The wildfires that have ravaged parts of California (and still are) have brought to mind a dramatic experience I went through years ago, when my son was small — when the logics of survival flash through a child’s brain with lightning accuracy.
Even today, I know how lucky I was to have had a young son who was somehow much smarter than I was that day. My son, then 10, had (and still has) multiple disabilities, including deafness, some of which became a blessing that day.
We were watching a fall college football game on TV in our new southern California home. It was within walking distance to grocery stores, specialty shops and restaurants two miles across a beautifully landscaped double-lane highway buttressed by a vast expanse of woods.
But then it happened. All at once, my son’s eyes flashed with alarm. He asked if I’d left anything cooking on the stove. Before I could answer “no,” he went to check and immediately ran outside.
With our home isolated atop a hill, we had a perfect view of everything, including the woods below — which were ablaze at that moment with spiraling flames and smoke billowing into the sky. I called 911; the line was busy.
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Within minutes the black smoke was so thick it blotted out the sun, so although it was 3:00 p.m., for us it was midnight without a star in the sky. Then our electricity cut out, leaving us completely in the dark both inside and out.
But thank God for my son’s deafness. We didn’t need to see to communicate by signing into each other’s palms about what to do next. Still, the real kicker for me as a mom was how calm my son remained amid this dangerous fray, especially given his Asperger syndrome and severe allergies, including asthma.
And yet, during his 10 years, the child’s traumatic episodes followed a pattern. He was most at risk when it came to tragic events that affected others, but he stood tall as any grown man when it came to protecting mom.
He guided me to the shower in our bathroom and turned on the water to create as much steam as possible while we stood inside the bathtub fully clothed. He wanted to buy us time until the firefighters arrived. Given our location and the upscale commercial entities at risk in the area, this child assured me that it was just a matter of time.
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Still, I was in a panic fearing that any moment he’d go into a full-blown asthma attack — one no prescribed meds on hand would aid. So, despite his protests, I got out of the bathtub and tried to phone for help once again. This time, I got a recording assuring residents in our area that help was on the way.
I felt a bit better until my son remarked, “Mom, I’m worried about the water.”
“Mom, sometimes the bad stuff is worth it.”
“What?”
“In school, I’ve been studying what a city planner does, and LA County’s infrastructure is really bad when it comes to — ”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence because our stream of water stopped. We gathered up bath towels and soaked up the remaining water circling the drain. My son showed me how to make a tent over our heads with the wet bath towels to protect our lungs and burning eyes from the smoke that had begun to engulf our home.
We huddled in the bathroom under our towels for at least an hour when I heard the most welcome sound: our firefighters’ thunderous banging on our front door. Incredibly relieved, we ran to them.
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Afterward, my son and I were taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital to be checked out.
On the way there, I’ll never forget what he said: “Mom, sometimes the bad stuff is worth it. We have this cool speeding ride with the ambulance lights going and cars everywhere getting out of our way!”
I sighed at the truth and irony of his remark — while at the same time somehow missing the heroic man-in-the-boy I had witnessed only hours before.
The author, a retired attorney, is a published poet, writer, and columnist based in Arizona.
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