By BB Curtis

[Originally published by SCPE Inc. in the Fall of 2005]

As I sit here in my cozy room, drinking a cup of spiced tea, I feel spoiled.  My home is intact.  I know where my family members are – in their respective homes, safe.  Everything I own is where I last put it.  My pets are secure, happy, and well-fed.  I eat meals cooked in my kitchen.  The food came off the shelves in my cupboards and refrigerator, and when more was needed I drove my car, that is full of gasoline, to the grocery store and bought it.  When my mother needed medical attention, she made an appointment by phone and drove to her doctor’s office, then to the pharmacy to get her prescription filled.  I have access to the internet.  My TV and DVD player are right where they should be and there is electrical power available when I want to watch something.  I drive to my job five days a week and perform all necessary functions with a minimum of unusual occurrences.  My life is not interrupted by anything like the roof flying off my house and the walls falling down on people I love and everything I own.  My feet are not wet.

The events of the past couple of weeks must, if nothing else, teach us to remember our blessings and to appreciate those whom we love and all the wonderful things we have.  I had not intended to write about Katrina’s aftermath.  I could not stop myself.  As I’ve watched news programs, I have not been able to stop the tears from filling my eyes and overflowing down my cheeks.  I cannot imagine the fear, the loss, the emotional devastation.  We have not yet discovered all the intricacies of the destruction.  People were lost.  Pets were lost.  Homes and possessions were lost.  Critical records were lost – personal, governmental, and medical.  Those who survived have been without food, water, shelter, medicine, understanding, dignity, and respect – to say nothing of being without those whom they love, whether alive or now dead.  Shall we please remember that lives were torn apart along with plaster and lumber?  I continue to try to plunge myself into the abyss in which these people have found themselves.  I can’t do it.  I get part of the way and can go no further.  It is not, I don’t think, beyond my imagination.  It is, however, beyond the reaches of my sanity.  My mind will absolutely not allow me to go there.  My mind will not let me become a three-year-old child who was taken from the roof of my home; the only place I’ve ever gone to sleep at night; the place where I  felt safe; a place that is now filled with stinky water; and away from my mommy; carried away in a basket below some noisy, windy flying thing to be placed in a huge, echoing room, full of scary strangers.  A place where I don’t know anyone.  I curl up in blankets that smell nothing like my cozy, little bed.  I hear people, but no voice is familiar.  I miss my mommy and my sister.  I curl up tighter, trying to pretend that my mommy is with me and that everything is OK.  I start to suck my thumb, though I know that makes Mommy a little angry.  I’m not supposed to do that.  But, I’m three years old – I get that far and can’t . . .

Then my mind goes to that tiny child’s mother, frantic.  She also was removed from the roof, but she was taken to a different shelter, miles away from her younger daughter.  In this scenario, I don’t sleep for several days.  All I can do is wander among all the other people there, looking for my two daughters.  Hoping with each sound from any child that it is one of my babies.  Walking and looking into faces and finding only strangers; imagining how my children must feel.  Feeling lost and empty and worried and scared and crying.  Where are they?  Are they alive?  Are they safe?  Do they have something to eat?  Are they . . .

Then I wonder how one would go about cleaning up what might be left of my home.  In some cases, it looks to be rather simple.  All that’s left is the foundation.  Everything I ever had is somewhere else being thrown away by someone else who is also starting over.  All I have is a cement slab and some mud – oh, with some debris that used to be part of someone else’s house in what was once my yard.  How do you put nothing back together in order to recreate the home that you’d made?  Try to imagine that all you have left is what you are currently wearing, keeping in mind that your house filled with water as you slept and what you’re wearing is what you had on when you went to bed the night that the storm went through.

May I humbly suggest that we never take anything for granted again?  Tell the people whom you love how much you love them – every single day.  Hold your family and friends close.  Treat them with respect.  Pat the dog on the head a few extra times.  Let the cat crawl up on your neck and tickle your ear with his tail.  Kiss his nose.  Enjoy the essence of your home.  Make it a sanctuary for your family and yourself.  Say thank you to whatever it is that you believe in for everything you have.  If you believe in nothing, at least treat the things themselves with respect.  Take nothing for granted, for tomorrow it may all be gone.

UPDATE:  Over the past ten years we’ve seen more and more of this style of catastrophe.  I felt this bore reprinting.

© Bobbi Curtis 2005, All Rights Reserved