On Thursday, the big flat panel in the hallway of our office wasn’t tuned to CNBC. Instead it was blaring the local news, covering the story about a plane that hit a building about a mile from our office.

I was more preoccupied following a different story online. My neighbor’s house, just a couple of blocks away from my own, was burning out of control. It would be a few hours before I would realize the stories were related.

As the stories merged, newscasters tried to piece together a tidy explanation; one that would resonate with their audience. And one that would reassure them that “he” was different — that “they” were safe from suffering a similar fate. But there is no magic immunity from pain. Mostly, there is just blissful ignorance.

Six months ago, I told the doctor, “I always thought I had a good tolerance for pain. Now I realize I just didn’t know what pain was.” He nodded and asked if I had suicidal thoughts. I said, “No. At this point I’m just frustrated and depressed.” “Good,” he said. “But let me know when you start to cross the line.”

At the time, I had spent two months where I couldn’t sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time, waking up with spasms of pain. Most nights I gave up at about 3:30 am and just waited for the sun to rise. I couldn’t raise my arms above my waist. It took 45 minutes for me to dress myself in the morning. I needed to apply heat packs to my shoulders before I tried brushing my hair. If I bumped or moved my arms too quickly, the pain would drop me to my knees.

It seemed like it would never end. And I talked about it with very few people. I knew that most of them were like me before the strange onset of adhesive capulitis in both my shoulders — ignorant about pain. And still, at that point, I knew I was lucky. There were plenty of people who had suffered far worse for far longer.

Six months after my doctor’s visit, and a lot of physical therapy, I am able to sleep through the night. Yesterday, I reached a milestone. I was actually able to unhook my bra from the back for the first time. I’m still working on regaining the last 15% of mobility in my left arm, and my right arm is just about normal. But the experience left me with the knowledge that no one is immune. And “normal” people can reach the point where “crossing the line” is a distinct possibility.

Today, the neighborhood is fairly quiet. There are no more helicopters flying overhead. The news trucks are gone.

The hollow shell of the house down the street is still guarded to keep out the curious. I wonder why they come to look. Do they think if they see the house, they’ll somehow understand? Or is it just another way to assure themselves that what happened there is foreign — outside their personal realm of possibility. If they are lucky, it is.

But there are people out there — people we work with — our neighbors — our friends — who live with pain every day. Emotional or physical, the pain is beyond our comprehension. Maybe it’s just easier for us to think of them as outliers — something we could never be.

My thoughts are with my neighbors Sheryl Stack and her daughter, who are now be dealing with their own unimaginable pain and the victims of the Echelon crash.

photos: neighborhood house fire from the Austin-American Statesman