My introductory blog was going to be a welcome message, something to introduce you more to me, to my books, to my writing life, but I just couldn’t quite find the words. Then I watched on helplessly as thousands of people’s lives were changed irrevocably overnight, with ripple effects felt all over the world. Sometimes, words are the only way I can try and make sense of the incomprehensible.

As the wife on an International Search and Rescue worker, this is a personal perspective on holding onto hope.

Hope

I ponder where we might go for my birthday lunch, anticipating the possibility of a cup of tea in bed.  I wonder if it’s in my favourite cup as he comes up the stairs.  ‘I’m going to Türkiye’, he says, empty handed, ‘there’s been an earthquake’.  ‘Oh’, I muster.  I haven’t seen the news.  An hour later he is gone.

I cancel his 11am dentist’s appointment.

I follow his location on our family app as direct communication dwindles.  Two days after he leaves, I find myself in bed scrolling, scrolling, scrolling.  Six hours go past, and I haven’t moved.  Then a text message: ‘feeling good’, alongside the grumpiest pic ever.  ‘Tell your face, babe’.  He sends pictures of rubble and rescues; I send screenshots of the rugby results.  I make myself go out for a run and find a café.  I order a fishfinger sandwich.  Simple, hot, fresh.  It burns my mouth.  I wonder when he will next eat something hot, whether they have tea.  My Desert Island Discs luxury item would be tea.  One of my friends said theirs would be my husband.  Genius.

By day six, the fatigue at home, the suppressed worry and single parenting (which I cannot voice as it pales into insignificance alongside what’s happening out there) takes hold.  Crisp sandwiches for dinner.  This turns into a highly entertaining Facebook discussion as to the ideal type of bread, butter, and crisp flavour for the optimum sandwich.  (Overwhelmingly salt & vinegar, real butter and white bread).  I feel less lonely and afraid.

We finally get to speak – I want to know everything, all of it.  We don’t talk about the bodies, the ‘almosts’.  When I feel I’m losing him to the despairing sounds of silence, thoughts of cadaver dogs busy and frenzied whilst the rescue dogs find nothing, I bring him back to camp – ‘tell me about camp!’.  There’s a first aid tent for dogs – Colin the Collie receives treatment after injuring his paw on some rubble.  Every rescue team is exactly like his own, just from somewhere else.  The professionalism, integrity and camaraderie bring the most life affirming moments, amidst the horror.  The Finnish team have a sauna, the Italians a pasta maker, and won’t start the day until after coffee and a cigarette.  The team from China have a cooking station with woks constantly on the go.  I’ve entered a 70s British sitcom script.  The Brits have ration packs and a hot tent shower.  They swap food to break up the monotony – today he received a coffee waffle and frankfurter bun from the Dutch in exchange for ‘Biscuit Browns’.  I can’t help but feel the Dutch have been short-changed.

Yesterday they rescued a young lad after 128 hours. He survived as he was trapped alongside a stocked fridge.   They get a call – there is a possibility of rescuing seven more live casualties from the remains of a sports hall.  It has been over 170 hours, the odds are against them, but whilst the calls come in, there is still…hope.

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