by Joshua Guess
It makes us family.
As if some tiny but important switch has been thrown in our brains, the people here have come together in ways that defy explanation. I used to view the refugees and myself as something different than the citizens of North Jackson. We were visitors. Friends in need of help. We were friends with the people here, but guests in need of succor. Now, we're treated the same as everyone else. We cried our eyes out when we shared loss. We saw children die in front of us. We've all suffered from the attack, but we did it together. There was no thought of my people or their people.
Just our people. Just regular folks with a common goal--building something new and better on the wreckage of the old and broken. I feel as though we've managed a good start on that, partlybecause of this tragedy. Losing so many at once has crystallized our urge to cooperate. It has made us more tolerant of our differences. It has made us close and strong, like a fabric whose threads are being pulled tighter together on the loom.
There is still a lot to do. We're preparing for the return of our final lost group--Patrick and his girls should be freed from their location soon. Jamie and Dodger cleared a path on their way in, so the return trip should be much faster. There that, and the physical damage to the wall and the rest of the area around the explosion. The wall is top priority, of course. There's the continuing needs of the injured to be met, and decisions to be made for those who live in pain but can't survive. Hard decisions...
I will leave you with this. I want to end this post, a sad and painful thing that reminds me of the taste of ashes, on a higher note. It might be strange, but I'd like to say something to the victims, though they are past hearing (or reading) my words now:
Though I may not have known you, I loved you. In this dark and frightening world, you were points of calm light and warmth when the chill wind rushed in to bite. You were what we, the survivors, should all aspire to be; hardworking, fair, supportive, caring. You were so many other things, both good and bad, in your variety as a group. That was what we lost that day. We lost a collection of potential that the world simply can't get back. For all your faults, you had many more wondrous and positive traits. You might have been the nicest person to be found, or curt and surly--either way you proved time and again that you would risk your life and limb for those around you. You were men, women, and children that came together in a time of desperate need to save each other.
You will be missed. I may not have known you, or at least known you well, but I could not hope any harder that you find the embrace of whatever god you hold to. It is my deepest wish that each of you finds solace now in a place of peace and glowing warmth, far removed from the struggle that defined you here. That struggle outlined your grace and moral strength. May you live forever in that world of perfect satisfaction, the pain and fear long forgotten, the dead no longer your enemy, only old friends and loved ones to be reunited with.
Goodbye.
at 7:49 AM
Sunday, February 13, 2011
A Final Kindness
Posted by Josh Guess
I'm just off a twelve hour shift in the clinic, and I don't know if I can go back. I think I might have reached my limit for keeping a compassionate and calm demeanor in the face of painful and disturbing things.
Evans, Phil, and Gabrielle had to sit down with some of the people with the worst injuries and talk to them. It wasn't a job I would have wanted to do, and I'm damn thankful I didn't have to. The problem was that we knew there was no way some of the worst off of them could survive. It just isn't going to happen. Neither are they going to die quickly or easily, so the choice was awful: linger in constant pain, consuming medicines that might help someone later on, or choose to die now at the hand of a friend.
Evans made it very clear that they were all able to make the choice freely. No one was to be coerced into anything, no pressure or guilt to be applied. I don't think that anyone would do that, but then I've been called suicidally optimistic more than once.
Of those with burns and other injuries severe enough to be considered fatal, nine of eleven adults chose to end their lives. There are two kids, but Evans just keeps them sedated all the time. No one wants to make that call. No one wants to ask that of children. So, we won't. Evans is saving them the agony of being awake, seeing and feeling their wounds. Some might say he is depriving them of the chance to experience their last, precious days. Perhaps.
But what quality would those days have? Evans took his oath seriously: First, do no harm. For the kids, that meant letting sleep wrap around them as they passed the bridge to whatever comes next. For the adults, that meant a quick death when asked for. Doctors have done it for centuries, never doubt that. Human suffering, constant and deeply damaging to the human psyche, will always change a person's views on morality given enough time.
I sat with them when Evans did it. Each and every one of them. I held their hands, talked with them, made them comfortable. I watched the light go out of their eyes, the vibrant motions that defined life within them fall still. No ticking throb of a pulse in the throat. No narrowing or widening of the pupils as we talked. Facial tension gone, relaxed in a way that life simply won't allow. I was glad to be there for them, but I hated it. Every minute of it.
I didn't want to watch them die. I didn't want to be there as we did what we had to do in order to ensure none of them reanimated. The peace Evans gave them was a final one, the companionship I gave them their last. If there is a great beyond, my presence was a mere transitional circumstance to tide them over until they touched the infinite. Compared to whatever wonders might lie beyond the cusp of life, my company is a poor substitute.
Those last two have decided to tough it out. They have chosen to suffer through the hours or days until they die. I get that. I would make that choice. I'm a pretty logical person, but when it comes to the thought of my own death, I'm as emotional as they come. I'll fight every minute until the end, enjoy the pain because it will prove that I'm still alive. Both of our last patients have asked not to be given any painkillers, so that others who might need them later and live can use them.
They are brave, in my eyes. They know that there is no way to survive. They accept it, and embrace it. Just as those who chose to die embraced their fate, eyes open. I am lucky to have known such people.
I hope that on the day when I face my own death, I can show half as much courage.
at 9:30 AM
Monday, February 14, 2011
All About Love (A Little Hate, Too)
Posted by Josh Guess
I've posted on holidays before, or what used to be holidays. I wrote about being grateful on Thanksgiving. I talked about the real meaning of Christmas. Today is Valentine's day. While my wife and I have rarely celebrated this holiday, I think the time is right to talk about love. Given our recent tragedy, it's fair to say that love is more important than ever. This is all from my own perspective, so please don't think I'm judging how you view the subject. I'm not. It's just my view.
It's a weird thing to think about, really. Love is such a fluid and ephemeral concept for so many of us. You think about it in many contexts, many situations. Some are common and fairly reliable, such as familial love. I love my family so much that it overwhelms me sometimes. Those are people I grew up with, who have always been there for me in my worst times. They are like other parts of me that have the same basic makeup but different experiences. Familial love, what I feel for my departed mother, my brothers and sister, nieces, nephews, uncles and aunts (though most of them died in the early days, when the zombie plague was spreading like cancer across the country) is powerful in me, and not just because it's hardwired into my genes. I've got some family that I don't feel that strong reaction toward. Mostly I do.
That's important to me, because while I don't know how it is for most people, when I say that someone is "like family", it isn't just a pleasant turn of phrase. I mean it with total sincerity. Patrick is a good example. Pat is my best friend, but my brain sees him
as a brother. He's as important to me, as vital to my mental well-being, as anyone can be.
In a very broad sense, I love people. My base setting is to love everyone, to have basic respect and an open mind about them, until they give me a reason not to. Strangely, this is even extends to the zombies that swarm the walls on a daily basis. I know that sounds odd, but it's true. I can't find it in me to hate them. I see them in much the same way I would see a rabid dog or an injured bear--an object of pity, of sympathy, that is also a potentially fatal threat to my life. I do feel heartache, tiny though it might be, when I look at them. They were people once, and what has happened to them is not their fault. Since I have this general love for humanity, it's hard not to feel a little bit of it for our dead, especially those of them that walk.
I'm not going to go on and on about why I love humankind. You've read it here before. I will tell you that the practical result of that feeling is a willingness to do almost anything to save people. To protect them, kill for them, feed them, house them, teach them to do for themselves, all the while learning to do all of that stuff for me as well. It led me to bring people together to form the compound. It has pushed me into rescue missions time and again. It was there in my brain when I first crossed the moral line I swore to avoid at all costs--killing a living person--because of the terrible acts those men had committed against other people. My adoration of people has created a new morality in me--a willingness to kill those who lack the qualities I love in humanity in order to protect those who do.
I think that most people who have survived that aren't traveling across the countryside Mad Max-style have some portion of this. To live in relative peace with one another, especially under such immense stress, takes more than just willpower. It takes that mercurial and indefinable feeling that allows you to overlook the minor, embrace the flaws, and enjoy another person for who they are and not for what you think they should be: love.
Lastly...Romantic love. This one is a subject that has been in debate for as long as people have felt it, so I won't make big sweeping statements. Jess is perfect for me. I love her, and am in love with her, literally more each day. I used to think that was just a saying, a hackneyed line that writers used to make housewives read their cheap romance. It isn't. Not for me. My wife gets me like no other person ever has--no one. Not my best friends or family. We have the same sensibilities. We are both practical. She forgives my terrible qualities, and loves me despite them.
She is beautiful, and funny. Sexy and hilarious. She's the light of my life who shares my dark sense of humor. She is adorably naive at times, childlike in her innocence. She can also pull out random knowledge and hardcore pragmatism that truly astounds me. She is smart and awesome in the truest meaning of the word.
There is so much more to it. I wish that I could describe it to you, but until you feel that thrill--the excitement of just getting to come home to someone and talk about your day, even after years together, then you can't understand it. When you feel terror at the thought that they might be harmed, and a willingness to die in their place to go with it. It's so much--it fills me. She fills my heart in ways I used to think were impossible.
I've seen all types of it among the people here in North Jackson. Here and there, the deep and mesmerized stares between two people deeply in love with each other. The smiles of joy at just seeing one another.
I've seen families stick together and find happiness with one another, and take in others to join their tribe. On this medium scale, most people have found others. There are few loners left who have no adopted group to call their own.
Overall...I don't think I've ever seen a group that has as much general love for one another as the people here. I don't know if it stems from the amazing progress that has gone on, or the many tragic happenings. Jack likely had a lot to do with it, weaving among them to bring them tighter, and Susan has made that a priority. The people here understand the innate need to survive, yes, but they feel that others should do so as well--there is no selfishness to it. They will save people, help those in need, because of the love they all seem to feel towards those that have peaceful intent. It's beautiful.
Right now all of us here are united in our love and hope for those that were left behind at the compound in Frankfort. We want them to be safe and healthy...but more than anything, we want them to be free.
Seems the people here have another thing in common with me: they also have a willingness to be violent in defense of peaceful, good people. Especially against those that hold them captive.
Right now the feeling is universal in this part of the country--we don't feel too much love for the Richmond soldiers for the terror and murder they are responsible for. That should worry them.
A lot.
at 9:21 AM
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
War Mentality
Posted by Josh Guess
Once more I'm on the road with my lovely wife, moving farther away from the barrage of heartache and fury back in North Jackson. The last of the fatally injured died this morning. Her passing was met with relief and another wave of rage and sadness.
Jess and I are with a bunch of other people this time, and we've got trucks. Lots of trucks. We're going to start the process of loading the stuff Jess and I scouted out last week. The weather has turned warmer the last few days, and the snow around here has melted, making driving a lot easier. It's going to be a long trip...
I realized the other day, after one of my friends mentioned it to me, that I haven't talked much about my sister in a while. I guess that strikes some people as odd, since I've been living in the same community with her for, what, more than a month? The truth of the matter is that Jackie and I rarely see each other, and it's only since the attack that we've spent more than a half hour together since I settled in with the other refugees.
It's not that I avoid her or anything. I love my sister, and just as important, I like her. She and I might not talk often, but we're close. We trust each other implicitly, can talk about anything. It's just that she's busy seeing to the education needs of North Jackson, and she has four kids. Her husband is busy as well--his expertise with computers is incredibly useful and much in demand, which eats a lot of his time.
Jackie was hit very hard by the attack. She cares very deeply for people, especially kids. She lost students in the attack. Virtually all the kids that live inside the walls are her students, and she loves them. It hurt her so much when those kids were hurt. She could barely handle it when she found out they wouldn't be waking up.
She came looking for me, and I wasn't going to tell her I was too busy, even though I was really, really busy. It's not often that my sister comes to me for solace or advice--after all, she's nine years older than I am. She's got all of this life experience and wisdom that I don't. Yet once in a while throughout our lives, she has done this. I don't pretend to know why, other than the ceaseless emotional support I offer her as a brother. Maybe she just wants a different perspective on things. Perhaps just kind words and a shoulder to cry on.
I sat with her for a long time, talking about many things and taking breaks to let her blow her nose and dry her eyes. It was strange for me to see her that emotional. She's one of the strongest, toughest people I know, for all that she's more of a girlie girl than my tomboy of a mom would have expected. Jackie is usually the one to be there for others, and she's been there for me many times. Hell, she practically raised me.
I think a lot of it had to do with her own kids. She's aware of just how spectacularly lucky she is to have her entire family, husband and kids, alive. I think seeing those children, alive yet unable to survive, struck that deep maternal instinct in her. The sight of them slumbering their way to eternity grabbed on the the fear center of her mommy-brain and squeezed. Imagining that being your kid would bring anyone to their knees.
Hmm. Maybe that's why the attack and resulting deaths have put people so universally up in arms. Those who have children likely felt the same way as my
sister. Those who had lost kids in The Fall were reminded sharply of that terrible lack. Those who didn't have kids might have looked at the terrible agony the adult victims were in, and in that pain seen the possibility that it could have been them. Or their brother. Their lover.
I held their hands as they died, and that could have been Jackie. Could have been Jess.
The thought makes the bottom drop out of my stomach.
All of us are angry, but none of us are stupid. To attack the compound would be literal suicide--I know Will Price well enough to know that he has to have improved the defenses since we've left. And god knows how much firepower the Richmond soldiers brought with them. We're stuck with being pissed off to a degree that English doesn't have a word for and not being able to do anything about it.
So, we stock up. We're going to make North Jackson as sturdy and defensible as we can, pack it with supplies, and plan. The soldiers know we're coming for them one day, that's no secret. All we have to do is figure out how and find a way to build an army to do it. We've got the moral support of so many of the other survivors Courtney met and worked with, but it's just that. None of them are going to organize massive efforts to help us take our home back and free our people. I get it, really. People have survived because they didn't risk their lives when the likelihood was almost certain that they would be killed. Only if you have to. That's how you keep on breathing.
