Tag: Katrina

Scorched earth

the Tall Girl # # # # # # #

It feels like 2017 is trying to take all it can from me.

Some of the losses are small, and some — like losing my aunt to cancer — are too big and fresh and complex to process. But it wears at me, feeling like life keeps taking things from me: not just things that are or have been important to me, but also little things that provide some continuity and stability during a deeply troubling and stressful year. I feel like life and circumstances keep pushing and testing and taxing me, and each time I feel like I’m at my limit, life hands up a new challenge, threat, or loss. I’m exhausted, worn thin.

We buried my aunt two weeks ago. It went as well as could be expected, but it was still difficult, stressful, draining. We endured nearly two months of being told she was getting worse, that it would be soon. We had two weeks of hearing that it could be any day. We had more than two days of hearing that it could be any hour. We jumped every time the phone rang.

The person in the casket was a stranger, unrecognizable.

We were largely spared drama from ill or estranged family members, and for that we were grateful.

We were mostly spared the bad weather from Hurricane Harvey on our drive down to Mississippi. We were not spared from the fact that it was my father’s birthday, and we were driving for hours to bury his sister.

My father was not spared from eulogizing his sister. I watched my father, who rarely ever shows sadness or grief, falter as he spoke, the emotion clear in his voice, and I wondered if he would be able to finish. I gripped my mother’s arm the whole time, willing him to hold together. (He did.)

We were not spared the images of flooded Houston, the bad memories it sparked of Katrina, the knowledge that my aunt died on the anniversary of Katrina, twelve years after she took us into her home for weeks.

We were not spared the worry of Hurricane Irma, knowing that our family members in Miami did not evacuate. (Thankfully, they’re fine.)

I was not spared returning home to a looming work deadline — an immovable, government-imposed deadline — for multiple projects, including two that I’ve dreaded all year.

I got handed another loss tonight. I won’t try to explain it, because it probably wouldn’t make sense, and it seems small compared to everything I’ve mentioned. I suppose I feel it more deeply because of everything that came before.

Earlier today, I read some Facebook posts from a friend, written last night. She’s deeply, deeply depressed and feeling hopeless and worthless. I tried to reassure her as best I could, because I’ll cast a rope for a drowning soul even when I’m submerged myself. Another person told her to get a good night’s sleep, that things would look better in the morning. She responded that they wouldn’t, and I can relate; when you’ve been pushed past your limits, one night doesn’t even begin to undo the damage.

I just hope there will be enough nights to heal all of us.

Writing Prompt: Storm

the Tall Girl # #

1322255_bocking_wind_millThe U.S. is experiencing some severe weather again this week, with thunderstorms, rain, hail, tornadoes, and even snow, depending on where you are. Storms are ripe with dramatic potential, since they can force your characters to cope with extreme, even life-threatening circumstances. As a survivor of Hurricane Katrina, I can state with certainty that severe storms put everything into sharp perspective; mundane annoyances and worries disappear when your home, family, and livelihood are threatened.

Write a poem, scene or story where your characters are faced with some variety of severe weather. How do they react, and how does the experience change them?

Where Are You Going?

the Tall Girl # #

Where Are You Going by Dave Matthews is one of my favorite songs — and for some time now, it’s been the $64,000 question, so to speak. After Hurricane Katrina, my parents and I decided that New Orleans was no longer a good place to be and that we would relocate as soon as we were free to do it (translation: after my grandparents died). We debated a lot about where we would go. I wanted to return to my adopted home of Raleigh, North Carolina; I’d only been gone a few years at that point and still had friends and contacts there. My Dad wanted someplace farther south, closer to the family, and suggested Huntsville. In the end, Nashville was the middle ground, the compromise we all liked: big enough to find work, close enough to my beloved North Carolina mountains to make me happy, close enough to family to make us all feel secure. The decision was made — we just had to wait.

Then the drama started. A few members of Dad’s family live near Nashville and have been embroiled in some serious conflict. (There have recently been court proceedings. It’s not pretty.) Suddenly, Nashville seemed much too close to the craziness. We reopened the great relocation debate last summer and took Nashville off the table.

A couple of months later, my cousin Kristi had news: she had a job interview with a college in Asheville, NC. We had been discussing North Carolina since I’d gotten a lot of work last summer from my contacts there. It seemed like fate, the obvious answer: we’d go to Asheville. But the Universe was playing tricks with us and the job lead turned into a red herring: Kristi was their second choice, and the relocation debate was once again wide open.

Just contemplating the question seemed overwhelming to me. Even limiting our choices to three states (Tennessee, North Carolina, and South Carolina), with the additional restriction that it had to be no more than 8 hours from Dad’s family in Meridian, didn’t help. There were too many possibilities and the decision was too big. What if we didn’t like the place? What if we chose wrong?

I brought up the question with Dad at lunch today — told him the little bit of research I’d done, the few cities I’d marked for study — and I asked for his thoughts. And in a wonderful bit of fatherly wisdom and insight, he said “Why don’t we think about Nashville again?”

Okay, maybe he didn’t say it quite like that. But something in our conversation led us to that question, and he said that we can’t let the family drama keep us from our best choice. And suddenly, it all seemed so simple and obvious. We know we like Nashville. We have good family in Nashville. We can find work in Nashville. And it’s closer to Meridian than anything else I was considering.

So. I think — I hope — that the question may finally be answered.

I think we’re going to Nashville.

Breathe

the Tall Girl # # #

My grandmother went to the doctor yesterday. As a precaution — probably at Mom’s urging — he gave her a prescription for oxygen. I went over there last night to find one of the big metal tanks lurking in the corner of the room.

My grandfather was on oxygen for several years at the end of his life. When he was at home, he had a machine that would distill the oxygen from water. But he had a collection of the tanks too, big ones and small ones, to use on the occasions he went out.

I honestly thought that, after he died, I’d never have to see one of those tanks again.

I can vividly remember, the day after Hurricane Katrina had passed, that he was on his last tank of oxygen. Dad and I loaded the empties into the trunk and set out in search of replacements.

We were in Meridian, Mississippi — a place where many of Dad’s relatives live, and a city that, despite being over 200 miles from the coast, still suffered a fair amount of damage from Katrina. The city was like a ghost town: hardly any cars on the street and no businesses open. Electricity was out almost everywhere, a result of downed trees and other damage throughout the area. Not knowing what else to do, we went to one of the hospitals for help.

I can’t remember how long we waited before anyone other than the desk clerk spoke to us about the problem; at least 30 minutes, I suspect. The nurse told us she’d see if they had any spare tanks they could swap for ours. I kept thinking, what will we do if they can’t help? Although I knew the answer; we’d have to bring him in and admit him. The hospital, at least, had emergency power, so they could generate oxygen.

After another 20 or 30 minutes, she came back with news: they had no tanks to spare. I wanted to cry. I think this was the point when Dad explained to the nurse what our alternatives were, and that she really did NOT want my fussy, demanding grandfather in their hospital. She said they would try to find an open medical store for us. Keep waiting.

Finally, she came back again. Their chaplain had driven the streets and found us a medical supply store that was open. She gave us directions and we headed back out.

I have never been happier to see an open store. They had no power, but they were doing business anyway. I loved these people.

They swapped our empty tanks for full ones, took my grandfather’s insurance information down, and helped us put the tanks in the car: enough nice, full tanks to get us through another day or two, hopefully until power was restored.

We got back to the hotel, tired but proud and relieved, and carried six big tanks down the hall to my grandfather’s room.

We were met with complaints that he wanted a hot meal: something he didn’t need and we couldn’t get. “Complaints” is actually a bit of an understatement. He insisted that we call the hospital to find out if they would give him a hot meal. We refused. We tried to explain to him what the situation was like out there: no power, emergency power only in the hospital. It took a five-minute argument to convince him to let it go. It was all I could do not to tell him to his face how utterly selfish I thought he was.

The next day, when power was restored, we went to the hotel’s restaurant to pick up dinner and bring it back to the rooms. There were two elderly women also waiting for food. They hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours.

I felt so bad for them, knowing we’d had food to spare — and I wanted to go back and tell my grandfather how lucky he was compared to these women. But I knew it wouldn’t do any good.