives are no longer present. They’re just all the sweeter for it.”
Amen. Because the truth is, despite the trials we all face, there is always some good in all our lives. We just need to remember to look.
“I’m different because I know the pain of losing an unborn Child but I’ve also found my inner strength.”
“ I’m different because I am surviving the death by suicide of my twenty-eight-year-old son. Every day now I am living for both of us in the life and joy of his young daughter.”
“I’m different because I have a guardian angel. My son, Joseph, came into this world when I was only twenty-three weeks pregnant, but it was too soon, and he couldn’t stay long. I feel comforted knowing he is looking over my husband and me.”
