Cassie's Dispatches From The Edge.......

Wednesday, March 21, 1012

0506

A huge explosion threw us out of bed when a parcel bomb blew up on our corner. According to the news media, terrorists dropped off the package in an attack on the Indonesian Embassy next door. The explosion smashed our facing windows, particularly in ours and Niall’s bedroom. Luckily, we always sleep with the heavy curtains drawn. Otherwise, we could have been seriously injured from the flying glass. We are all ok. I have never been so scared in my life. I have never heard an explosion. I can't explain that yet. Sid went through the building knocking on doors and thankfully no one was hurt. Then two cars burst into flames on the corner. I had no idea what to do. Were we supposed to evacuate? Stay put? We all learn what to do if there’s a fire or medical emergency. No one ever told me what to do in a bombing. And there was nothing on the TV or Internet news to give me an idea of what was happening. The guys and I got dressed and put shoes on so we wouldn’t cut our feet on the glass, and to be ready to leave the building. Then I called my dear friend Mathieu, who called the authorities, who told him that the event was over and that we should stay in our home while officials go door-to-door to determine injuries and damage. The street is closed at the end of both blocks and investigators are interviewing people and looking for evidence. It’s almost three hours later and my heart is still not completely at normal speed, and my hands are still shaking. Doing something as mundane as sweeping up the floors helped calm me down, until I looked at the smashed window in my son's bedroom, and I cried all over again. Sid has been a rock for me this morning. I will stay home today. We need to get the windows boarded up today; if not, we’ll go sleep at a friend’s home. Between the chaos of the Carla Bruni’s first baby being born in the clinic next door on our right, and the explosion at the Embassy next door on the left, I picked one hell of an apartment.

0841

Random thoughts…

The force of the blast pushing our windows in popped the brass fitting screwed into the sash at the top of each door.

The sound of smashing glass continues as firemen go through each building and clean the shards out of each window. I guess it’s just a matter of time before they knock on our door.

My hands are still shaking. I keep crying. People are starting to call to see if we are alright. I may stop answering so I will not cry so much.

0914

I can hear them banging on the doors in our building.

0925

Two firemen are here now, smashing the glass in our bedrooms, cleaning the shards from the frames. Disturbing to hear. Loud pounding and crunching noises.

0958

Crying even more.

1007

I took the stronger of two meds Dr. Neiman gave me last November. I’m a fucking nervous wreck. Now I know what that phrase really means.

Both the apartment management company Embassy Services and AREVA’s relocation company Pricoa have called. Mariame at Pricoa will organize things between the two of them to send someone to clean up the piles of glass in our bedrooms and board up the windows. They have offered to relocate us immediately to another furnished apartment, but we would rather just stay put. I would prefer we stay in familiar surroundings rather than undergo further disruption.

1254

We are very tired. The adrenaline rush this morning. The emotional stress ever since.

Two men from what they described as the French equivalent of the FBI came by to ask us questions and survey the damage. The police came by and directed us to file a report with the local police station to document the damages for insurance purposes. A man from the apartment management agency somehow got through the police perimeter with a glass repairman to take measurements. They can’t get the guy’s van through with the tools he needs to fix the windows, but they will come back to tape up the open windows and clean up the glass mess. They can make the proper repairs tomorrow.

We are processing things the best we can for now: Sid’s very angry and is expressing it to everyone he talks to; I am weepy and writing. I have asked the company to expedite my move to pack us up and load us out as soon as humanly possible. And the company doctor called to ask if we needed to see a doctor or psychologist. I told him I just need something so I can sleep tonight. I’ll think about getting help tomorrow. Oh for a few minutes of calm...

Everyone is being very supportive. It is immensely comforting to know so many people’s thoughts are with us. Thank you every one.

1517

Somehow Mathieu was also able to get past the police perimeter. He coaxed us out to get some lunch. Shattered front door…wrought iron doors may keep people out, but not blast force. Crunched onto about an inch of glass…footsteps aren’t supposed to sound like that. It is a beautiful sunny spring day, so we sat at a sidewalk table at “our” brasserie and had a sandwich and beer. As we walked and talked, Mathieu kept up the conversation, and slowly, Sid and I started to talk like normal people. And I swear, that was the best goddamn club sandwich I have ever had. Thank God for Mathieu. He knew that what we need most right now is normal. That is, until we got back to our block. We ducked under the police tape and the police halted us and weren’t going to let us through. Sid lost his temper and yelled at them. Mathieu quickly jumped in and after an animated exchange, one of them finally agreed to escort us to our door.

1730

We are OK. Well, I’m still a simpering mess, but we’re gonna be OK. Windows are still not boarded, but we have sealed off the two affected bedrooms and will bunk in the living room, Niall in his brother’s room. Things have calmed down. The burned-out cars have been towed away, and the glass is almost completely swept from the sidewalks and street. If I have not responded to your email or voice message, please forgive me. It has been a steady stream of activity here. Thank each of you for the love and care you have made us feel. My heart is bruised, but full.

2107

The street is open. Windows have been covered with plastic. Piles of glass were cleaned and taken away. Niall has vacuumed the bedrooms. Again. An SOS Medecin (docs who make housecalls) gave me a clean bill of physical health and a scrip for sleep medication. Went to the pharmacy then back to our neighborhood brasserie for dinner. Sid is vacuuming our bedroom. Again. Thanks each of you for your tremendous support and strength. If I have not responded to you individually, know that your message and thoughts mean a great deal to us. I look forward to seeing and talking with you in person soon.

D+1: Thursday, March 22, 2012

Thanks to modern chemistry, I had a deep night’s sleep. Until 5:14, when my eyes popped open. It was a few minutes before I realized I was bracing for an explosion, gripping the side of the bed, holding my breath and acutely listening for any sounds that would indicate…I don’t know what. A car pulling up and idling outside. Car doors slamming and speeding away. Anything I might have missed yesterday. By 5:35, I realized what I was doing and got up for the day.

It was a quiet early morning. Then the phone and doorbell began to ring. Three people from the building association came to inspect the damage. Our good musician friend Andy came by. Then the head of security for AREVA North America Herb Richardson and legal counsel David Royer went an extra TWO miles and escorted me to the police station today to file the required report for the owner of the apartment for insurance purposes. In typical bureaucratic fashion, it wasn't quick or efficient, but it was successful solely because of their support. I was also glad they saw the aftermath with their own eyes: the crater, the mortar-sized chunks knocked out of stone-block buildings, the blackened parking spaces where the cars were consumed, evidence-tagged punctures in the car on the opposite corner, my beloved Rue Nicolo sign melted and scorched, etc. You can’t see these things in photos.

Things are slowly melting back to somewhat normal here, with sounds of construction and repair in the neighborhood. I have completely cleaned the apartment and it looks more like home than a warroom. I also cleaned off the terraces, disposed of the dead plants (thanks Oz), removed the glass shards and prepared the containers for some fresh, new spring plants. The doctor who made the housecall last night prescribed some mental health days off through end of this week. For once, I will follow doc's orders. Besides, I don’t want anyone in the office to see me burst into tears for no apparent reason. I’ll ruin the hard-ass rep I’ve worked so long to cultivate.

I have been almost overwhelmed with the outreach and support I have received from friends and colleagues on both sides of the Atlantic in the last 36 hours. Thank you again for your personal calls and messages of concern and support. In the absence of news coverage – as though it never happened – I am deeply gratified by your caring. Please forgive if I have not responded to you individually.

Going out with a bang: The move has been accelerated by one month – pack-up and load out on April 4-5, wheels up May 6. My friend and assistant Gisele hopes that, in spite of the trauma, we will keep the best of our French experience in mind. But truly, we will always hold close the wonderful people and experiences we have had in France. I have genuinely loved living and working here, and am sorry to leave, especially under such negative circumstances. I am an American, but Paris and her people will always be home in my heart.

D+4: Sunday, March 25, 2012

I pulled a piece of glass from my forehead in August 2011. Twenty-eight years after my face flew through a car windshield in a head-on collision, my body was still expelling the offending objects deeply embedded inside me. Today, at D+4, I plucked a grain of glass from my bedspread that glinted in the morning light, softly filtered through the plastic-covered windows from whence the glass came. I guess we’ll be finding shiny fragments throughout the apartment until we leave; maybe even when we get home and unpack a few bits tucked in here and there.

However, I think it will be quite some time before I have expelled the offending experience that is deeply embedded in my mind. My natural instinct in most situations (as you well know) is to suck it up and tough it out, and I feel pathetic and weak when I can't.

This morning I woke up to an article from the Yoga Journal that my dear goddess friend Denise wisely sent me. The author, a yogini, proposes that perhaps there is strength in softening. Having survived the Japanese earthquake last year, the author felt a level of primal terror that only those who have experienced can understand. Or, in the words of Hunter S. Thompson, there is no honest way to explain the edge “because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” The yogini’s article reminded me that, as in yoga, one is more successful at achieving a challenging asana when one lets go and relaxes rather than straining to reach the pose. And if not successful, one must be compassionate with oneself and try again next practice. That is why it is called “practicing yoga.” It’s not about being perfect, it’s about doing what you can.

Four days out, my lip still quivers and my eyes tear up randomly, and I find myself easily distracted. I’ve found comfort in the mundane this weekend: housecleaning, doing laundry, folding and putting away clothes – even cleaning and organizing Sid's dresser! And I’ve been trying to be compassionate with myself, by letting the tears come when my chest tightens, and buying new plants and flowers even if I’ll enjoy them for only a couple of weeks. I've also been selfish, not wanting to talk to anyone, preferring to cocoon myself and protect the soft, tender part. Despite retreating, we have visited with a few dear friends as well, over coffee yesterday at our neighborhood brasserie and at a friend’s home for dinner last night. And as much as I look forward to seeing my friends and colleagues in the office this week, I dread the inevitable questions and well-meaning expressions of concern. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. I need to talk and write about it to get it out of my head. But people seem to think that if they can just convince me that:

a.) it's over, (I know.)

b.) no one was hurt, (Yes you’re right and thank God!)

c.) this street is probably the safest in Paris for the next couple of years (This one at least makes me laugh.), and

d.) the world is dangerous and this kind of thing could happen anywhere, (Not bloody likely inLynchburg, Virginia, and even if it did, it’s not a concrete canyon that concentrates the compression wave.)

then I should feel much better.

I have only one week left in the office here. We pack and load next Wednesday & Thursday, and will be wheels up Friday the 6^th. I think some of the French people we know probably think we're running away. And I understand why: Europe has a far longer history of terrorist attacks so they have a more fatalistic expectation that things like this will happen and besides, most of them don’t have or want the option of leaving – they’re already home. And most of the Americans we know, who are blanketed with coverage of negative news like the killer in Toulouse, think we'll be safer at home. They're both partly right and partly wrong. But here’s how I see it: We were leaving in one month anyway, so why not move it up since the sooner we’re in familiar surroundings with old friends and family – without the daily reminders of glass in the streets, boarded-up windows and pock-marked buildings – the better. Sid tells everyone that we no longer feel safe here inFrance. The fact is, I no longer feel safe period. Or confident. Or aggressive. Or strong. And that's why I need to come home now: not to escape France, but find me again. And the sooner, the better.

D+6: Tuesday, March 27, 2012

I woke up Monday morning, had a much-needed yoga session, showered, dressed, took my ¼ pill, and went in to work. That was a mistake. As soon as two of my staff, Gisele and Elodie, walked into my office to ask how I was, I fell apart. They put me in a cab and appealed to me to remain at home and take care of myself and my family. No one in that office has ever seen me shed a tear. Hell, I don’t know if they’ve ever seen that I have a kinder, gentler side. While I awaited the cab, the apartment agency called: it seems the glazier had arrived, but was unable to get into our apartment. That was a polite way of describing what actually happened: more people in suits came a third time to wander around our apartment but Sid slammed the door in their faces. Glaziers don’t wear suits, he said. He insisted that no more people get to parade through our apartment unless they're here to fix something. So, I needed to get home to help manage the situation.

On the way out of the tall tower in which I work, I ran into another colleague on the elevator and another on the sidewalk; they wished me well and I somehow kept it together. I slipped into the back seat of the gray Volkswagen minivan, slammed the door, gave the driver my address, and promptly wept, silently into a tissue, his eyes often glimpsing at me in the rearview mirror. I can’t imagine what he thought. So, back I went, after a total of 20 minutes at my desk. Clearly, I’m not ready. Kian and Niall greeted me with hugs and reassurances that I should take it easy, and that everything will be fine. They’re far more supportive than I would have been of my mother, who seemed weak and pathetic to me in my 18-year-old bravado. My sons are doing so well; they're far more calm and resilient than their parents.

After emails and phone calls, the building insurance people (they of the suits) will come back after our departure next week. The glazier came by in the afternoon and agreed to come this morning at 9. It was a gloriously sunny day, so I sat in the park for an hour to sit on ground, lean against tree, feel sun on face, hear life around me. Oddly, blaring car horns, wailing children and over-loud cell phone conversations were not a bother. Rather, it was a symphony of life, conducted as usual. I read a few pages in my book, but found the scratchy bark against the back of my head somehow more engrossing.

We met our friends Mathieu and Andy for an afternoon beverage at our brasserie; Sid and I remained there for a light dinner. We made a few phone calls: we have both ordered cars since we sold them when we left, and I scheduled my first consultation with a counselor on the phone this afternoon.

It is now 10 o’clock, and no glazier. It’s confusing how things get done here sometimes. But that’s OK, since I’m now so addled. I am highly distractable and forgetful. Yesterday I emailed two colleagues at one company asking for the email address for someone who works at another company entirely. I play solitaire on my Blackberry every morning until I win just to prove that I’m capable of focusing for the day. A dubious test of mental capacity for sure, but as solid a life ring as I need right now. Like a piece of deadwood in an empty ocean: it’s something.