Giggling at Shocking Things

On the first day of 2020, I lost my sense of humour. Usually, I’m a positive person, but the current bushfire situation pushed me over the edge.

“I’m tired of breathing smoky air,” I complained. “I’m fed up of watching fire updates and wondering if the fire is coming our way. I want life to return to normal.”

My husband Andy tried to make me feel better. “It will all be over soon.” But that’s not true. The fire has moved past our village, but now it’s threatening communities south of us, including our nearest town where our girls work. Many of our friends could soon be in the path of the flames.

I sighed. “We’re going to be watching this fire for a long time yet.”

Andy tried again. “When the fire is out, we’ll go somewhere, have a holiday.”

“But where? All our favourite places have been burnt. Down south, the land is burnt right up to the coast. Did you see the photos of the people sheltering from the fire on the beach? There’s nowhere we can go.”

I hadn’t finished complaining. “The smoke has given me a headache and a sore throat and it’s hard to run because I can’t breathe properly. I bet the smoke is making me sick. It’s inside me doing terrible things. I’m going to die. And when I do, you won’t be able to bury me. The ground is so hard because of the drought. You’ll have to wait until it rains. And that might take years.”

Andy laughed. “If we can’t bury you, we’ll cremate you instead.”

“No, you won’t! I don’t want to be turned into smoke and ash!”

My daughter Imogen had a suggestion: “If we put your body in the bush, the fire will do the job for us.”

Andy and Imogen giggled. They thought their words were very funny. Were they indulging in a bit of black humour? Or maybe smoky humour? Or ash humour? Or maybe they were just being unsympathetic and not funny at all. I certainly didn’t feel like laughing.

“There’s no escape,” I said. “We can’t change the situation. It’s out of our control.” But then I thought of something I could do.

I went to my bedroom and unpacked my evacuation bag. I hung my clothes back in the wardrobe. I took my toiletries to the bathroom. I put my few valuables away where they belong. “I’m not playing the fire game any more,” I announced. “Instead of watching the fire, I’m going to live my life. If the fire heads towards us again, I’m not going to run. I’m going to fight it!”

So what are the chances of the fire reappearing in our village? I think we’re fairly safe. Yes, a strong wind on a hot day might push the flames back towards us. (Next Saturday is predicted to be a bad bushfire day.) And we still have to be on the lookout for embers. But I no longer think we’re going to have to deal with a huge wall of fire burning towards us. Unfortunately, it’s someone else’s turn to face that possibility.

Most of the bush around us is now burnt out. It’s black and looks very sad. But it’s our protection. It’s what’s keeping us safe.

I got up this morning determined to resume my life. What do I normally do before breakfast? Run. I looked out the window and sniffed the air. It was fairly clear so I pulled on my shorts and t-shirt and laced up my shoes. Then I went down to the park and ran. For the first time, I ran through the burnt-out bush. The air is still far from fresh so I only ran 2.5 kms at a leisurely pace. And when I’d finished I felt good. I felt as good as if I’d run my best 5K ever.

This morning, I did something normal. There’s hope that life will return to what it used to be.

And now I’m smiling. I’ve regained my sense of humour. I can giggle at the thought of being cremated in a bushfire. Of course, if that really happened, I wouldn’t be laughing. Dead people don’t laugh. My family wouldn’t be laughing either. It would no longer be funny.

That’s the nature of black humour, isn’t it? It’s all about making fun of serious and sad situations. We laugh in the face of danger. Perhaps we shouldn’t because we might shock or upset someone. Or is it okay because it’s the giggles that help us to bear the pain?

Photos

I took these photos yesterday. Andy and I took the dogs for a walk through our bush. Everywhere there are blackened trees sitting in a sea of ash-covered ground. In the last photo, the left-hand side of the track is burnt. The right-hand side isn’t. The firefighters saved a strip of green bush that surrounds our park.

As I said, the bush looks very sad. It is sad not only for us but for the animals as well. Did our koalas and lyrebirds and kangaroos survive?

A Last Thought

Is it wrong to complain when we know that there are people worse off than us? Or is it okay to acknowledge how we’re feeling? Perhaps being honest helps. It relieves the stress. Then we can pick ourselves up and keep going. What do you think?