A Silent, Steady Scream 10/21/05 12:13 PM
(Originally written 10/21/05 12:13 PM)
Two months and three weeks is a measure of the time that has passed since my life was torn apart. True it is not just my life, but also that of the thousands who will be forever changed by Hurricane Katrina. From the day before the storm hit until now, I have been in a constant state of transitional waiting. It is pure agony. True, I have not had to bear it alone, but everyone is in his or her own private hell. No amount of comforting words, monetary donations, or even hugs seems to make it go away. Although, those I hold dear have all survived, I cannot help feeling like I am living through the loss of a loved one. It is this feeling that I will never be able to be happy again that keeps me on the move.
To begin, there was the excruciating torment of leaving my husband Andrew behind to weather the storm. I felt that I would never see him again. I felt like a bad wife for leaving him behind or not somehow convincing him that he should abandon all we had worked so hard for. In the end, it was good that I left. At least we have our car to aid in our new nomadic lifestyle. He tells me that although it hurt to see me go, he had successfully saved a lot of our belongings and that was a blessing. Andrew had to endure Katrina and her aftermath for nearly a week before he was rescued by, not the police, Red Cross, or the military, but by his father at my desperate pleading. The horrors that the news media so boldly displayed were playing out for his live “entertainment”. I vividly remember watching the disaster unfold and staring at the news footage in a desperate hope that I would see my husband and his family being rescued. Frenzied attempts to contact them were rewarded by the occasional text message or phone call and those were often days apart.
While Andrew was getting sunburned and defending himself and our home from looters, I suffered in relative comfort at my paternal grandparents’ home in Lindale, Texas. I busied myself by contacting our insurance company and working on a list of our belongings. I also e-mailed everyone I had an address for informing them of my whereabouts and asking for anyone who had been in contact with my husband and his parents to please let me know. Imagine if this storm had hit twenty or more years ago and we did not have all the communications technology that we have today? It could have been weeks or even months before people would have been rescued, if they survived at all.
Tragedies make strange bedfellows. For most of my life, I have harbored a deep pain surrounding the circumstances that led to my adoption. My parents were teenagers when they met and I was an “accident”. Needless to say, I have been bounced around a lot. My mother was the only constant after she left my father and she remarried poorly and often. My father, at a loss, joined the military when I was five and I never saw much of him after that. He officially gave me up for adoption when I was about twelve. Harold became my “real” father and I grew up seemingly as I should. Although, I did not really keep up a relationship with Kevin, my biological father, I did make him aware of my location and we exchanged occasional, but brief correspondence. He was on my e-mail list and therefore aware that I needed some help. As it turned out, he and his family lived about an hour away from my grandparents. He called me and insisted I come to live with him in Jacksonville, Texas. At least until I got on my feet. I had not seen or really even spoke to him or his family for about ten years. I was apprehensive, but also eager to get to know everybody. I had a half-brother that I had seen only twice, and he was too young to really remember me. People had often solicitously said that Harold and I looked alike, but my connection to Kevin and my brother was surprisingly obvious. We even have the same feet! I cannot say that my time with Kevin has been like picking up where we left off twenty-five years ago, but it has been a good experience nonetheless. Kevin Junior is about to graduate from high school. He has had a very different life. If I were less of a person, I might claim jealousy. I had to struggle through life and make my own way, while he has lived a charmed life for the most part. The truth is that I can see in him what could have been, maybe.
But I digress. After reuniting with Kevin, I began to get situated, and learned that Andrew’s brother Donny was bringing my husband and my pets to me. I was relieved and also worried that our marriage might be in trouble and that Andrew would have serious problems coping with the recent chain of events. As it turns out, our marriage will endure, but he is depressed about losing our home, about being far away from his family, and also about our uncertain future. Andrew was able to transfer his job out here, but there is an eighty-mile daily commute. I spent my days searching for a job that would pay our bills and allow us to start over here. I was so valuable at my job in Louisiana that I felt certain we would be on our feet in no time. That has not happened yet. The situation has become desperate. Although, we have received public assistance for food and necessities, and even unemployment benefits, I rue the day when that gravy train stops. My insurance company has all but ignored me, despite my daily phone calls and messages. They only beg my patience while they deal with this magnanimous disaster. Meanwhile, I am jobless and relying on the charity of many.
During one of our late-night talks, Andrew and I were discussing our situation. He is miserable in Texas, and apart from my father-daughter bonding time, so am I. We resolved that although there were jobs for us in New Orleans, there was no suitable place to live and so the homesickness would continue. I did some soul-searching and came to the conclusion that we should try our luck in Florida. We agreed that Harold was most obligated and able to help us. I told Celia, my stepmother, of our conclusion and she was thrilled and assured me that Harold would be too. So, now we are preparing to make the nineteen-hour drive to Melbourne and to the home where I spent my adolescence. It will prove to be quite a journey. We will have three cats, a large rental truck, and a car in tow. On a good note, I have finally convinced Andrew to get his driver’s license. He was willing to help me drive, and I definitely need his help. I did not want to take the risk of his being caught without a license for so many reasons.
Our journey towards healing continues, there is certain to be much more pain before all is said and done. Andrew has commented that I seem happy. The truth is, that my joy is merely optimism. If I dwelled on all my sadness, I might surely lose the battle. Better to endure a silent, steady scream than constant audible tears…
Two months and three weeks is a measure of the time that has passed since my life was torn apart. True it is not just my life, but also that of the thousands who will be forever changed by Hurricane Katrina. From the day before the storm hit until now, I have been in a constant state of transitional waiting. It is pure agony. True, I have not had to bear it alone, but everyone is in his or her own private hell. No amount of comforting words, monetary donations, or even hugs seems to make it go away. Although, those I hold dear have all survived, I cannot help feeling like I am living through the loss of a loved one. It is this feeling that I will never be able to be happy again that keeps me on the move.
To begin, there was the excruciating torment of leaving my husband Andrew behind to weather the storm. I felt that I would never see him again. I felt like a bad wife for leaving him behind or not somehow convincing him that he should abandon all we had worked so hard for. In the end, it was good that I left. At least we have our car to aid in our new nomadic lifestyle. He tells me that although it hurt to see me go, he had successfully saved a lot of our belongings and that was a blessing. Andrew had to endure Katrina and her aftermath for nearly a week before he was rescued by, not the police, Red Cross, or the military, but by his father at my desperate pleading. The horrors that the news media so boldly displayed were playing out for his live “entertainment”. I vividly remember watching the disaster unfold and staring at the news footage in a desperate hope that I would see my husband and his family being rescued. Frenzied attempts to contact them were rewarded by the occasional text message or phone call and those were often days apart.
While Andrew was getting sunburned and defending himself and our home from looters, I suffered in relative comfort at my paternal grandparents’ home in Lindale, Texas. I busied myself by contacting our insurance company and working on a list of our belongings. I also e-mailed everyone I had an address for informing them of my whereabouts and asking for anyone who had been in contact with my husband and his parents to please let me know. Imagine if this storm had hit twenty or more years ago and we did not have all the communications technology that we have today? It could have been weeks or even months before people would have been rescued, if they survived at all.
Tragedies make strange bedfellows. For most of my life, I have harbored a deep pain surrounding the circumstances that led to my adoption. My parents were teenagers when they met and I was an “accident”. Needless to say, I have been bounced around a lot. My mother was the only constant after she left my father and she remarried poorly and often. My father, at a loss, joined the military when I was five and I never saw much of him after that. He officially gave me up for adoption when I was about twelve. Harold became my “real” father and I grew up seemingly as I should. Although, I did not really keep up a relationship with Kevin, my biological father, I did make him aware of my location and we exchanged occasional, but brief correspondence. He was on my e-mail list and therefore aware that I needed some help. As it turned out, he and his family lived about an hour away from my grandparents. He called me and insisted I come to live with him in Jacksonville, Texas. At least until I got on my feet. I had not seen or really even spoke to him or his family for about ten years. I was apprehensive, but also eager to get to know everybody. I had a half-brother that I had seen only twice, and he was too young to really remember me. People had often solicitously said that Harold and I looked alike, but my connection to Kevin and my brother was surprisingly obvious. We even have the same feet! I cannot say that my time with Kevin has been like picking up where we left off twenty-five years ago, but it has been a good experience nonetheless. Kevin Junior is about to graduate from high school. He has had a very different life. If I were less of a person, I might claim jealousy. I had to struggle through life and make my own way, while he has lived a charmed life for the most part. The truth is that I can see in him what could have been, maybe.
But I digress. After reuniting with Kevin, I began to get situated, and learned that Andrew’s brother Donny was bringing my husband and my pets to me. I was relieved and also worried that our marriage might be in trouble and that Andrew would have serious problems coping with the recent chain of events. As it turns out, our marriage will endure, but he is depressed about losing our home, about being far away from his family, and also about our uncertain future. Andrew was able to transfer his job out here, but there is an eighty-mile daily commute. I spent my days searching for a job that would pay our bills and allow us to start over here. I was so valuable at my job in Louisiana that I felt certain we would be on our feet in no time. That has not happened yet. The situation has become desperate. Although, we have received public assistance for food and necessities, and even unemployment benefits, I rue the day when that gravy train stops. My insurance company has all but ignored me, despite my daily phone calls and messages. They only beg my patience while they deal with this magnanimous disaster. Meanwhile, I am jobless and relying on the charity of many.
During one of our late-night talks, Andrew and I were discussing our situation. He is miserable in Texas, and apart from my father-daughter bonding time, so am I. We resolved that although there were jobs for us in New Orleans, there was no suitable place to live and so the homesickness would continue. I did some soul-searching and came to the conclusion that we should try our luck in Florida. We agreed that Harold was most obligated and able to help us. I told Celia, my stepmother, of our conclusion and she was thrilled and assured me that Harold would be too. So, now we are preparing to make the nineteen-hour drive to Melbourne and to the home where I spent my adolescence. It will prove to be quite a journey. We will have three cats, a large rental truck, and a car in tow. On a good note, I have finally convinced Andrew to get his driver’s license. He was willing to help me drive, and I definitely need his help. I did not want to take the risk of his being caught without a license for so many reasons.
Our journey towards healing continues, there is certain to be much more pain before all is said and done. Andrew has commented that I seem happy. The truth is, that my joy is merely optimism. If I dwelled on all my sadness, I might surely lose the battle. Better to endure a silent, steady scream than constant audible tears…