I have preached passionately about the need to prepare. I have implied not thinking through how one will react in a disaster is stupid and irresponsible. Having spent over two and a half years with those who suffered through the tsunami that hit Japan in 2011, I was in a position to know what happens when preparation is shoddy. I live and work with those who even today feel the after-effects of the consequences of their actions.
I had a plan. I had thought through how I would react in most disaster scenarios (i.e. earthquakes, typhoons, accidents, tsunami, robbery). I knew what I would do. I was prepared. I was confident.
Last night I proved myself wrong.
If there ever was a post I'd like you to read and share this would be the one. What I did and did not do can be a lesson for all.
Here's what happened in chronological order.
I'm asleep. It's some time after 1am--the last time I looked at the clock. The intercom from downstairs rings. I'm annoyed. Who's at my door in the middle of the night? I don't ignore it. (Why?) No one I know is going to come visiting this late. I get up and answer it.
"Yes?"
Nothing. No, that's not right. There's noise.
"Yes?"
More noise. Asshole. You must be drunk. Why did I get up? Why would you type in my room code? Why didn't you wake up someone else?
I hear someone banging on a door. The drunk must have punched in someone else's room code, too. Who let him up? I hear noise. I hear more banging. I hear more noise. Someone bangs on my door. I look through the peep hole and realize this is the first time I've done so. I hear the alarm system in the hall way, a mechanized male voice saying something. Is this the emergency alarm system? Drunks don't warrant this kind of an alarm. I open the door. There's a firefighter.
"There's a fire on the fifth floor," he says.
"Yes."
"Please evacuate."
"Yes."
"Take the elevator."
"I understand."
If there was ever any doubt humans are capable of having multiple thoughts at once, I am here to prove the naysayers wrong. Three distinct thoughts went through my mind at the same time.
1). He's looking at me up and down as he says this. Why? Is my hair standing on end? Is it my bathrobe? Is he not sure I understand Japanese?
2). The firefighter is short. I am not a tall woman, but he is a head shorter than me. Could he carry me or David down ten full flights of stairs if he had to? I think not.
3). There's a fire?! Holy shit.
I go back inside and call out to David.
"There's a fire. We have to leave."
"Uh huh," he says back, slowly getting up off the bed.
David is looking for his jeans. I see my socks I left at the foot of my bed earlier in the evening. I tell myself I can't put socks on because I don't have time to tie my tennis shoes. (More on this later.)
I wrap a scarf around my neck, take it off because I'm only wearing a t-shirt and I need to put another layer on before the scarf. I tug on pants, grab the jacket on the chair thinking for a moment it wasn't thick enough when we were out for a walk earlier in the evening. I remember telling David I was cold when we came back from our walk at 11pm. I look at the coats hanging in the closet, all within reach and still take the too-thin jacket.
I walk back to the bed and look at the clock. It's just before 3am.
I go to the bathroom.
I go back into the bedroom and grab my cell phone.
I put on my leather slip-ons.
David and I leave the apartment, David locking the door behind us.
I stand in front of the elevator, it's steel emergency door shut. I tell myself we aren't supposed to use elevators in a fire. David slides open the door. The elevator is there. I see three people inside. We get in and it descends. We pass floors eight, seven, six, and five. We see and smell smoke. Why are we in the elevator? Why did the firefighter tell us to take the elevator? Who takes the elevator in a fire?
The lobby is full of firefighters and long hoses. I see red flashing lights outside. David and I walk out and I look around to see if there's a spot where we're supposed to go. I see the crowd. There's a folding table with men standing around it and I wonder for a moment if there's a roll-call. I squeeze past my neighbors and head towards the iron fence nearby. I stand with my back to it. My feet are cold. I look up at David and say, "I decided I couldn't wear socks because I didn't think I would have time to tie my shoes."
"But you had time to go to the bathroom."
"I know, right?"
Who goes to the bathroom before they escape a building on fire?
"My socks, though. I decided I couldn't wear socks because I wasn't going to wear my tennis shoes. I'm wearing slip-ons. These would be the shoes to wear socks with. I don't have to tie these." I pause. I'm talking to myself more than I am to him. "Why didn't I wear socks?"
David doesn't say anything. He looks up. Billowing is the right word. We see thick smoke billowing out of a fifth floor apartment. It's exactly five floors beneath mine.
"Shit," I say. "Now our apartment will smell like smoke." Yes. That's what I thought, and that's what I said.
Next, I wonder if tonight is the night I'll be caught with a guest in my room. My contract is clear in stipulating this is a one-person apartment, and that I will not have over-night guests. My doorman knows David visits sometimes and doesn't say anything. I decide this is because I am one of the few people that will greet him with a "Good morning" every day. I look around and see there are three other couples--other rule-breakers--and decide we can risk getting caught. The doorman likes me. He won't tell, right? David and I discuss this briefly, but in the end we decide to play it safe. He asks where the nearest all-night cafe is, and quietly makes his exit. I feel like I'm a teenager, breaking rules and trying to outsmart the adults who will surely punish.
I see firefighters holding up a woman wrapped in a blanket. They walk her to a stretcher and she lays down, handing her dog to another firefighter. Is she okay? What do they do with the dog? They wheel her away right in front of me and I'm very curious about what is going to happen to the dog. Surely they won't take the dog to the hospital with her. Does the dog go to the vet? Does the dog get to ride in the ambulance? I don't want to ride in an ambulance that previously had a dog in it. Does the dog ride in some other vehicle? Are there emergency vehicles just for pets?
Oh my god. I can't believe I'm thinking this.
There are cops and firefighters and firetrucks all around. (David came back having counted seventeen firetrucks.) There's yellow tape blocking off our street. One of the cops is old. Old, as in over sixty. He's in full uniform. Is he a senior official? I wonder how fast he can run.
My feet are cold.
Now it hits me. The only thing I have with me is my cell phone. I have no cash, no passport, no IDs, no wallet, no credit cards, no water, no food. Then there's a new thought. I have cash in my apartment. I had completely forgotten about this. Enter an immediate and powerful desire to self-flagellate. "You have cash in your apartment for just such an occasion--a quick exit in an emergency--and you forgot you even had it?"
Yes.
In fact, I have to think where it is.
Why did I bring my cell phone? If I had a pillow with me I'd bury my face into it and hold it there until the shame washed away.
I brought my cell phone so I could post on Facebook.
Clearly there is something wrong with me. How could I go on and on about the importance of being prepared, of thinking through how one will react in an emergency, of having a grab-and-go kit when I myself, faced with an order to evacuate chose to: stop at the bathroom, decided I could not wear socks, picked a coat I knew wasn't warm enough, crawled onto my bed to pick up my cell phone so I could post on Facebook, and carried absolutely nothing else with me?
What I learned is this: whatever disaster may strike you is not one you can control the timing of; reason and logic is hard to come by at 3am; the best-laid plans fail.
Once we received the all-clear David and I came back up to the apartment. We both agree it smells like a camp fire. I crawl into bed and waves of homesickness wash over me. I'm still cold, the thin jacket and my I-don't-need-socks decisions clearly a mistake.
The last thought I remember is this: I want my firefighters big and rude. I want my firefighter to say, "Get your ass out of here" and I want to know he can hoist my 200-pound husband over his shoulder.
It is now the morning after the fire. I walk out onto my balcony and look down to the street. Except for the lingering scent of smoke there's nothing indicating just nine hours ago we were all huddled outside wondering, worrying. The firefighters have long gone. The yellow tape has been removed. Life in our neighborhood is back to normal.
Except for the fact I have clearly, very clearly underestimated how I, the "Be Prepared" guru will react in an emergency, all is well.
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