I was at work, in the operating room, which is like a windowless cell. An alert flashed on my phone. Notre Dame is burning. I work in Cincinnati, over 4,000 miles away, and yet, I was affected. People all over the world were shocked and saddened.

There are no televisions in the operating room. Thanks to Spotify and iTunes, we don’t even listen to the radio anymore. Very little news from the outside filters in. All I knew was the headline.

I thought about the people who live and work in the shadows of the great Cathedral. The people who walk past it every morning. The people who for whom it is not just a monument, but their regular place of worship. The bells will be silenced. The cityscape will be scarred. Their lives will be disrupted, they will be reminded every day of this tragedy.

I thought about the people whose life’s work has been preserving the building and the significant relics that reside there, and maintaining the records of its history. How tragic for them! I can’t imagine how they felt, watching powerlessly as the destruction threatened to turn everything to ash and ruin. I can only think that it must be like watching your own child in peril.

I wondered if anything would survive. What would the world be like without the Crown of Thorns, the Rose Windows, the Gallery of the Kings, the Emmanuel Bell, and the Great Organ? I haven’t seen these things in years and years, and yet, I was devastated to think of them being lost.

I thought of the students of art, architecture, history, and religion, who would no longer be able to visit Notre Dame and marvel at its splendor. All the inspiration of standing in those sacred places, and seeing the true scale and magnificence, maybe gone forever? I still didn’t know. How tragic that maybe only photos and descriptions would remain of something so precious.

Someone offered me a break, and I rushed out to find a television. On the screen, I saw the cathedral in flames. I watched as the spire fell. I saw the shocked and pained faces of the people watching on the streets. My heart ached for them, for their city, and for the whole world. I cried.

I went back to work and carried on with business as usual — which was totally appropriate, and a clear indication of how very little my life was actually affected by the fire. Of course, this is not about me. I hoped that no one would be injured in the fire or the attempts to extinguish it. I hoped that no lives would be lost.

And yet, sitting there alone with my thoughts, my focus began to narrow, until it was firmly set upon myself. I knew this was selfish and wrong, but I couldn’t help it. Seeing the devastation on television had made it more personal.

When I had just turned seventeen, during my last year of high school, I traveled to France with a small group of students. I have no idea how my parents afforded it, but it was the greatest gift that they could have given me. It was thirty years ago this month.

We entered France along the Riviera, and spent a few days in Grasse and Eze. We saw the fields of flowers, toured the factories, lingered in the perfume shops. I was enthralled. It was the blossoming of my lifelong love affair with scent.

We took an overnight train to Paris. In the morning we were shuttled around from place to place — photo ops at La Tour Eiffel and L’Arc de Triomphe, a quick run past the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo. While slogging through the Jardin des Tuileries in the rain, I met a boy from my home state of Ohio. Somehow we ditched our larger groups and spent the afternoon wandering the Champs-Élysées, ducking into shops to sniff perfumes and try on fashion accessories. We went to a grungy little café somewhere, ordered bottles of wine, and pretended to like it.

The next morning, my tour group attended Mass at Notre Dame. Having never drank wine before, I recall having a bit of a headache. I also vividly remember the splendor of it all. You can’t imagine the scale of it, the beauty, the reverence, the sheer weight of all that history, without being there. It was awe-inspiring. And yet, there were people there worshipping as part of their normal routine.

I was struck by the realization (as I had been many times on the trip) that there are no buildings or monuments in the United States that are even close to being this old. Other people in the group were grumbling about seeing “another old church,” but I was fascinated by both the architecture and the history. And the smell, I remember the smells of old wood and incense, wax and dust; I felt like I could smell the breath and faith of people going back for centuries. I wanted to inhale every bit of it, and soak it all in.

When we walked outside, the bells were ringing. It was a beautiful spring day. Flowers and trees were blooming, the sun was shining, and the sky was so blue. I was standing directly in the shadow of over 800 years of history and tradition. And there were people walking past me who were just carrying their groceries home.

I was embarrassed to be a gawking tourist. I wanted to be a chic, cosmopolitan woman. I wanted to saunter past like I belonged there. I was already leaving my little hometown to go to college in Boston in a few months. I wished I was enrolling in La Sorbonne. Maybe next year I could transfer.

I imagined my future life, jetsetting to Europe for leisure, or maybe on important business. I would wear French fashions as I floated elegantly through life, and I would always smell like the perfumes from the fountains at Caron. My favorite was Poivre. It was so un-American. I took home a small bottle.

Remembering this, 30 years later, was like a kick in the teeth. They are wonderful memories, but they also bring to light a sad truth. Although I had all these plans and dreams, I did very little to make them happen, and a lot of things that kept them out of reach. I have a good life, a great career, and two exceptional adult daughters. Still, I feel regret and shame that I didn’t always make the best choices, or work as hard as I could, or take advantage of every opportunity that was presented to me.

Thirty years later, I’m a newlywed. I’m married to the most amazing man in the entire universe. He’s been all over the world, but he’s never been to Paris. We’ve never been to Europe together. We’ve had to spend a lot of time working to overcome events of the past, financially, spiritually, and physically. We have dreams and goals, just like I did back then. But our lives have been “on hold” to a significant degree.

Not knowing the fate of the Cathedral, it suddenly hit me. We might never see Notre Dame together. After over 850 years, by the time I leave this hospital tonight, it may no longer exist. Even if we left for France right now, it wouldn’t be an option anymore. And then this wave of sadness just washed right over me.

We will never have enough time together. Even if we started right now, we won’t live long enough to do everything that we want to do with each other. Suddenly watching Notre Dame burn had somehow brought me face to face with my own mortality. I cried again.

I thought of all the days that I can’t get back, days and weeks that I can’t even remember, because I didn’t do anything important enough to recall. All the times that the flowers might have been blooming, and the bells might have been ringing, and I was just walking past, carrying my groceries, taking no notice.

Being the quintessential Piscean, if I still lived alone I would have gone home and been dejected for days after this realization. Or drank wine and eaten ice cream while wallowing in my anguish and despair. Luckily I have a wonderful husband who reminds me that I have a good life, and we have each other. I’m back to feeling sympathy for the people who are actually affected. And I’m happy that the outlook seems to be good for Notre Dame. Hopefully we will still get to see it together.

Still, it is a wake-up call for me. I no longer wish to be so sophisticated that I’m immune to the beauty and wonder of the world. I want to see and do as much as I possibly can. I want to make the very most of the time that my husband and I have together. And life is uncertain, so there is some urgency to all this.

When I used to think about my husband and I traveling to Paris, I thought mainly of the perfumes I was going to buy. Would I go first to 68 Champs-Élysées? Palais-Royale? I can’t wait to revisit the urns at Caron. Just think of all the city exclusives! How will I possibly carry everything back?

Now, I will have different priorities. I found the old souvenir guidebook that I bought in Paris 30 years ago. On the cover is Notre Dame, which is so fitting. It is the heart of Paris. All of these historical buildings and monuments are irreplaceable, and there’s nothing like them here in the U.S. I’ve lamented about the discontinuation of this and the reformulation of that, but there will always be more perfume, and I can buy it from my desk at home. Seeing and experiencing all that I can will be paramount when I travel. (But I’ll probably still do a little bit of shopping).

Last night I was sad, then contemplative, and now I am hopeful and optimistic. Many people are determined to rebuild Notre Dame, and I’m confident that it will happen. Just like the darkest moments of my life have led me to rebuild, and what I have now is stronger, more secure, and much more beautiful than anything that came before now. Notre Dame has survived fires, wars, neglect, and the relentless passage of time, and She is still standing. I can’t wait to return there and be inspired again.