The Liminal Experience: Loss of Extended Self After the Fire

Abstract

This article explores the traumatic loss of home through an autoethnographic account of the period of disorientation after a residential fire described by Turner as the “betwixt and between” stage of grief. The author explores her experience of a loss of extended self and illustrates in this personal account how technologies in the form of possessions extend the human self. The reflection is guided by McLuhan’s understanding of the extension of the body, Belk’s description of how the self is extended through possessions, and Bachelard’s understanding of the significance of the house. The narrative demonstrates the usefulness of autoethnography in understanding traumatic loss.

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DOI: 10.1177/1077800409354066
2010 16: 262 originally published online 18 December 2009Qualitative Inquiry Karen Lollar
The Liminal Experience: Loss of Extended Self After the Fire
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DOI: 10.1177/1077800409354066
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The Liminal Experience: Loss of
Extended Self After the Fire
Karen Lollar1
Abstract
This article explores the traumatic loss of home through an autoethnographic account of the period of disorientation after
a residential fire described by Turner as the “betwixt and between” stage of grief. The author explores her experience of a
loss of extended self and illustrates in this personal account how technologies in the form of possessions extend the human
self. The reflection is guided by McLuhan’s understanding of the extension of the body, Belk’s description of how the self is
extended through possessions, and Bachelard’s understanding of the significance of the house. The narrative demonstrates
the usefulness of autoethnography in understanding traumatic loss.
Keywords
extended self, traumatic loss, communication rituals, liminality, residential fire
1Metropolitan State College of Denver
Corresponding Author:
Karen Lollar, Associate Professor, Metropolitan State College of Denver,
Campus Box 34, P. O. Box 173362, Denver, CO 80217-3362
Email: lollar@mscd.edu
Home as Extension of the Self
February 4. It is a usual Monday—a day of meetings, advis-
ing sessions, and teaching classes at the college. Curious
students, harried colleagues, reports, grading, phone calls,
e-mails, solving problems, and little time to think. I love my
work on the faculty, but at the end of the day I’m tired and
just want the tranquility of home. Home is my house of 30
years.
Just as I have evolved over the years with new phases of
personal development in relationships, education, music,
and taste, my house too takes on differences trying new
fashions, colors, and styles as it reflects changes in my life
and the life of my family. I lovingly refer to the house as my
art project. Jim, my husband, and I have started and most
often completed more remodeling projects than I can recall.
With each change in my life we have changed the house. In
the first month we lived here we opened up the lower level
by knocking out a wall so that the stairs flowed more grace-
fully into the play room at its base. Another year, a new kitc-
hen sink for Christmas started a chain reaction of remodeling
projects, each changing how we interact with the home and
each other. Over the years, we’ve changed the color of that
same kitchen space multiple times from gold to peach to
green—each representing a new mood or mode in our lives.
The outside of our art project changes, too, as our lives take
on new dimensions. Painted barn red when we first moved
in, the house welcomed us to a country space with chickens
and horses where I wore boots and jeans. After about 10
years the house gave up its red look and became a sky-blue
hue that evoked feelings of a country house with its picket
fence and three active children. Chickens were no longer
part of the scene but horses still grazed in the pasture. The
shingles on the roof shifted from gray to a cedar shade of
brown. New windows made it warmer and brighter, and sky-
lights opened up the presence of the sun, moon, and stars.
This house—my house is not “just a thing.” The house is
not merely a possession or a structure of unfeeling walls. It
is an extension of my physical body and my sense of self
that reflects who I was, am, and want to be. The words of
Russell Belk capture for me a sense of it: “A key to under-
standing what possessions mean is recognizing that, know-
ingly or unknowingly, intentionally or unintentionally, we
regard our possessions as parts of ourselves” (Belk, 1988,
p. 139). The house holds the story of our lives as a family . . .
pencil marks on the wall from kids’ drawings . . . pictures
that grace the walls and shelves detailing different moments
. . . pieces of china passed down from grandparents . . .
boxes of mementoes from each child’s school years . . .
Christmas decorations all in boxes waiting to be a surprise
again in December. An artful exhibit of what we have
experienced.
I call Jim and we agree to meet at a local restaurant for
dinner. Flakes of light snow are falling and the temperature
is dropping rapidly. I just want to go home but I know I
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Lollar 263
need to eat something. Over salads and ribs we share reports
of our workdays, his filled with challenges of troubleshoot-
ing hospital radiation therapy equipment and mine narra-
tives of people. We need to get home to the two German
Shepherd Dogs who are our family. I remember I’m out of
gas and Jim gallantly offers to drive my car home so that he
can fill it with gas and washer fluid for the windshield. The
roads aren’t bad yet, and I park Jim’s SUV in the garage and
go inside. The dogs, Della and Sherman, greet me with exu-
berant jumping and licking. “Get off of me,” I laugh with
them playfully and they settle down but stay on my heel as
I move to the kitchen to make some tea. “Can it be 7:30
already?” Somehow that seems really late to my tired spirit. I
take my tea and the dogs and we head to the comfort of the
bedroom on the other side of the ranch-style house. Jim is
right behind me, and we tease about getting old and wanting
to get enough sleep. A good book sounds perfect on this cold
night. Jim is exhausted and takes a sleeping pill to make sure
he can fall sleep yet wake up at 3:30 a.m. to get to work. He
sighs contently as he sinks down into the warmth of the bed.
Contentment permeates our refuge, the place we call our
home. Its quiet calms the nerves after a hectic day. At home
we are surrounded by a familiarity that frees the mind and
soul. I know every nook and every light switch and exactly
the distance to each space within the extended self of my
space. The feel of each fabric. The location of each book.
The sound of the music. Years of shared laughter, music,
and conversation emanate from the space filling each room.
It feels alive and inviting. It is both shelter and protection
from the elements of the world. It provides a physical and
emotional space for creativity, relationship and personal
reflection. It is part of me. I wonder if this is what McLuhan
(1994) referred to when he talked about technologies that
extend the self. Certainly homes in some sense are “just
things” and replaceable, but there is the emotional work that
creates a specific and personal structure. There are the intan-
gible memories and connections that link to that creation.
By 8:30 I turn out the light and drift off to sleep with a
cocoon of snow wrapping us. Sherman’s strange barking
pierces my solitude and I reach for consciousness out of the
depths. Groggy, I think, “Sherman never barks at night.” The
red LCD numbers on the radio glow 10:30 and I tell Sherman
firmly, “Lay down boy!” He ignores my words and contin-
ues his barking, alert, putting his paws up on me and the
bed. “Why is he so insistent?” I ask myself now that I am
more awake. I am conscious now and aware that something
isn’t right, but I don’t know what is wrong. There is a funny
sound—not voices but not anything familiar to me. I do
what any wife might do and shake the sleeping man next to
me, “Jimmy, I think someone is in the house.” He is deeply
asleep and I am the insistent one now, “Jimmy wake up.”
He rolls over wanting to ignore me. “I think someone is in
the house.” Still only semiawake he notices that the lights
on the phone are red . . . that means no power. “Could an
intruder have cut the phone lines?” Muttering under his
breath, he pulls himself out of bed grabbing his glasses and
robe and sets off to investigate. Both dogs bolt out in front as
he opens the bedroom door and I slide back under the covers
seeking safety but a tight knot of fear clutches my chest.
Jim and the dogs are back in seconds and he shouts,
“Karen, call 911 on the cell phone, get out NOW, the house
is on FIRE!” He disappears. “FIRE?” I can’t imagine what
he could be talking about. I feel an abnormal calm and walk
around the bed to the landline phone, picking up the silent
receiver. “No dial tone there.” Like a robot I walk into the
bathroom and pick up the cell phone, calling 911 as I put on
my shoes and a fleece jacket. There is no light in the house
except the illumination from the large pole lights in the
yard. I don’t smell smoke so how can the house be on fire?
My voice is controlled and deliberate as I give information to
the call center, “This is Karen Lollar.” I state the address and
problem, “Our house is on fire,” and wanting to add, “Please
help.” To her query about who is in the house I respond,
“Yes, there are two of us and we are leaving the house now.”
She asks again and I repeat, “Yes, we are leaving the house
now.” Jim is back and yelling at me to hurry. As I leave the
bedroom I feel it and smell it, the overwhelming presence of
smoke—thick, dark smoke. My eyes burn and my heart
races; we have to move quickly.
“Where are the dogs?” “Where are the cats?” I don’t see
them and a sense of panic makes me stop in the smoke-filled
room searching for them. Flames crackle from the kitchen
door and finally I see Della in front of me. She obeys Jim’s
command and follows him out the front door to safety. I see
Sherman’s shadowy form racing through the living room
back toward the bedroom. “NO!” I shout at him. What is he
thinking? Is he going back for his buddies, the two cats? I
know we won’t be able to find the cats in the house. It is too
big and the smoke is too thick. I am struck by the knowl-
edge that I will go back into the smoke and flames to get
Sherman . . . at the same moment I know that I shouldn’t!!!
I yell frantically, “SHERRRRRRMANNN, COME!!” The
smoke alarms are now sounding, and I am aware that they
are a little late. Standing in the open front door, I change my
voice to the “let’s go play” tone that Sherman loves so much
and he comes bounding into my arms, all 80 pounds of him.
My heart is pounding as I hold him and lead him out of the
house, stroking the silky feel of his black coat.
I stand at the door for a moment looking through the
dark smoke considering what I should take with me but I
can’t figure out how to choose. The pictures? No, the oil
paintings of my children are in the heat of the fire. The
photo albums are too many to carry. My books line the
shelves of an entire room. What valuable jewelry I own is
on my left hand. How about the grand piano? . . . Oh! my
beautiful grand piano purchased with a gift from my
grandmother—it is standing as the next piece of fuel in the
path of the fire. I walk away but not before grabbing a wool
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264 Qualitative Inquiry 16(4)
coat out of the closet by the door. I have made a decision to
survive.
I remember vaguely the fire drills we used to conduct
when the kids lived in the house. Meet at the circle driveway
out front. Don’t go back into the house if you get out. Move
quickly and keep down. “Where am I? What time is it.”
It is cold, maybe 12 degrees, and snowing as we leave
our home, with Jim dressed only in pajamas, robe, and slip-
pers. The stars glitter behind the snowflakes and looking to
the east it is a beautiful sky. We reach the front circle drive-
way and I turn around to view my home and see flames
rising 20 feet or 30 feet high in the air. The sounds of explo-
sions blast like cannons through the cold night air: tires, gas
tanks, propane tanks, and other items in the garage. “What
is happening here?” Numb with fear, I tell Jim to call the
kids, but he is already punching the numbers and giving
them the news. They are on their way.
Almost as soon as Jim finishes the phone calls I hear the
sirens of the fire engines racing toward the inferno and I run
to the road to wave them into the driveway. Firefighters
spill out of the engines, shouting commands to one another
as more water tankers pull up to support the effort. I watch
in both horror and fascination as they focus on the garage
where the fire’s pulse seems to be. Police officers arrive and
shut down the road for several miles. I look to the south and
see headlights from the neighbor’s road. It is our neighbors
who have come to help. How ironic is it that the neighbors who
have often been such thorns in our side are the ones here
helping us now? They saw the explosion and called the fire
department. I sit in the warmth of my neighbor’s car and
I’m shaking as I talk and talk and talk. The stories just come
out. Stories of our life in our home—stories of people—stories
of the work we’ve done in 30 years living there. I watch the
flames slowly melt all those stories into nothingness. I’m
sick to my stomach as I watch but I don’t vomit. I just talk.
I’m shaking violently but I just talk.
It is a busy scene. The dark is illuminated by the flames,
the lights of fire trucks and police vehicles. There is a ten-
sion in the air with the noise, the blaze, and the flurry of
action. Across the field I see my daughter, Kara, as she runs
to embrace me, her face tear-streaked, sobbing, “Oh Mama,
oh mama . . . the house . . . the house.” We stand together
connected in our pain and our fear. “Thank God you and the
baby and Jake moved out in November,” I say, clutching
her, and grateful she was not in the house. My son Phill and
his wife, Angela, arrive bringing coats, socks, and sweat
pants. I marvel at how he is always the one who thinks
about the problem to be fixed. I am dazed and unable to
think about what to do next. After giving evidence to police
officers that he belongs to the family, my eldest, Brian
arrives and joins the vigil of family members watching our
home consumed in flames. I can see the silhouettes of my two
sons huddled together watching the house, their childhood
home filled with memories of everything they experienced as
children and young adults. Jake, Kara’s husband, and Heather,
Brian’s wife, are home with children but they too join the
family connection to the fire as they receive text and phone
picture updates.
Looking up, I realize Jim is still wearing his robe but
now has sweatpants and socks with his slippers. Although
he is ice cold, he won’t come inside the neighbors’ warm
car. With a lull in the activity of the firefighters we get per-
mission to move the dogs to the indoor kennels in the barn
and settle them down with blankets and fresh water. As we
walk back outside two firefighters come out of the house
cradling the forms of our very frightened but very alive cats.
No loss of life!! We celebrate with pieces of cheese and bot-
tled water offered by the neighbors. Their patience and
kindness humbles me.
Smoke billows out of every window, every door, and
every vent. Will this ever end? Will there be anything left?
I think of things—little things that are inside: my cell phone,
my purse, my flash drive! Jim is talking to fire fighters and
police officers and each one is kind, informative, and help-
ful. At the same time he is fending off the agents of busi-
nesses who circle like vultures to feed off the victims of fire.
Like the ash and debris drifting in the night sky, they cover
the scene oppressively.
I’m homeless. The fire chief offers us shelter at volun-
teer homes in the community but I assure him, “We have three
children in the area and can stay with them.” At 3:00 a.m. in
the morning the fire is still not completely out and we are
cold and exhausted. Our sons urge us to go and get some
rest. Angela drives us to her home and directs us to a hot
shower to wash the smell of smoke out of hair and body.
She takes our blackened clothes and puts them in the washer
then finds us clothes for the night. Phill returns in the early
morning hours, and we sit in the kitchen huddled together
talking. He quips, “I always figured I’d take care of you some-
day but I didn’t think it would be this soon.” He gets a weak
smile from me. The attempt at humor feels like a reach toward
normal but the nearness of our mortality is sobering.
I wake a couple of hours later in a strange room thinking
I’ve had a bad dream. Surely it was a bad dream. It’s early—
not yet dawn, but I know I’m in a different bed. It is small
and low to the ground yet warm and cozy with a down com-
forter. Jim tosses restlessly next to me. “Are you ok?” I ask?
He moans but pulls himself up. “I’m going to the house,” he
says but he’s only had an hour of sleep. I curl up wanting to
return to the refuge of sleep realizing that the nightmare is
real and shared. The shaking won’t quit.
Sunlight touches the edges of the window, and I get up
knowing it is still early morning. I feel numb . . . strange to
myself . . . and quiet. I have no more words that spring
forth. I pour a cup of coffee and sit on the couch in my son’s
home staring into space. Pictures of family grace the mantle
over the fireplace. I see myself there happy next to my hus-
band. The cat curls up next to me purring. I stare blankly.
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Lollar 265
I dress slowly in borrowed clothes and wonder . . . “What
happened to my clothes?” I don’t remember the fire going
to that part of the house. I shake my head and feel like life
is moving in slow motion. I’m outside of the scene and
watching the performance. There is no emotion just bland
action. No one cries, no one laughs, no one is angry. More
coffee please. I have no appetite for food. I can’t make myself
go to the house today not even to see my dogs who are
now residing in the kennels in the barn. They must be con-
fused by my absence. I wonder if they feel the loss too. Or
the fear.
With that same sense of surreal calm I make phone calls.
“Everyone is okay but the house burned down last night.
Everyone is okay. Yes. Jimmy and I are fine. I’ll let you
know when I’ll be back.” I write e-mails to my students and
my colleagues. I call my friends and the church. Suddenly I
want my mother, and I call her to tell her the news. She hears
the story of the fire but misunderstands and thinks that Jim
has been injured, “What? Is Jimmy ok?” I assure her, “Yes,
he’s ok; he’s back at the house now doing what he can do.”
Part of me wants her to say, “I’ll be right there,” but she is
older now and frail; she doesn’t offer. I don’t know how she
can help but I want comfort and to know that I’m not alone.
I know I’m in some kind of transition where I can’t go
back to my comfortable and safe world but I don’t have any
idea how to go forward or even what forward means. Per-
haps this is what Turner (1977) described as the “betwixt
and between” called liminality filled with stress, emotional
reactivity, yet opportunity. I just don’t see opportunity yet.
I don’t know how to answer the question of friends when
they ask, “What can I do?” I don’t know how to express
what I’m feeling. I’m aware that people don’t know what to
say; it’s awkward and unfamiliar territory. I don’t even know
what to name this event. I hear various descriptors: catastro-
phe, tragedy, misfortune, disaster; none seems right to me
but I don’t know why. I overhear my husband struggle to
name the event to a client, “We’ve had a little mishap.”
“MISHAP” I shout at him. This is NOT a MISHAP! I don’t
know what it is but it is more significant than a mishap. I’m
grateful every moment that no one died but I know it’s more
than a mishap in the journey of my life.
Carol comes as soon as she gets the news and I feel
embraced and loved. She has been a best friend for 35 years
and just her presence is a warm blanket and a hug. I tell
her the story of what happened in excruciating detail. She
listens and makes me tea. I recount it again with different
details trying to understand as I share. Telling the story
seems important like telling the details will make it real or
help me understand it. I can’t think of anything else. Carol
and Angela want me to eat but a few bites is all I can man-
age. I hate to see Carol go . . . a lifeline to my real self.
Friends from church drop off casseroles and messages of
concern. The refrigerator is full and we are relieved not to
cook but to have food available made by loving hands of
people who care. There is a social network out there sharing
the news of this event; people who care but don’t know how
to respond. They don’t call or drop by to talk assuming we
are too busy. I feel so lost. I wonder if they knew how lost I
feel . . . would they come and look for me? I wish others
were with me to give me evidence that I’m ok. It seems like
all of a sudden I’m alone and what I want is the embrace of
people who love me. I just don’t know how to ask for that.
Jim and Phill come home to rest. There is nothing more
they can do today and they are exhausted. They have secured
the remains of the house with plywood, talked to the insur-
ance agent, drained the water pipes, and put up a gate to
keep curious people out of the property. The neuropathy
from Jim’s diabetes makes the circulation in his feet very
poor. After standing out in the freezing temperature all night
and day his feet are like ice sculptures. We find some chem-
ical warmers and he lines his socks with the warmers to
defrost his frozen appendages. By bedtime when he removes
the warmers he is feeling better. I just want to be warm. And
safe. Together we fall into a fitful sleep replaying the fire
over and over again. In my dreaming the white snow blan-
kets the ground in stark contrast to the black ash that perme-
ates the images. My world seems black and white.
February 6: This morning I wake just before dawn and
stare at the ceiling. Jim is snoring softly and I don’t want to
disturb him. I get up and wander around my son’s home but
don’t find my usual morning routine. There is no piano, no
newspaper, no German Shepherd to make my morning nor-
mal. I don’t know where the dishes go so I don’t unload the
dishwasher but sit on the couch and flip through the pages of
a construction magazine without seeing the words. Finally I
hear the movement of other people and I go in to find some
clothes. I have no underwear, I have no jeans, nothing of mine.
Angela finds some sweat pants that work for the moment.
As he wakes Jim becomes aware of a searing pain in his
foot and pulls off his sock. Looking down he sees the angry
blister of a circular burn left from one of the warming packs
he used but accidentally left in his sock overnight. The
third-degree burn covers a 2-inch diameter on the top of his
foot and makes it excruciatingly painful to walk. I watch as
he shuffles and hunches over under the weight of the pain
appearing now like a frail old man rather than the vibrant
man of two days ago. I feel helpless to make it better and I
don’t want to deal with his pain. Emotionally, I have noth-
ing nurturing inside to give, but my memory remembers
how to care for a wound. Phill finds bandages and salve,
and I clean and wrap the burn. Voicing a moment of insight,
I note that we will grieve this loss separately and each in our
own way. I understand somehow that it will be hard to com-
fort my husband when I’m feeling such loss myself. Already
I feel disconnected from him and withdrawn into myself.
Jim focuses outward and looks at what problems he can
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266 Qualitative Inquiry 16(4)
solve. In spite of the pain of his burn he pulls himself up and
goes with Phill to the house or what is left of it.
Today I want to go back to the house to see my dogs and
to face the remains. I haven’t been inside the house yet and
as Kara and I drive up the gravel road to the house I can
smell the pungent odor of smoke. Ashes litter the ground.
The white PVC rose arbors are melted into unusual shapes.
The willow tree is blackened. Only a charred frame remains
over what were once the garage and the family room. That
frame is now wrapped with blue tarp to keep out the wind
and the snow, an ugly bandage of sorts. I walk in through
the family room door onto a carpet of burnt, soggy sheet-
rock strewn with broken glass. The big-screen television is
hanging out of the wall reminiscent of a Styrofoam cup
thrown onto a campfire, a shriveled and useless piece of
plastic. Icicles made from the water of the firefighters hang
from the rafters. My leather sofas stand black and covered
with remnants of ceiling insulation. The smell makes my
eyes burn. Turning to look at the wall of family oil portraits
I see the faces of my children melted by the heat. Staring at
them I try to hang on to an image of freshness and youth
that was once the message of those high school pictures. I
step carefully through the glass and water on the floor to
peer into the shell of the garage where the fire started in my
car. It looks eerie with the cast of blue light under the tarps.
Both cars are burnt-out shells. No upholstery, no engine, no
paint . . . just grey frames of burnt metal. The tires are
gone and the frames sit on burnt rims. The firefighters
estimate the heat reached 1,900 degrees. Timbers from the
ceiling hang in odd angles from their former structure. It
looks like a scene from a film, something I’ve never seen
before. I leave the garage quickly and move to see the rest
of the damage.
I walk into the kitchen and it, too, is covered with wet
pieces of insulation. Wires dangle from the ceiling. The oak
hardwood floor is buckled and scarred. Every surface is lay-
ered with a thick covering of soot. The acrid smell continues
to burn my eyes as I survey the scene. It looks like someone
has spray painted everything in dull black. My favorite cof-
fee cup, a German Shepherd cup, lays broken on the floor.
My Yahtzee pad and five dice are stuck to the granite coun-
ter top in a bizarre artistic pose. The house feels cold and
dead and I feel the same way.
The insurance teams are already at work. There is one
team that cares for the electronics. Another team collects all
“soft goods” that include linens and clothes and stuffed ani-
mals. Yet another team takes all remaining furniture. They
inventory and assess it. Non-salvageable or salvageable.
Alive or dead. Black or white. The insurance representa-
tives introduce themselves, but I don’t remember who does
what. Their compassionate smiles don’t comfort me. As I
look at everything covered in black soot I feel like I’m in a
different world. The air temperature is 20 degrees and the
ever-present icicles hang on the remaining frame of the
structure that was once a home. Even with a down coat I
can’t get warm.
Within seconds of our introduction, the insurance
adjuster tells me that I can either price out each of the spices
individually or just take a set rate for a cupboard of spices.
I look at her puzzled. “Why is she insisting I know what my
spices are worth?” wondering without voicing the thought.
My daughter-in-law intervenes and tells the woman it will
have to wait. “She hasn’t even seen the house yet.” Her asser-
tive stance is so welcome at the moment. It’s good to have
my adult children and their spouses at my side; although I
feel helpless, I’m relieved to have people hold off the insur-
ance representatives.
The procession through the house moves on to the room
with my grand piano, now covered in thick black soot. I
stare at it thinking of the years of music it has made. The
room was designed and built for music and reading. There
is no music now, no words in the soot and ash, just black
silence. Now the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves feel like a
tunnel, black and dark. I turn my head so I won’t see it; I
can’t stand to think about that now and move on to the bed-
room. My master bathroom once mauve with white fixtures
is now solid black. I stand for a long time staring at it in
amazement, almost laughable amazement. It was so far
away from the flames yet it is consumed in a different way.
On the counter lies my flash drive now blackened and
deformed. The woman responsible for my “soft goods”
urges me to pick out some clothes for emergency process-
ing. I select a pair of jeans and a couple of shirts. “No,” she
says, “you’ll need more.” I look at the clothes and choose
two more pairs of pants for work and a few blouses. She
smiles patiently at me and suggests that I choose everything
that is in the hamper for a start. I look plaintively at Kara
and she says, “I’ll do it Mom.” I can’t seem to figure out
what they’re doing and what they need from me. People are
everywhere in the house. Packing my books into boxes.
Labeling furniture. Unplugging the remains of stereo sys-
tems. Big trucks are arriving in the driveway and the dogs
are barking frantically. I just need some fresh air. We leave
the rubble and reconvene in the barn. A team of men is set-
ting up an electrical pole for a source of power. There is no
water and no heat anywhere.
We return to the warmth of Phill’s house and share din-
ner from the casseroles brought from our church family. I
don’t know who delivered them just that they’re there in the
refrigerator. A glass of wine sounds good . . . maybe two. The
four of us sit together talking. Again and again we share
the story that is emerging from this unforeseen event making
our pieces come together into one common version. It started
in my car that much seems certain. Angela has a connec-
tion to a fire expert and we think about bringing in a pri-
vate investigator.
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Lollar 267
February 7: Yet another restless night and I get up early
still feeling tired and achy. Jim’s burn is red and blistering, so
we urge him to see the doctor. Mid-morning Kara arrives to
take me shopping for clothes and I am grateful to have a
daughter. We head to a local department store where I wander
aimlessly through the racks and racks of spring clothes with
my empty cart. Nothing appeals to me, so Kara begins to
choose clothes and hold them up for my approval. That’s
funny . . . isn’t that my role? I nod agreement at her sugges-
tions and we chat about colors and styles. It is a Wednesday
and the store is thankfully empty of customers. The cart fills
with basic clothes to go to work and to wear at home. Where
is home now? I feel confused and strangely empty. As we turn
toward the men’s section to pick up basics for Jim we run into
friends from church. “Yes, I heard about the fire. So tragic
but you’re so lucky . . . it’s only things.” I smile wanly and
wonder what that really means. Are they saying it doesn’t
matter because “it’s only things?” I assure them, “I am
blessed to be alive,” and I mean it, but it drains me to talk to
them. Are they needing my assurance that it is no big deal?
I am surrounded by my children and their spouses who
look after us and intervene for us. They, too, lost a home . . .
their childhood home and the starter home for them as
newly married couples. I am grateful for the closeness of
my children and their connection but disappointed in some
undefined way that my birth family is not present. They are
busy with their own problems, but I long for evidence of
their concern. Our children and their spouses care for all our
basic needs. They cook, they shop for groceries, and they
clean up after us. Others make phone calls and take care of
numerous tasks. They listen. They help us with lists of house
items and search for replacement cars. My grandsons make
me smile and ask about what happened. The neediness I
feel is unfamiliar to me. More than sympathy I want to talk
about what happened and make some sense of it. This dis-
connect from the self I’ve always known is uncomfortable;
I don’t know what will help and hope that someone else
does.
Restructuring Our Lives
February 11: I return to work on my birthday driving a
rental car that clanks and groans down the road, but it’s all
that is available. There is relief to be doing something pro-
ductive again. Everyone I encounter is sympathetic yet hor-
rified at what happened to me. It is so odd—like an out of
body experience where I’m watching myself perform “Karen.”
I am acutely aware of my body because it seems heavy and
difficult to move around. Remembering where I am, I make
an effort to pay attention to what people are saying but my
mind is fuzzy. I perform my work and put on a veneer of
myself, but inside I am empty and lost. Over and over I
assure people how blessed I feel to be alive and I mean it. I
nod to those who remind me that “it’s only things and they
can be replaced,” but the comment sounds like an admoni-
tion and denies the very real pain that I’m feeling. Flinching
from the slap of their comments, I will myself to move
along. I teach classes, answer phone calls, check e-mails,
and go to meetings. I try to look and act normal, but inside
I don’t feel like myself. Where is my capable and confident
self? My departmental colleagues at work offer their ears to
listen and their concern for me. They take up a collection
and give it to me as a gift and I’m touched to the point of
tears.
March 1: The insurance agents assure us, “You’ll be
back in your home in four to six months.” “We can live in
the motor home.” I assure Jim, “It will just be until sum-
mer.” As we prepare to move back to our property I feel fear
. . . an irrational, overwhelming fear that I cannot manage
on my own. I am suddenly dependent and it feels odd. Is it
that easy to lose a sense of competence? My hope is that my
sense of “home” will return in the RV but the elements of
home are more complicated. An RV is not designed for
Colorado winter and March is still winter. The winds howl
and the RV rocks. “I never noticed how windy Colorado is,”
I note at dinner one night, but I’m not laughing. March and
April snows bring the wind up into the living area, and I
shiver and cough and sneeze in the drafts that won’t quit.
Blankets, sweaters, and big socks only help a little. We
wrap the RV in a “blanket” and get the temperature to hit 60
degrees. I can’t acclimate, so I hope for summer.
Outside the window of the RV are the charred remains of
the family room and kitchen and the ongoing presence of
smoke drifts inside our temporary quarters. The remains
of the sofas and tables remind me every day of the fire.
Make it go away.
We begin to remodel our temporary space to make it
more useable. Jim brings in a mobile building that we place
next to the RV and use as an office and a closet. We convert
a storage room in the barn to a television room and purchase
an electronic keyboard to serve as temporary piano. The
sons come over and build a deck off the door of the RV to
provide an outdoor area. A portable toilet that smells even
though it is emptied every week rounds out what we call
“the compound.” Now many of the pieces are there but it is
still not home. Getting dressed in the morning is a building-
to-building process whatever the weather outside. Pushing
against the wind and rain on the way to the “closet” I realize
that I just want a bath, not a sponge bath, not a 30-second
shower, but a hot, bubble bath. Tears come instead . . .
As cold as it is, bed under heavy blankets is the only
comfortable place. As soon as dinner is over I’m in bed, and
I sleep more than normal hating to bring myself back into
cold reality. There seems no end in sight. I feel guilty and
depressed that I have more comfort than most people in the
world and yet I am not content but sick and miserable. My
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268 Qualitative Inquiry 16(4)
physician gives me sleeping pills to help me rest and
recover, and I love the peace I feel when I fall readily asleep.
Headaches become a daily problem aggravated by the smell
of smoke from the empty house, the tension, and the clamp
shut control of my feelings.
If, as people are telling me, “it’s only things” then any
things should do. The longing for certain items is not so
much that they were special or sentimental but as if they
will make my life feel whole and connected again. Of
course I grieve for the piano that is too smoke damaged to
salvage. But the bathtub? The bathtub . . . the lowly bathtub
that I’ve always taken for granted is something I miss with
intensity. It’s just a bathtub. I consider the possibility that I
miss the ordinary daily routine. Perhaps I miss convenience
and decide that although that is an issue it isn’t THE issue.
Why should I care which bed as long as I have a bed, but
that’s not how it is. Every morning is empty without my
piano and the timbre of acoustic sound that emanates from
its core. The keyboard helps but it doesn’t replace. I’m lost
without my piano and the music books that once graced its
music stand. Each item in the home is different in its emo-
tional valence.
It has been over a month and people around us have
moved on and no longer want to hear about this event in our
lives . . . the death of the house as we knew it. I should be
fine they seem to imply and I do try to act as if I am. It is
such work to try to appear to be “fine” with everything
while I am so fragmented on the inside.
Economic Strain
Fire investigators comb through every scrap left from the
cars and the house. They start by needing to rule out the own-
ers, us, as the fire instigators. They review our credit, our job
history, our payment records, and our marital satisfaction.
I’m insulted and demoralized that I’m suspected of arson or
negligence. Months of investigation find no fault on our part.
Managing the insurance claim turns out to be another
full-time job, but there is no orientation or mentoring pro-
cess. Step by step we stumble through each new task
required of us. We detail our possessions relying on added
memory from the kids and thinking of each room wall by
wall and inch by inch. We price out replacement value for
everything we once owned by making an Excel spread-
sheet and looking up everything online. We fill out form
after form. All of the items and memories that were part of my
“self” are reduced to lines on a spreadsheet. Our son, a build-
ing contractor, handles the negotiations over the value of the
structure haggling over every board and fixture. Every day
we deal with people who make their living by taking advan-
tage of people who are vulnerable after tragedy and loss. I
begin to feel angry, not at the fire, not at my husband, or
family, but at the people and impersonal processes we are
forced to work with.
April 5: I receive the report on my furniture listing what
is salvageable. As my eyes move down the list my blood
pressure rises and my face is flushed and hot. Every item of
furniture that I own is described as gouged, dented, and
heavily scratched. “What?” I scream. “It ALL looks like it’s
ready for the dump?” I call the restoration team and demand
to see my remaining furnishings. I’m glaring at the young
woman as I walk into the warehouse to inspect my belong-
ings. I walk around each piece and lovingly touch it. There
are the usual signs of wear such as scratches but not a gouge
to be seen. “What do YOU mean by this?” I ask and find that
the woman does not know the meaning of “gouge”; she tells
me it is “policy” to describe everything in such a manner.
“It’s only words,” she says. The fury stirs deep within me as
if she has accused me of something I have not done. She has
accused ME of being scratched and gouged. It feels per-
sonal; it is me she is misrepresenting. Maybe I am scratched
and gouged and just can’t accept it. I’m fragile inside. The
anger that boils briefly to the surface retreats into the cold
of depression. It’s “only things” they tell me as we leave.
May 10: No work has been done on rebuilding the
house. We are waiting for final architectural plans and
have major problems with the planning department. It
may be months before building can start. Hoping to cheer
me up, Jim takes me to look at pianos. The insurance com-
pany has given us a settlement on that one item. I play
pianos in every show room in Denver and relish the feel of
the keys and the voice of each instrument. The heaviness
is lifting from my body.
Jim is managing his work at the hospital, keeping up
with his customers, and responding to the constant
demands of the fire and its aftermath. He is agitated and
irritable and we all feel the sting of his demands for action
“NOW.” I think I understand. Before the fire we had a
beautiful home that was almost paid for and Jim had plans
to retire in 5 years or so. Now he realizes that the rebuild
will cost substantially more than the insurance payment
and we will be paying a much higher house payment. He
is physically sick from the stress and exposure to the
weather that has complicated his diabetes. Once again he
has bronchitis and he struggles to breathe, sapping him of
much-needed strength. His depression is physical and pro-
found. It is communicated in the irritation in his commu-
nication, his lack of enjoyment of basic family activities,
his anger at the cost of rebuilding and difficulty coping
with changes at work. The fire is ever present to him in the
specter of diminished health, lost customers in his busi-
ness, and a financial concern that does not disappear. I am
at a loss on how to help. I am at a loss on what this means
for our future. I am just lost.
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Lollar 269
Finding Ourselves
June 6: We fly to Hawaii for the anniversary trip we’d
planned before the fire. With the gentle feel of Hawaiian air
and the sounds of surf crashing on the volcanic rock, my
heart begins to defrost and for the first time in months emo-
tion returns—painful but real. I see color again rather than
blacks and grays. The experience is invigorating—the
waves beating on the rocky shore, the mild winds, the per-
fume of exotic flowers, and the absence of phones and deci-
sions. My life is returning to me. I don’t have my home, but
I have an ability to make life decisions and make it as good
as it can be. Sipping a glass of wine on the lanai, I realize
that I cannot return to our small cramped quarters with the
view of charred remains and the smell of the portable toilet.
I want some control over my life again. “Jim, you go ahead
without me, I’ll just stay here, and if we ever have a home
again give me a call.” He laughs but I am serious.
As the plane touches down in Colorado I call my daugh-
ter. “I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know when we’ll have
a home back. Please help me find a rental property in town
that will take our dogs too.” That evening we tour three
homes with an entourage of offspring and grandsons result-
ing in a decision to rent a two-story home in a nice neigh-
borhood, just blocks away from our sons and daughter. The
money is a concern to Jim but he agrees anyway knowing
that it may be nine more months before we have the house
rebuilt.
June 23: We pack up the few belongings from the motor
home and head east to town. Moving into a rental house
means that we can reclaim some of our salvaged posses-
sions. I no longer know what we have and don’t have. The
truck from the restoration company pulls in the driveway
and I rush out to meet them anticipating what is still ours.
“My bed is ok!” I caress its smooth surface. “And there’s
our desk from the office.” My mother comes! Together with
my daughter, the three of us unpack the dishes that were
reclaimed. It is so good to have her with me and we enjoy
each piece of china as a moment of rediscovery. As a sur-
prise Jim has coordinated the delivery of the new piano and
tears stream down my face as they set it up in the small liv-
ing room. I rush to unpack the boxes of piano music still
smelling like smoke but useable. Mozart again!
July 30: With each new phase of demolition more exten-
sive damage is found. What we realize is that the smoke,
thick and oily as it was, permeated everything in every room
and behind every wall. The smell is still intolerable even
after almost five months; how could anyone live with that
smell? Despite the claims of the insurance adjusters we
know it cannot be covered up. Water damage from the fire-
fighters and the spring rains destroyed additional sections
of the house. Ultimately 90% of the home is destroyed by
the flames, smoke, or water. The foundation walls and the
bookshelves are all that remain of the old house. Knowing
the extent of the loss strangely makes it easier to move
forward. “Will you buy a new home?” we’re asked. We
hadn’t thought of that. “You should downsize to a smaller
home?” others advise, although we didn’t ask. “Why don’t
you move downtown?” someone suggests and I think they’re
joking. Our only thought is to return to what we had and
rebuild our lives. The home we build is reminiscent of the old
yet totally new in texture, color, and flow. We move home on
Valentine’s Day in 2009 and the sense of being home is
intense and profound. It is a gift.
Reflections
Balas tells us that in the telling of a personal trauma story,
victims engage in a transformative process that helps them
(a) make sense of the loss and destruction, (b) construct a new
story, and (c) move on with their lives. Narratives help us make
sense of the experience and process the emotional pain (Balas,
2005, p. 185). Writing this story was painful, but I feel that
sharing it is important for me, my family, and perhaps others
who experience the liminal experience of trauma. I smile at the
quote from Bochner and Ellis (1997), who suggest that the per-
sonal narrative or autoethnographic mode of research expres-
sion “invites[s] audiences to enter actively into horizons of the
human condition where life is shown to be comic, tragic, and
absurd” (p. 4). This was a time of absurdity.
This narrative account of my loss is a reflection on how
a house may have a symbolic significance that makes it a
part of an extended self. I drew on a concept of extended
self that recognizes the integration of possessions, relation-
ships, and technologies with human having, doing, and
being (Belk, 1988; McLuhan, (1964/1994)). For me the
concept of home became synonymous with a particular
house (Bachelard, 1964). The house expands my physical
characteristics and stores symbolic significance within its
artifacts and technology. This understanding of the home as
part of an extended self freed me to process the event of the
fire and assign meaning to the experience. The process of
thoughtful introspection helped me rebuild both my internal
self and the home structure.
It was also a lesson or a reminder to me that such losses
are shared events. Adult children, friends, extended family,
neighbors, and others in the social network felt loss from the
fire in our home. To varying degrees, they too experienced
the pain of that fire as it eroded their memory and stability.
Our young adult children had to care for parents before they
anticipated doing so. The struggle that we all endured was
how to support one another and to find words of comfort and
compassion even when we felt tired, irritable and drained.
The grief process was unique to me and unique to them
(Burleson et al., 2007; Keane, Pickett, Jepson, McCorkle, &
Lowery, 1994; Stern & Kerry, 1996; Honeycutt et al (2008)).
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270 Qualitative Inquiry 16(4)
I was eventually able to reestablish my “self,” drawing
on other aspects of self for the familiar shape of my identity.
The piano, my teaching, my faith, my work life, and my
family life all remained as anchors. However, the recovery
of self seemed to be an uncharted path without established
communication rules and rituals that made my experience
more confusing and painful. It was a lonely time.
Coping with loss over the last year and a half has been
a life-changing process and a time of self-discovery. I
felt intensely guilty to experience such pain over the
loss of so-called “replaceable things” (Hochschild, 1979).
Understanding what happened as a loss of extended self
helped me see that not all things are replaceable. The house
fire was a form of death but not one that is typically under-
stood and talked about in that way. My sense of home was
shaped by my interactions with the external reality of the
home and my internal experience of its meaning. Each meal,
each remodel, each daily activity became part of my experi-
ence of me. The loss created a profound disruption of identity
for me, leading to significant disorientation and confusion in
normal functioning. It may be true that not everyone who
loses their home feels as intensely connected to it as I did. It
may be that some people find any possession IS replaceable.
This is my story of personal loss. We are not, however, the
archetype of the family that is devastated by residential fire.
We had a privileged position in recovering from trauma. As
devastating as our loss was, we had the tools to rebuild: finan-
cial reserves, insurance coverage, social networks of friends
and family for support, and coping skills built over the years.
With the exception of wildfire-started fires, home loss from
fire typically afflicts those in urban areas. According to Karter
(2008) 56.6% of residential fires in 2007 were in one- and
two-family dwellings; 18.6% were in apartments. Many of
these families were uninsured. I wonder what the experience
must be for those families who lose their homes but have no
resources, no family, no friends, no jobs, and no hope.
This story and reflection is part of my process of moving
beyond the liminal period of response to the traumatic loss
of my home. The home fire was a major trauma in our lives
but we’re recovering. The process is slow and we still have
mom ents of amnesia where we are back in the former home
mentally. We’re starting to laugh at the times we walk into
what was once a staircase and is now a pantry thinking we
are going downstairs. I still don’t know where things are or
if we have this or that tool. Slowly I’m connecting the frag-
ments of my ”self” and my home and beginning a new art
project—one that mingles the old with the new. The remod-
eling has begun again.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my colleagues for the support and encouragement to
write this story. Special thanks to David Kottenstette who gave me
artistic suggestions.
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author declared no potential conflicts of interests with respect
to the authorship and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author declared no financial support for the research and/or
authorship of this article.
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Bios
Karen Lollar, PhD, is associate professor of speech communica-
tion and chair of communication arts and sciences at Metropolitan
State College of Denver. She teaches courses in communication
theory, communication ethics, and communication in social Net-
works. Her research interests include organizational identification,
community and social networks, and ethical response to others.
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