A Thousand Small Heart Attacks

Ten years later, I finally went back and read my journal for the first time. There is so much I’d completely repressed. The weight of it all is still unbearable. 

Dec. 26, 2004

I can’t even. Day from Hell. Earthquake below the ocean off the coast of Sumatra, Indonesia. 9.1 Richter. Tsunamis ravaged from the coast of India all the way east through Thailand and Malaysia. Mangled bodies on the beach. An Italian man’s brains were pouring out of his head. A foot hanging on by a thread while the ankle bone protruded. The Costa Rican woman handed me her young son while she tended to the wounded. I sat with a Frenchman, yelling at him to stay awake as he struggled with the loss of blood from his shin bone popping out of his leg. Mass fear and hysteria as crowds ran further and further up the mountain to ‘safe’ higher ground. Running around bringing food, water and supplies to the Norwegian family, and others, sitting and waiting for news or rescue, or anything. And Tais. To imagine losing her mom, dad and baby brother in one day. Holy fucking shit.

Over 230,000 people died in the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami when on Boxing Day, December 26, a massive undersea earthquake – just west of Sumatra, the 3rd largest earthquake ever recorded – caused a series of tsunamis with waves up to 100 feet high, hitting 14 countries.

I was on the tiny island of Koh Phi Phi off the southwest coast of Thailand in the Andaman Sea. Later I was told that upwards of 70% of the people on Phi Phi didn’t make it.

We did, because of a seemingly endless number of innocuous circumstances: We had to stay on the northern tip of the island because we booked late in the season; Our bungalow wasn’t directly on the beach as we’d wanted; We hit the snooze bar a few times and missed our 8am snorkeling trip… The southern half of the island washed away that morning. Beachfront bungalows wiped out. Nearly everyone on that snorkel boat washed up on the beach.

That shit really happens. It’s this obscenely horrifying and sad event. A pivotal moment in life. It shaped my sense of self, my capacity for grief, my acute sense of mortality and the fragility of all life.

It also left me with a heightened ability to follow a worst-case scenario down the rabbit hole to whatever disgusting ending my mind can think of. Like your life flashing before your eyes, but instead it’s death and destruction and all the aftermath flashing. So that when Joy runs into the parking lot after school and almost gets run over, in that nanosecond before I grab her out of harm’s way I see her little body on the ground, I call Marc on his business trip, tell him he needs to get the next flight home from Boise or wherever, I watch him on the plane, a hot mess, making his way across the country to our broken family, at the funeral I wear the same black cashmere sweater I wore when my grandma died, and then I see us as an old couple forever mourning the loss of our first baby. I can’t help but follow the rabbit hole in those almost and just-missed moments. Ten years and a day ago I didn’t do that.

Following that December 26 journal entry, I did not touch pen to paper again for nearly 2 weeks. Then, slowly, it started to pour out, every painstaking detail from that day and the days that followed, page after page after page. There was a lot of grief, survivor’s guilt, soul searching, growing understanding of the mass devastation and how indescribably lucky we were to have survived such a calamitous natural disaster. Later, I felt wondrousness at being alive and breathing and being lucky enough to do something as simple as walk down the street. Followed by more guilt.

Ten years later, I remain in shock. For the hundreds of thousands of lives that earthquake and tsunami destroyed. Shocked at what I saw, how I reacted, what I did to help others, and I still feel guilty for not doing more. I fear nature and its almighty power. I witnessed a nightmare and miraculously lived through it. I was in the right/wrong place at the right/wrong time, and for no other reason I am alive.

Since then I’ve tried to stay mindful of the deep understanding that all life is fragile and finite, that any day could really be my last, or the last of those I love. To foster gratitude and appreciation for all the wonderful people and blessings in my life. Of course, the daily grind and everyday stresses resume. But after reading my old journal my heart breaks all over again for everyone lost and everyone who lost. What if I died that day, too? The last 10 years of my life wouldn’t exist. My husband and children and career. Where would Marc be? Who would he be with? What if my best friend and travel partner hadn’t made it that day? Or the boyfriend who’d visited me across the world in Thailand that week? What would I have told their mothers?

Today feels like the first day back at work after losing a family member. i think, ‘What the fuck am I doing here? None of this matters. Everybody else seems ok to just go on like this awful thing didn’t just happen.’

Ten years later, I finally went back and read my journal for the first time. There is so much I’d completely repressed. The weight of it all is still unbearable. 

Dec. 26, 2004

I can’t even. Day from Hell. Earthquake below the ocean off the coast of Sumatra, Indonesia. 9.1 Richter. Tsunamis ravaged from the coast of India all the way east through Thailand and Malaysia. Mangled bodies on the beach. An Italian man’s brains were pouring out of his head. A foot hanging on by a thread while the ankle bone protruded. The Costa Rican woman handed me her young son while she tended to the wounded. I sat with a Frenchman, yelling at him to stay awake as he struggled with the loss of blood from his shin bone popping out of his leg. Mass fear and hysteria as crowds ran further and further up the mountain to ‘safe’ higher ground. Running around bringing food, water and supplies to the Norwegian family, and others, sitting and waiting for news or rescue, or anything. And Tais. To imagine losing her mom, dad and baby brother in one day. Holy fucking shit.

Over 230,000 people died in the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami when on Boxing Day, December 26, a massive undersea earthquake – just west of Sumatra, the 3rd largest earthquake ever recorded – caused a series of tsunamis with waves up to 100 feet high, hitting 14 countries.

I was on the tiny island of Koh Phi Phi off the southwest coast of Thailand in the Andaman Sea. Later I was told that upwards of 70% of the people on Phi Phi didn’t make it.

We did, because of a seemingly endless number of innocuous circumstances: We had to stay on the northern tip of the island because we booked late in the season; Our bungalow wasn’t directly on the beach as we’d wanted; We hit the snooze bar a few times and missed our 8am snorkeling trip… The southern half of the island washed away that morning. Beachfront bungalows wiped out. Nearly everyone on that snorkel boat washed up on the beach.

That shit really happens. It’s this obscenely horrifying and sad event. A pivotal moment in life. It shaped my sense of self, my capacity for grief, my acute sense of mortality and the fragility of all life.

It also left me with a heightened ability to follow a worst-case scenario down the rabbit hole to whatever disgusting ending my mind can think of. Like your life flashing before your eyes, but instead it’s death and destruction and all the aftermath flashing. So that when Joy runs into the parking lot after school and almost gets run over, in that nanosecond before I grab her out of harm’s way I see her little body on the ground, I call Marc on his business trip, tell him he needs to get the next flight home from Boise or wherever, I watch him on the plane, a hot mess, making his way across the country to our broken family, at the funeral I wear the same black cashmere sweater I wore when my grandma died, and then I see us as an old couple forever mourning the loss of our first baby. I can’t help but follow the rabbit hole in those almost and just-missed moments. Ten years and a day ago I didn’t do that.

Following that December 26 journal entry, I did not touch pen to paper again for nearly 2 weeks. Then, slowly, it started to pour out, every painstaking detail from that day and the days that followed, page after page after page. There was a lot of grief, survivor’s guilt, soul searching, growing understanding of the mass devastation and how indescribably lucky we were to have survived such a calamitous natural disaster. Later, I felt wondrousness at being alive and breathing and being lucky enough to do something as simple as walk down the street. Followed by more guilt.

Ten years later, I remain in shock. For the hundreds of thousands of lives that earthquake and tsunami destroyed. Shocked at what I saw, how I reacted, what I did to help others, and I still feel guilty for not doing more. I fear nature and its almighty power. I witnessed a nightmare and miraculously lived through it. I was in the right/wrong place at the right/wrong time, and for no other reason I am alive.

Since then I’ve tried to stay mindful of the deep understanding that all life is fragile and finite, that any day could really be my last, or the last of those I love. To foster gratitude and appreciation for all the wonderful people and blessings in my life. Of course, the daily grind and everyday stresses resume. But after reading my old journal my heart breaks all over again for everyone lost and everyone who lost. What if I died that day, too? The last 10 years of my life wouldn’t exist. My husband and children and career. Where would Marc be? Who would he be with? What if my best friend and travel partner hadn’t made it that day? Or the boyfriend who’d visited me across the world in Thailand that week? What would I have told their mothers?

Today feels like the first day back at work after losing a family member. i think, ‘What the fuck am I doing here? None of this matters. Everybody else seems ok to just go on like this awful thing didn’t just happen.’