5,560 Miles

My Wife Wrote A Beautiful Piece About Her Experience in Paris. Here’s What was Happening at Home.

During the horrific events in Paris on Nov. 13, my wife spent five hours barricaded in a wine cellar a few short blocks away from the Bataclan. She recounted her experience here, an article that somehow gets more raw and more real every time I read it.

I spent those five hours glued to CNN; reassuring our friends and family that she was OK, and waiting for her to reassure me that she actually was. I spent those five hours with our two young kids; completely terrified on the inside but doing everything I could to seem normal on the outside. I spent those five hours refusing to believe that I wouldn’t see my wife again (that’s a double negative but an important one); willing myself to stay focused and positive.

My wife’s article inspired me to share parts of my experience. My emotions are too mixed and my thoughts too jumbled to form a coherent narrative, so instead here’s a list of random thoughts I had in the moment and in the aftermath:

• CNN and other news outlets focus heavily on the total victim count but that figure doesn’t tell the full story. Take the victim number and then multiply it by the number of family and friends affected. Then multiply that figure by the firefighters and paramedics and police and the other brave, selfless people who rush to the scene. And then multiply that figure by the maybes, the “maybe my wife is in there” and “maybe my wife won’t come home” and “maybe my life is about to end and start again.” That’s an incalculable figure. And the next time I see a victim count, I’ll do that impossible math in my heart.
• When something like this happens, giving your kids a bath is the most important and trivial thing in the world at the same time. You watch them argue over who gets to have the ferry boat first and think: everything that matters is in that tub. The outside world is scary, but my world is here and I will protect it. But you also think: you little dicks, your mom is trapped in a wine cellar while people are being executed at a friggin concert, why are you arguing over The USS Who Gives A Shit?
• My wife was on day 10 of an 11-day business trip and I’d been home with the kids. After 10 days, I’d prepared roughly 45 meals; muscled through roughly 25 bed times; changed roughly 40 diapers; and served roughly 125 beverages. As much as I missed my wife — her laugh, presence, boobs, etc. — I really needed a fucking hand. And then this happens and you can’t believe that you let your priorities and needs get so askew. Remember that amazing line in Winnie The Pooh when Piglet sidles up to Pooh, grabs his hand and says, “I just wanted to be sure of you.” I woke up on the tenth day needing help. I ended that day desperate to be sure of her.
• Three comments about CNN:

1. When you’re involved, albeit tangentially, to a tragedy, you really want Wolf Blitzer on the call. When his shows ends and the other anchor comes on you think, “what the fuck CNN, we ain’t good enough for the full Wolf?”
2. Do you really have to show a live shot of Times Square and reinforce that all US terrorist agencies are on high alert? Isn’t this scary enough, CNN? That’s like reporting on an E. coli incident at Burger King and then cutting to a men’s bathroom door at McDonald’s with the headline: Diarrhea or Death?
3. If I had to sleep with a man, not sure the circumstance that would lead me here, but let’s just say I had to pick, Anderson Cooper would be a first round draft choice.

• Facebook is incredible. Facebook has crossed the complain threshold, a term I just invented for when something has been around long enough that we complain about it more than we celebrate it. GPS, smart phones, air travel and Internet porn being other prime examples. The night of Nov. 13 was a great reminder of how powerful, how important and how life-changing the Facebook platform is and can be. With a few clicks on her phone, my wife was able to update her entire family and all of her friends of her whereabouts and safety. That’s amazing. Thanks, Facebook.
• (It’s become a cliche now, but it’s still true) Raising kids takes a village. It’s incredible how quickly the community organized around us. Within two hours of the news breaking, I heard from 56 different people via text, phone or messenger. 56 people who love us; 56 families offering to help in anyway I needed. I am humbled and eternally grateful for that support. Raising kids takes a village. You know what? Maybe Hillary Clinton should be president. Anyone smart enough to recognize that and coin that phrase probably deserves a crack at the White House.
• I have a hard time with religion. I am skeptical at best and cynical at worst. But as someone who spends a lot of time in my own head, I really love the idea of prayer. I love the idea of stopping and focusing on one idea or one person and sending as much positive energy as you can muster in their direction. So when people would tell me that they were praying for us…I was deeply moved. I may not completely understand your ultimate intent, but I felt that energy. Thank you for your prayers.
• I’m sure there’s a term for this, but you know when you’re watching a movie and you know more than the main character? You know it’s a trap, you know the plan will fail, you know that the person they trust the most can’t be trusted. Friday night felt a lot like that. I had CNN, I had the full internet, I could see all of the commotion my wife was only hearing, even though she was only a few steps away. This quasi-omnipotence fueled my worst moment of this entire experience: the 30 minutes my wife left the wine cellar and walked back to her apartment. I was terrified because she was leaving the safety of the restaurant. I was terrified because there were reports about gunmen still being at large. I was terrified because I had seen the streets and knew the horror movie scene she was about to enter. That entire night felt like 5 nights, but that walk was the longest 30 minutes of my life.
• There’s a line in Cast Away that’s always bugged me. After he’s rescued, Hanks is sitting on the plane chatting with his best friend from work. The guy’s wife had died recently and it’s obvious that the wound is still raw. Hanks offers his condolences in a very Hanksy way, but then he apologizes for not being there for him, saying that “I should’ve been there for you and I wasn’t.” That’s always bugged me. Come on, Tom Hanks, you’ve been spraying coconuts on a beach for nine years, you don’t owe anyone an apology for anything. This situation has changed that line for me. When you truly love someone you are responsible for them. When I pictured my wife in that cellar, I kept thinking, “that’s my job.” I’m the one who calms her down. I’m the one who keeps her safe. I’m the one who holds her hand in random wine cellars and makes inappropriate sex jokes to try and make her laugh. She was so far away and so scared and I felt like I was failing her. Intellectually I can appreciate how ridiculous that sounds, but I can’t shake this strange emotion that is one part fear, one part love and two parts guilt. I should’ve been there for her but I wasn’t.

The senseless tragedy, the lives lost, the lives forever altered, the fear, the hate, the overwhelming sadness, the cries of anguish that continue to echo…these are all things that I’ll process later. I don’t mean to be selfish, but CNN is off, Twitter and Reddit inaccessible, Facebook a glance and nothing more. For the foreseeable future, my sole focus is my wife’s beautiful face. My kids. Our family. The happiness that almost vanished but has come rushing back like walking into a warm house from a cold day. She’s home. She’s mine. And the world can wait.