852: Pivot Point
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Head to squarespace.com slash American for 10% off your first purchase of a website or domain. A quick warning, there are curse words that are unbeaped in today's episode of the show. If you prefer a beeped version, you can find that at our website, thisamericanlife.org. When Kirk and his wife MJ evacuated their house in LA on the second day of the fires, they could see the flames up the hill from their backyard. They packed the car full, got their seven and eight year old kids inside with a family cat, hit the road.

And Kirk started recording. Okay, now I know it's scary. Did this happen when Mommy or Daddy was little? He records his kids a lot and just had a feeling like this is an important moment. Can we just turn on to like a song by the Beatles? Sure. Not rock band, okay? Sure. Not like we're the kings. I don't really want to listen to rock. Okay, but let me, can I just say something? Okay, can I say something? I don't really want to listen to rock music when

When our house is going to... Our house is okay. Kirk is Kirk Johnson. He's been on our show before, talking about his experiences in the Iraq war, among other things. He thinks of himself as somebody who can usually handle a moment of crisis. But he admits he made mistakes in the car. He didn't bring the family tortoise, an animal he says his kids have ignored for over a year. It lives in a giant crate outside the house. In the car, he realized how upset his son August was about that. But they drove.

Looked at wind speeds and wind directions, made a guess about where it might be safe, booked a hotel, and things were feeling a little calmer in the car. Daddy, can you tell us one of your kids' stories you haven't told us? Yeah, that's a good idea, I guess. That's August, asking Kirk to tell a story from his childhood, which he does sometimes. Kirk grew up with chickens, goats, and animals. Okay, did I ever tell you the story about... I think I did when my...

When my horse got sick. No, you don't have a horse, Jack. I used to have a horse named Joe. Yeah? That's a big question. Let's just make his last name Biden, okay? Joe Biden. Joe Biden. Joe Biden the horse. And Mamie and Gramps went to visit Uncle Soren in Russia. They were far away, and they left me home alone. I was like... How old were you? 14 or 15. And one day, I...

I went down to check on Joe one morning before school and he was lying on the ground like he was kneeling down, which is not a good sign for a horse. And I didn't know what to do. And so I went to school and I came back and I was really nervous and Joe was still lying on the ground. And every day I was like trying to get him to eat food and stuff and he wasn't eating anything. And so you know what I did? You know what my best idea was? What? I started digging a grave.

next to Joe, like a big hole, a little bit every day so that if he died, there would be a big hole right next to him. That was my smart idea. And then Mimi and Gramps got home and they're like, what are you doing? I was like, I'm digging a grave for Joe. And they're like, why don't you just call the veterinarian? And the veterinarian came and gave him a shot and he was totally fine. But after that, Joe kind of looked at me a little funny like,

What was the moment you realized, oh, this is not the right story for this moment? Well, when I realized it was a creature that I was, a beloved pet of ours that I was convinced was about to die. And digging a grave for? But halfway through, I realized, oh, God, I'm getting them right into death and dying and uncertainty about how to handle a situation. How do I get out of this?

I don't really want to talk about, like, a dying grave right now. Sorry. Oh, yeah, okay. It's okay, Daddy. Let's do it. Sorry, I shouldn't have told Joe. I just, Joe, like, I rode that horse all the time. Kirk and his family were lucky. Unlike so many families in Los Angeles right now, they're now back in their home. The tortoise is fine. But in that moment, when it was so unclear what to do, and he and his wife MJ were trying to pretend that things were going to be fine when they really had no idea at all and were scared they were not going to be fine,

When his brain searched for a story to tell the children, this one with the horse is the one that popped up. And if I really think about it, that story is about decision making without enough information. I didn't know what to do. And the best idea I came up with was just impossibly stupid. But yeah, the moral of that story is like, sometimes you choose poorly.

These kind of moments when you feel the earth shifting underneath you and you just have to figure out what you're going to do in this new reality. That's what our show is about today. People with different pivot points in their lives between what was and what's about to happen. I'm WBEZ Chicago. It's Just American Life. I'm Eric Glass. Stay with us.

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This message comes from WISE, the app for doing things in other currencies. Sending or spending money abroad, hidden fees may be taking a cut. With WISE, you can convert between up to 40 currencies at the mid-market exchange rate. Visit WISE.com. TNCs apply. This is American Life, Act 1. Who's laughing now? So we start today with this story about somebody who's been thinking a lot about one particular pivot point that the world might go through.

Nancy Opdug went to meet him. Got a question for you out there listening. Have you ever had a bloody nose? I ask because I got a bloody nose recently when I went to do an interview with a British comedy writer and director named Armando Iannucci.

He made the TV show Veep for HBO, now Max, with Julia Louis-Dreyfus playing the vice president. He made a movie called The Death of Stalin, a comedy somehow, about the battle for succession in the Soviet Union after Stalin died. And he made a movie that I especially love called In the Loop, about the lead-up to a war that isn't identified as the Iraq War but seems a lot like the Iraq War. Also a comedy.

Armando Iannucci gets called prescient a lot, but I think of him not so much as prescient as in tune. He follows the news. He is paying attention to now. Veep got into aspects of the political culture in Washington in a way no other show did. The epic pettiness, the unglamorous maneuvering. I'm always interested to see through his work what he finds funny and relevant and sometimes frightening in the world.

So, I went to London to interview him about one of his new projects, a new play, which I will get to. But right now, all you need to know is that I came to the interview as a fan. Straight up. I didn't hide it, but I didn't lead with it either. We were both there to do our jobs. I was told I would get an hour with him. To be safe, I was 15 minutes early. And while I was waiting, I got a bloody nose.

I got the bloody nose while I was standing in the living room type room somewhere upstairs at the Noel Coward Theatre in London. A room that has a white carpet and white upholstered chairs and a silver upholstered couch. I pulled a bunch of tissues from my bag. Pretty much always have tissues. And I was holding a pile of them to my bloody nose. Normal. It happens. I get bloody noses sometimes. Then I ran out of tissues. ♪

So I started using paper towels from the kitchenette that was attached to the living room. And it was a lot of blood. So I had a big wad of paper towels pressed to my nose, trying not to drip on the white rug, when Armando Iannucci walked through the kitchenette and into the living room.

He and the publicist were concerned. He said, "Do you need a few minutes?" He understood about bloody noses. The publicist said, "Would you like to use the toilet?" I said, "Yes, that would be great. Thank you so much. I am so sorry about this. Where is that toilet?" And I went to the bathroom to wrap this mess up. And I had what seemed to be a rolling series of bloody noses, or one big one that had many phases. I don't know.

But what I do know from sad, gross experience is that a bloody nose means there's a clot somewhere high up in my nose that needs to come out for the bloody nose to stop. So I was trying to blow my nose and blow the clot out, and it took me some time to realize that as I was doing that, unsuccessfully, I was spraying tiny droplets of blood all over my

The sink, the toilet seat, the floor, the mirror, the wallpaper, the wallpaper. I started wiping everywhere like it was a crime scene. And I rolled up a tight little roll of toilet paper and stuck it up my right nostril to catch the blood. That's what I do at home when I have a bloody nose and no one's looking. And the little roll of toilet paper filled with blood and fell on the floor as I was wiping the floor. ♪

Had to roll up another one. That filled with blood. Roll up a new one. Take out the old one. Repeat. Repeat. I went through an entire roll of toilet paper and had to start a new one. So I was pacing around this little bathroom with toilet paper in my nose, looking for tiny blood drops and muttering to myself, you gotta wrap this up. Wrap it up. Wrap this up. And...

Time was passing, so I started thinking, maybe I could interview Armando Iannucci with rolled-up toilet paper sticking out of my nose. Or, or, maybe I could stick a really tiny bit of toilet paper far enough up my nose that he wouldn't see it, but it would still block the blood. This nosebleed went on for half an hour. It was a full-on anxiety dream come to life.

And Armando Iannucci's movies and TV shows are full of awkward scenes that happen on the job. A person trying to do a serious thing and getting thwarted by something dumb and embarrassing, like a pair of squeaky shoes. In one of his movies, an assistant secretary of state starts bleeding from her teeth in the middle of a meeting. And what usually happens in these scenes is...

The person just gets pounced on, mocked without mercy by their colleagues or rivals or the press. Any vulnerability or misstep is noticed and weaponized. But Armando Iannucci, the real person in real life, did something completely different. I walked out of the bathroom, not even sure the interview was still possible. So much time had been lost. And he said, with perfect grace, I'm not in a rush.

He and the publicist, Nada, simply put the whole thing behind us. Nada said, "Look, he's got a photo shoot in half an hour, but he can come back after that." Armando said, "We'll talk for a while, and then I'll go and come back, and we'll talk more." It was like he waved a wand over me and said, "You had a nightmare, and now it's over," which is the opposite of what happens in his new play.

I wanted to interview Armando because his work is so good at capturing things about now, about the present. And I saw that he was doing a stage version of an old Cold War film, Dr. Strangelove by Stanley Kubrick. And I found it alarming that this was his next project. I mean, it's a comedy, but the last scene is nuclear Armageddon and the end of the world.

So what did he see in it that spoke to him about now? Why choose that particular story out of all possible stories at this moment? Well, part of the answer to why now is someone asked. Well, Doctor Strange is one of those films that's it's always been in my top five movies of all time.

Ladies and gentlemen, Armando Iannucci. He got a call from the director and co-adapter of the play, Sean Foley, who asked Armando, did you want to work on it with him? And Armando quickly said, yes. I think it's the best dark comedy film ever made. I'm a huge Kubrick fan. The other reason I said yes was because, and this was several years ago, at the time, climate change was becoming...

a much more stark reality. There was a kind of a sensation of, if we don't do something immediately about this, the world isn't going to come back from it. That sense of us as a, you know, collective species still being unable to save ourselves from our own behaviour.

Us as a species being unable to save ourselves from our own behavior is the plot of Dr. Strangelove. The entire story lives in the minutes right before the world pivots, from a planet full of life to a deathscape of ashes and poison. The story is an American general goes quietly nuts. He's a conspiracy theorist who believes commies are poisoning America through fluoridation.

To stop that, he sends U.S. bombers off to start a nuclear war with the Soviet Union. When reasonable people on both sides realize what's happening, they try to stop it. The U.S. president gets so desperate that he gives the Soviets the information they need to shoot down the planes. But one bomber gets through anyway, triggering a cascade of nuclear bombs to fire automatically, destroying the world.

Everyone on stage realizes there's a good chance the world might end, but they can't quite admit it. It's like a very slow motion car crash that you're watching. And everyone's caught up in it, but unable to, because of their own desire to retain their own status and to prove their point over the enemy, leading to annihilation.

More than any one-to-one correspondence with the news now, there's a feeling to "Strange Love" that I found familiar. A sense that enormous danger is looming, but we're also wading through a sludge of ridiculousness. I feel some level of dread all the time for a while now, and I had a hunch based on Armando's work

that he might have a similar feeling. Oh, absolutely. Yeah, dread, yes. I think we're all anxious about something, but for each person it's a different thing. Or we can't quite put a finger on it. There's just a cumulative atmosphere of...

dread and foreboding, but not quite knowing what. I mean, was it a way for you to channel, to sort of organize or contain your own dread as a project? Oh, absolutely. It's a way of articulating. It's a way of processing it. It's a way of dramatizing it. Once I got an answer to why make strange love now, we moved into a meandery, but very enjoyable conversation about how to confront your dread these days.

Because I am taking suggestions. And Armando's work is something I've returned to again and again. And what I'm thinking now is that, especially with his movies and with Strangelove, I come for the comedy, but maybe stay for the dread. So we talked about how do you go about making comedy out of catastrophe and fear? You've said that people underestimate comedy, which I agree about.

especially about things that are sort of big and terrifying, but make the case. What do people underestimate its ability to do that you feel like, no, no, it's best. It's best at that. I'm not arguing comedy is better. It just gives you another way in. And I think comedy, I think it just allows you to open up your mind a bit. If you find yourself laughing at something and then asking yourself,

Should I have laughed at that? Well, if you've laughed at it, then you should. It's spontaneous. I think that's why autocratic leaders hate jokes about themselves. Because it's spontaneous. They can't control it or predict it. It's out of their hands. They like stuff where they can tell you what to do. And comedy allows what might otherwise feel a forbidding and inaccessible theme.

It allows you that entry point. You know, before making The Death of Stalin, I went back and watched The Great Dictator. The Great Dictator is a movie about Hitler that Charlie Chaplin put out, incredibly, in 1940. So not even with the benefit of hindsight, right in the middle of it. And he treads this line between high comedy, fantastic, memorable, comedic moments like, I don't know, Ed Hinkle, The Dictator, just playing with a globe.

picking earth up in his hands and dancing with it. And then scenes set in the Jewish ghetto, which are not funny, not meant to be funny. And it's this balance between the funny and the tragic. And I knew when going into The Death of Stalin, that's what I wanted to do. And I said to everyone when we started filming, I said to the crew and to the cast, it's a comedy, but we must also be mindful and respectful of what happened to the people. We're not making fun of the fact that

of the deaths and the punishments they were making. The comedy comes from those inside the Kremlin. And it was holding those two kind of tones and moods simultaneously. Armando pulls it off because he doesn't skimp on either the bad in The Death of Stalin or the comedy. The bad is quite bad, and the funny is really funny. And one way I've noticed that he keeps those two moods aloft at the same time in many of his projects

He often focuses on people who work together. In The Death of Stalin, there's this intense rivalry among the men around Stalin, all jockeying for power after he dies, scheming and whinging and flailing. That workplace power struggle is what made Veep so funny, too. In the Strangelove play, the president and his advisors are in the war room, gathered around a ludicrously large circular table, mostly arguing.

And one guy, a guy you may know from your own job, keeps throwing out bad ideas in a loud voice, in a sort of Roman Roy, I'm the only one being real here way. For instance, he argues that maybe the thing to do is to lean into this attack the U.S. has launched, not bring back the bombers that are on their way, but send more planes with more bombs, try to win this war rather than try to stop it.

It all makes sense under something called Plan R. It would remove all uncertainty if we pre-talliate. Pre-tally what? Pre-talliate. I think this is a new word. See, conventionally, if the Russians attack us, our only option is to... Re-talliate. Plan R gives us a second option. We pre-talliate before they even think of talliating.

Nuclear preterence, sir. In a nutshell, it's bulletproof. Pre-talliate isn't in the Strangelove movie, but it was built out of logic that is in there and that Armando and the director and co-adapter, Sean Foley, expanded and riffed on. You know, I've spent the last, whatever, several decades examining politicians, their speech and how they use rhetoric effectively.

to disguise or to pretend something is not what it is and so on. But Armando says sometimes you really don't need to riff or invent.

Sometimes comedy is just sitting there, waiting to be picked up, like a $100 bill on the sidewalk. You know, in the film, it opens with the Air Force gate saying, peace is our profession. I thought that was a gag. I thought Kubrick made it up. In the archive, you come in, there's the photo. It exists. This is in the Kubrick archive, he says. He saw this photo of an Air Force base with peace is our profession written on it.

So again, he's taking what's true and just putting it in, you know. Yeah, Pieces Are Profession shows up a bunch of times in the movie, along with other sort of funny sight gags of just the way things are labeled. And I thought Pieces Are Profession was over the top. I thought, oh, it's too much. And it was real. It was real. I know. I know. And that's when you just think,

You don't have to embroider it, you know. If what is true makes the point, then make that point with the truth. You know, with the death of Stalin, as we researched the story, we kept finding more and more stories that were just absurd but actually happened. Like a scene that ended up in the movie about Stalin's son, Vasily. Vasily was high up in the Soviet Air Force. He was overpromoted. He was drunk. He was in charge of...

The ice hockey team, he sent them to a tournament in an ice storm. He was warned there'd be a danger to the flight. The flight went down. He lost the ice hockey team. He was too scared to tell his father, so he just recruited, like, friends of friends for a new team who were terrible. And that's such a bizarre story, but it says so much about even his son was scared of him. And that's what I'm saying. It's all about the truth, you know. It's the truth of...

what people really felt at the time. How can we get to that, that uneasy feeling they had at the bottom of their stomachs for years that they might be rounded up and taken away in the middle of the night? I've now seen Dr. Strangelove a bunch of times, the movie and then the play, and every time I think, so no one wins in the end. The bad ideas don't prevail. Nothingness prevails. It's shocking.

Many times in my life, I've looked back at a specific moment and thought, oh right, that was before. Before I knew that. Before this happened. But it's much more unsettling to experience now, the moment you are currently in, as that before time. To look around and feel that you will look back on this moment as one that came before so many losses or changes or hardships. Dr. Strangelove, the play,

gave the audience a chance to, sure, laugh, but also to feel that dread, to see ourselves as living in a time before, before something. It's not clear what. Nuclear bombs have a narrative advantage that way. They have one iconic image associated with them, a recognizable brand of destruction. What is the right image for what's on our horizon? Or mine, I'll just speak for myself, my dread.

I rewatched the movie and saw the play during the hottest year on record, in the summer before the U.S. presidential election. I'm writing this story, wondering how much of Los Angeles is going to burn, and whether there's going to be a nationwide ban on abortion, mass deportations. I don't have a picture in my head to focus on. It feels more like a play, a lot of dialogue, and I'm experiencing it live. ♪

Nancy Opdyke is producer on our show. The stage version of Dr. Strangelove, which by the way stars Steve Coogan in several different roles, is playing at the Noel Coward Theatre in London through January 25th and will be in Dublin from February 5th to February 22nd. Act two, the view from the dugout. So one of the things that seems likely to change once Donald Trump is again in the White House is U.S. policy toward Ukraine.

His vice president, J.D. Vance, has called for an end to aid to Ukraine and described a peace plan that basically lets Russia keep the territory it's gained. Donald Trump has been vaguer about his intentions, but he's been a skeptic of continued aid. He has said many times that he was going to end the war in 24 hours. We wonder what it's like for Ukrainian soldiers who depend on U.S. arms right now to see all of this at this pivot point and how they're imagining what's going to happen next once Trump takes office. Our producer Valerie Kipnis spoke with a bunch of people on the front lines.

The first soldier I want to tell you about is Sergei. He's a former vegan chef from Kiev. He quit his job to join the army a year ago. He's really proud of the fact that his unit recycles. When I asked how he'd describe what his unit looks like when they're in action, he said, like hobbits in a bunker. Hobbits with mortars. Sergei told me that it's a strange feeling to live in this moment of time before things might change. Everyone around him believes in anything and everything all at the same time.

There's nothing that's not in the realm of possibility. Definitely it felt like, and still might feel like, time has stopped. Time has stopped and something needs to happen. Like right now, you're living in the part of time that's stopped. Definitely, definitely. Everything simultaneously, like this, everything is real. Everything might be real. Everything might happen. So, like...

There is no reason why tomorrow or in a week, like a whole Europe and UK and US might not decide behind closed doors and just provide Ukraine with a decision to stop like military funding. And of course that would be a huge impact like on our ability to keep on fighting.

Oh, one second, one second. Let me hear if you'll hear it. So there is an air alert going on, like if you can hear the signal. Whoa, yeah. What does that mean? It kind of sounds like there might be some air attack, like drones or a missile or something like this. Do you have to go hide somewhere or what do you do? No, I'll go brew myself a cup of tea maybe.

That's how long this war has been going on. Long enough that there's an air attack and you go brew yourself a cup of tea. When Donald Trump won the election, Sergei was sitting in a dugout on the front line. That's basically just a big square hole in the ground. A hundred square feet. Like in World War I. Five guys all huddled together. That night, they just finished firing at the Russians, sat down to rest, when one of the guys in his unit went on X, saw the news that Trump was winning, and read it aloud.

He went all like, oh, this guy wins. And if he wins, he will like, hand all the help to Ukraine. And we are basically screwed.

We went into a full discussion of how the American democracy works, like bringing up Wikipedia pages. We spent around three hours of our night time just by talking, talking, talking about what the president in America has the power to do.

Could Trump just stop the war unilaterally? Stop sending aid they'd already promised? And what's the deal with the House and the Senate? Did he need their permission? Serhii and the other soldiers dug and dug for answers. And here's where he came down. He concluded that Trump wouldn't have the power to reverse the aid Biden had already promised all at once, which isn't exactly true. But that's what he told his unit.

Did you feel like it was your job to sort of calm everyone down? Maybe calming in a way that I don't want my crew member to feel their heads with, like, downgraded morale. For, like, next five days, we need to be going hand in hand for our mission. These kinds of conversations have been happening on the Ukrainian front line for months now. Not all the time, but here and there.

I talked to 10 people in a variety of positions on the front. They all laughed when I asked about Trump saying he could finish the war in 24 hours. Of course, they remembered the first time he said it. They remembered where they were, what they were doing. But they didn't think much of it except for the fact that Trump was a showman and that this was all part of his act. But even so, that didn't stop them from wondering, what in the world might he mean?

Same thing happened a few days after Trump won the election in November. Joe Biden approved Ukraine's use of long-range missiles. The soldiers were excited. They'd been waiting for this for years. But then, Donald Trump said that he thought launching long-range missiles into Russia was actually a big mistake. One soldier told me that he was on the front line, just finished shooting mortars, when he heard what Trump had said. And he looked at his crew like, "What? What does this actually mean for us?"

Will they actually take away the approval they've just given us? Another soldier who told me about trying to read the tea leaves of American politics is Vitaly, a drone operator. He's from a region of Ukraine that's been in the fight against Russian occupation since 2014. Vitaly's been fighting this war on and off since he was 24.

As a drone operator, he spends hours sitting in a bunker watching monitors. He's got two screens in front of him. One is a live feed surveillance of the front line,

And the other, his phone. Social media, group chats, the news. One right next to the other. Oftentimes, we talk in the evenings while looking at the monitors, because there's not much action during the night. The Russians usually start moving early in the morning, before the sunrise. These conversations are meant to pass the time.

Because now it's winter and the night is long. And you have a lot of time to kill, in fact. Because war is not always action. War is very often sitting put for a long time. They talk about how Trump, the candidate, could be against funding for Ukraine. But Trump, the president, might not be.

Sometimes we'll just be sitting there in our positions in the basements and someone will say that Trump doesn't actually care about any of this, or us, and that he will make a deal with Russia at whatever price is most favorable to him. Then there's the people who will say that Trump actually understands everything and will try to talk to Putin.

And Putin will not want to come to an agreement and will not want to give us any territories. And so, Trump will realize that there can be no agreement with Putin and will instead provide us with lots of new weapons thanks to which we can win. Vitaly told me he actually finds this last scenario pretty convincing. Other times, he's less optimistic.

One day, I was sitting looking at the monitor, my phone next to it, just scrolling. And there was Trump's tweet. And then I turn and I tell my fellow servicemen, hey, take a look, there's Musk, who considers us visionary, but Musk writes such offensive things about Ukraine. Elon Musk has said there's no way that Putin will lose.

And he pitched a Ukraine quote-unquote peace plan on X, which would cede Crimea to Russia. And now he's going to be sitting in Trump's administration. And we were all like, shit, maybe he'll change. Maybe he'll be different as a politician when he gets some experience. One of the guys in the unit said, my brother has a Tesla. If I had known this guy would be a part of this, I would have convinced him not to buy it.

Trump's victory has cracked open a space for conversations that were once totally off limits. I heard about a moment like that from Artem, a soldier with a big personality. Artem is a volunteer fighter in a unit that calls themselves Peaky Blinders. He helps prepare ammunition for drones. He calls himself the Candy Maker. Artem's a big believer that the war is nowhere near ending. Trump or no Trump, funding or no funding.

But a few weeks ago, Artem went out with his commander, Zaliznyak, and another guy in his unit. In the evening, we went out to a hookah lounge and sat down to relax with our brothers-in-arms. We were sitting at the table together with Chish and Zaliznyak in this cafe, where we ordered ourselves some dinner.

And the guys ordered a hookah as well. I don't smoke hookah, but they do. That was when our conversation began. When the waiter took our order, Zaliznyak looked up, deep in thought.

He then turned his eyes to Chizh and began to ask him some questions. Chizh is a soldier in RTEN's unit. He asked Chizh, if the war ends, what would you do? He asked what he thought his future would look like after the war was over. They started to speculate what events would unfold, who would travel, who would do what.

basically pouring out their hearts to one another. Artem couldn't believe that he was hearing his fellow brothers-in-arms talking about what they would do after the war ended. Going to travel, going back to their normal civilian lives. I told him I didn't believe it. To hear a fellow soldier even whisper the possibility that the fight could be over is still not something Artem's used to.

The party line of any Ukrainian soldier, of any Ukrainian really, is that they'll fight to the end, and the fight may never end. Expressing any sort of doubt feels almost unpatriotic. But I talked to a Ukrainian expert who's in contact with many high-ranking officials in the army, who told me that while many soldiers remain diehard and committed to keep fighting till the end, another group, which is growing, is made up of people who are getting increasingly weary of this war.

Ukraine's recently suffered a series of setbacks and defeats. And the expert says this group likes that Trump is someone who will change things up. Artem thought about this moment with his commander for a while. What did he meant by that? Did he actually think this war would end? Artem told me this. A few days later, in the midst of heavy bombardment, he studied his commander's face. He looked like he was all in. And so Artem decided that his commander didn't mean what he said. He told me he'd figured it out.

His commander didn't actually think the war was ending. He was just testing his unit. The truth is, these guys don't think about Trump all that much. They've got other things on their minds. One soldier told me that when you're in the rear, far from the front line, it's easy to imagine all the possibilities of what could happen next. But when you're on the front, it's like all of that collapses into this one linear logic. The weapon in front of you, the tank next to you, the amount of ammo you have left.

The present. No before and no after. Those are the moments he said that feel the greatest for him. When he just does what he can with what he has. When he's not speculating about what will be. Valerie Kipnis is the producer on our show. She reported this with help from Anastasia Mazova. Coming up, the power of a simple photograph in a moment of uncertainty. That's in a minute. Chicago Public Radio, when our program continues.

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It's This American Life from Ira Glass today on our program, Pivot Point. On this weekend, before a new presidency begins, we have stories of people living in the strange and often unsettling in-between moment when you know things are right on the cusp of big, big changes. We've arrived at Act 3 of our program, Act 3, period, peace. So when we were discussing this week's theme as a group here at the radio show, one of our co-workers, Susan Burton, started talking about a year-long pivot point. It lasts 12 months.

that many of our listeners have either gone through, or in the middle of now, or will go through. Quick heads up, Susan describes some bodily stuff in here. Here she is. I got my first period when I was 10, and then I continued to get it for the next 40 years. I didn't get it every month. There were exceptions, blackout dates, pregnancy, breastfeeding, anorexia.

But for most of the 40 years, each month my period would come, and I'd open a calendar and mark the anticipated date of my next period with a TK, like a forthcoming fact in a piece I was reporting. Sometimes I would get my period and not have tampons, and then I would go online and order enough tampons so that I would never run out again, and then suddenly I was about to turn 50, and I understood I would never get through all the tampons I had ordered. "'What was the first day of your last period?' asked the nurse at the gynecologist's office."

Okay, I said, I mean, I think it was sometime last month, like August, but it's hard to tell. I'm at that age, you know, like I was kind of bleeding all summer. Not in an alarming way, just it was hard to tell. You are officially in menopause once you go one full year without a period. So I was not there yet. I was in perimenopause.

During Perry, my period had first come a lot, every 18 days. Over time that changed, 60 days between periods, then 90. I'd start thinking, this is it, and then I'd get my period again, and the clock would restart. Congratulations, a friend said to me, one day when the counter reset to zero. She was kidding, but that was the feeling. Perry was a safe zone, and I wanted to stay there.

What made Perry a safe zone was simply that it was not menopause. It was still the before time. Perry may have been a safe zone, but it was not a safe harbor. During it, I'd had the common symptoms you hear about and other things you don't. Frozen shoulder, which was just what it sounded like. Migraines I managed by digging my fingernails into my forehead. There were remedies for some of the symptoms, but what I tried or didn't is not what I want to get into here. My point is that I'd already been through a few rocky years.

Years of accelerated aging. I felt startled by how quickly my face was changing. According to the internet, this was on me. There was a punitive quality to the phrase, sun damage. But the promise was that once you were officially in menopause, you would feel better. Because things would slow down, and your moods would level out. You would come into your own. You would give a shit less. In menopause, you would be sanguine. And yet I wasn't eager to get there.

All along, I'd had so many fears about menopause. A short list of those fears might start with my associations to the word. Dry, wiry, papery. I was scared of what would happen to desire, like how much of it I would feel. The messaging on this was positive. Women in menopause can still be sexy and still want sex. But the celebrities of menopause were hot and liberated. And you hardly heard from the regular women, who maybe did want less.

And that was the information I was looking for, how it felt to still be sexual, but to have the volume just turn down a bit. Because that was what I suspected was most true. I didn't know yet. I wasn't there. But I thought I might be closer than I'd ever been. That period I'd had in August, light, persistent, I had a feeling it would be the last one. My bet was that once the hand on the clock circled through the year, that would be it. I would officially be in menopause.

September, October, November, December. No period. Still in the before time. It was sort of like not wanting to move into a new decade. Like wanting to linger in the last months of being 29, 39, 49, or 9. Even as a child, I'd had a sadness about aging. Not wanting to cross into the double digits of 10. Getting a period at 10 was early, very early, in 1984. I'd felt horror at that advancement. Now I recognized that this was happening again.

As the year ticked on, now January, now February, I found there were things I missed about menstruating. There was a stillness in my body without it. I missed the cycle, which began each month with a low, flat mood and then continued with the rising action of ovulation. That mid-month surge of energy, some of it erotic. I missed the elevation in mood. March, earlier in my life, fearing pregnancy, I'd willed my period to come. But it wasn't like that now.

I wasn't pulling down my underwear and hoping. April, May. I was still in the before time, though I was increasingly accepting of the idea that I would soon be in menopause. Testing it out in my head. Maybe this is partly because a whole new generation, millennials, had discovered perimenopause, and once again were shining up the scruffy territory we Gen Xers had claimed. Advertisers had gotten there too, and now it seemed like everyone was talking about menopause. But most of them were not talking about it the right way.

And this is probably always true. No one is ever talking about your own menopause, about exactly what it means to you. June, month 10. By now I was traveling without any supplies. There wasn't going to be an emergency. There wasn't going to be another period stain. For years I dealt with period stains. Kneeling by the washing machine, spraying stain remover into a seam, or looking at the back of a skirt and wondering if it could be saved. But there's one stain I've never been able to get out.

A stain on the pink upholstery of one of our dining room chairs. I sat there one early summer morning. For me, a singularly important morning. A book I'd written had been published. I sat there in a nightgown, reading a glowing review. I could feel that I was getting my period, but it didn't matter. A dream of my life was coming true. I wanted to sit there in it. I didn't want to move. Now that stain is there, and I've tried to lift it, but it won't come out. And I don't mind that it's there. It's a marker of a moment of bliss.

and of an earlier self, too, one whose body still did that. For so many years, I tried to manage my period, make it invisible, get rid of evidence. Now this strange, possibly even repulsive, kind of preservation. But it's a stain that makes me remember the feeling of the world opening up before me. July came, and then it was August again, and it was official. One full year. Is it too Pollyanna to say that I actually did feel the world opening up?

There had been something trying about wanting to stay where I was. Once I crossed the threshold, there was no more resistance, and I was moving forward again. When I went for my physical, my doctor said, What was the date of your last menstrual period? August 2023, I said. Menopause, she said, with an exclamation point. Like menopause, the musical. Like a curtain rising on a new stage. ♪

Susan Burton is an editor on our show. Act 4, Since You've Been Gone. So our show today is about people at a pivot point, and one entire community in that situation is Altadena, California. It's one of the towns around LA that's so devastated that for most of the last week and a half, nobody was allowed in. It's been surrounded by National Guard with barricades. One of our producers, Miki Meek, talked to somebody who stayed at her house. The fire stopped about a block away.

And in the first days of the fires, came up with a mission for herself. Vanessa Pratt is a nursing student, 25 years old, lives with her parents in the home she grew up in. In those first few days after the fires, she realized people who'd evacuated didn't have a way to figure out if their homes were still standing or not. And I remember I was just sitting and thinking like, well, one thing we've been doing is driving around. So maybe like something I can do to help is drive around and take pictures of these homes.

So she went onto a community Facebook page for Altadena and posted this message. So I said, hello, everyone. Our home and family is all OK and safe. That being said, we are behind the barricades. We are more than happy to drive around and take a picture for any person who would like to see their home or, God forbid, what is left of their home.

And then how fast did you start getting responses? 54 people messaged her their addresses.

She wrote them down into a notebook, and then she and her dad got into their old Toyota minivan and started driving. See if I find that Prius melted. Vanessa in the passenger seat and her father driving. Okay, that one is on the left side, just a few...

That's their dog Shelby, panting on her father's lap. Look, it's here somewhere. Where? On the right side. I think it's this. They mentioned it was burned. No, it's this one. They got to 10 houses on their first day, but it took them almost four hours. Altagena's a small place. The whole thing's only about nine square miles. But the streets were blocked with downed power lines and fallen trees.

When they did get to an address, Vanessa would snap a photo and text it right away. The goal is to get the photos as quick as possible without delay to these people about their homes because you can imagine the agony of somebody sitting in a shelter not knowing.

So how many people have you responded to so far? We've done about 41, and I think we have another seven or eight today. And then of those 41 that you've been able to check on, like, how many are still standing? Less than half. Less than half. Okay. Yeah, less than half.

What is that? Can you just explain the process to me? It's difficult. So when the house is there, I send the picture and I don't say anything because there is no words needed. Usually I get a thank you. When the house isn't there, that's when it becomes a little bit more challenging. Some people will send me, hey, can you send me the status of my home? I know it's probably gone, but it would be great to know what the situation looks like.

And then there's the ones that are like, I have no idea if you could send me a picture. And those are the hard ones because you know you're the one who's going to break the news. And so I just I send a picture and I say, I'm so sorry for your loss is usually all I say. And they usually respond with something.

And then I'll follow up with, I wish I could do more to help. Like, I wish there was something else I could do to help. You know, you can't, there's not much you can say if somebody's lost their home. And then I've also had like the occasional, like after I send the burnt house, they'll send me photos of the house prior. I remember one of the houses that they sent that burned. Oh my God, it was, you know, really burnt. And they sent me a picture. The house was beautiful. I mean, it really was. That one was hard. Yeah. How did you respond back?

What a beautiful home. I'm so sorry. I mean, it really was. It had a beautiful garden, like...

I'm looking at the picture now. It's like a dark brown roof. The house is like off-white and the yard has like bushes and the bushes have like pink, small pink flowers. They had like a bench on the outside of their house and it's like a red bench, which really goes with the house, honestly, because it really complemented the color of the house. It made it stick out, you know?

A few days after the fire started, when it was still only 3% contained, she and her father were trying to get to an address at the end of a cul-de-sac. That one house took them a couple days to get to. They kept trying different roads in. Every way had a tree, a huge tree that fell in the middle of the road blocking it. And I said, this is going to be the one that I'm not going to be able to send back.

On their fourth attempt, they finally got closer to the address, but encountered another tree blocking the road. So Vanessa got out of the car and started walking. She sent me the video. Around her were charred trees and electrical poles dangling from power lines. The bottoms burned completely off.

I'm like walking under the poles and like going in between wires. Like I couldn't figure out which house it was. I mean, it was that that area was like demolished. Like it looks like somebody dropped a bomb in that area. And like there's nothing there's not even like when you you know, when you go to a house and you see like those those house numbers on the curb. It was so bad that those house numbers were like non-existent.

The rubble was still smoldering, and all she could see were remnants of stone walls and chimney columns, a burned-out station wagon. But it was just like, I'm going to make a general video, and just like, hopefully I hit the house. And I sent that one, and I told the person, like, please let me know if I am getting your house, because I'm here now, and I can get another picture or get another video if needed. And they said, no, that's perfect, like, you got it. ♪

One of the last messages I got from Vanessa was a rare, bright moment in this terrible time. Oh my God, she's going to... So take a picture here and walk there and take the other one. She and her dad found a house, still standing. Wonderful. Right? Yeah. But go through that gate. Miki Miki is a producer on our show. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could tell you. I love you just...

Well, our program is produced today by Emmanuel Jochi. People who put together today's show include Fia Benin, Dana Chivas, Michael Kamate, Angela Gervasi, Cassie Howley, Hanne Jaffe-Walt, Henry Larson, Seth Lind, Captain Ray Mondo, Stone Nelson, Nadia Raymond, Ryan Rummery, Alyssa Shipp, Laura Stercheski, Lily Sullivan, Chris Torres-Rotala, Marisa Robertson-Texter, and Diane Wu. Our managing editor is Sara Abdurrahman. Our senior editor is David Kestenbaum. Our executive editor is Emmanuel Berry.

Special thanks today to... The actors performing the English translations for the Ukrainians in Act 2 of our show today were... This American Life is delivered to public radio stations by... The public radio exchange...

to become a This American Life partner, which gets you bonus content, ad-free listening, and hundreds of our favorite episodes of the show that are going to show up right in your podcast feed. Go to thisamericanlife.org slash lifepartners. Your subscription also helps keep our program going. Thanks this week to life partners Cici Chen-Ming Fei and Colette Spriggans. Thanks as always to our program's co-founder, Mr. Torrey Malatia. He's been taking a figure drawing class. His drawings are pretty good, except for the hands.

He does the shoulder, upper arm, forearm, all great. And then gets to the end of the arm. And it's always, we can't quite put a finger on it. I'm Eric Glass. Back next week with more stories of This American Life. Oh, how I wish I could tell you. I wish I could tell.

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