August 17, 2017–September 2, 2017
by Suzie Peterson
It was hot, humid, with pretty blue skies that Friday morning when I was visiting my family in Katy, Texas. Predictions for later that day, Hurricane Harvey’s Category 4 winds and rain were aligned to slam the Texas coastline, for days.
Whipping winds and relentless, slanted rain pummeled. The cul-de-sac filled with water, surrounding roads impassable. Water climbed the driveway. Drainage from the house gutters and downspouts resembled mini rivers.
A tornado alert blasted simultaneously on our cell phones. Contained panic overtook me; we should be running, hiding, taking cover. The family remained calm. Within an hour, another alert, and another. By the third alert, we were scrambling!
One tornado alert on a cell phone can stir chatter for a day. Thirty relentless tornado alerts on three cells phones in one home, in forty-eight hours, during a hurricane, can make you feel like you’re under a constant air raid attack. Two days of non-stop blaring alerts took me to an unnerving psychological state. Impending doom. Petrified. Vulnerable. Danger. Helpless. Uncertainty. Overwhelmed. Prayers. Survival?
My son’s neighbor, meteorologist Chad, had a man cave full of computer programs to track severe weather. He created a community text thread during Hurricane Harvey. After each National Weather System Wireless Emergency Alert, sleep deprived Chad followed-up on our group text with the tornado’s location, projected path, timing, and an action statement. Chad’s statements were comforting. Details I needed. “Stay alert, but this tornado is headed to the west side of town.” Each message eventually followed with, “All clear!” He responded to five of the thirty tornado alerts, “Take cover now!” We scrambled to the big closet. There were pillows and blankets for the kids and a kitchen chair for me. I had no idea how long we’d be stuck. We’d no sooner begin breathing after the “All clear,” when another alert would blast. Constant, forty-eight hours. Chad’s texts became my source of hope. I hadn’t met him, but adored him so.
For two nights I slept with my shoes on, holding my phone, ready. I slept on a futon mattress on the living room floor, with my six-year-old granddaughter. “Are we going to die?” A game of pretend camping, giggling, and playing with flashlights under the covers eased her fear.
My two-year-old grandson was not easy to resettle at 3 AM. He had been whisked out of his crib, and taken downstairs to the safety closet. Chad’s “All clear” message became the toddler’s opportunity to run free with his bag of Cheetos. His tiny hands were now orange and sticky. Giggling, running, jumping on his big sister and me. Her limited tolerance, “Don’t hurt my Grammy and me!” His mom and dad were at their sleep-deprived wits-end with his three AM shenanigans. They scooped him up, and headed upstairs. I heard mumbling and joking, “The next warning that comes through, he gets to stay in his crib!” Comic relief.
The sun came out. Tornado alerts ceased. Drained, our nerves now trained to be on edge. We were fragile. It would take time to come down from this historic catastrophe.
Bush Intercontinental Airport and roads leading to it remained closed. My flight home was delayed four days, but my Grammy-heart was full. I had opportunity to spend more time with my grandchildren while my son and daughter-in-law volunteered to help less fortunate; so many lost their belongings, homes, lives.
The airport was just waking up, Saturday, 6:30 AM. The young gentleman two seats away asked, “How did it affect you?” Reality startled me. Every person in this enormous airport had been affected. There was more than my fear, and thirty tornado alerts. I explained that the tornado warnings messed with my head, my son’s home was not damaged, but others nearby lost everything. Thankful, blessed, I was among the lucky ones getting to leave. “You?”
We had Harvey in common, his story different. This thirty something stranger poured out his heart; I listened, I understood. I was the first he spoke to, aside from fellow rescuers. He volunteered five days as an American Red Cross diver. He showed me his credentials to dive more than one hundred twenty feet, proving what he’d been through was real. The deeper you go, the shorter the time spent. Flooded Houston dives were eight to ten feet, more time under. His hand-drawn map showed water current directions of the floods. He had been on a dive near my son’s home. He looked exhausted, his tears heart-wrenching. My eyes swelled of sadness and tears with him.
For five days he swam with rodents, snakes, in mud, slime, raw sewage, unable to see beyond his hand. He swam into flooded homes, located medications, had to tell people their pets he searched for died, and he and his rescue team located deceased bodies. At the end of his days, he was so full of filth that he showered several times. First with all his scuba gear on, then without.
His day job, VP at a major North American bank. He shared a picture of himself in a company advertisement. He was trying to reconnect, escape horror. He, too, was fragile from stress of disaster. Concerned, I asked if he was going home to someone. His girlfriend would be there, but might not understand like someone who had lived through the storm and devastation. He stood and tried to walk off his overwhelming emotions.
“Boarding United Flight 1666 from Houston to Newark will now begin for on-time departure.”
A year later, still a bond. I wish we had shared names. At home in New York, when news of devastation is reported on television, I get tears and goose bumps, still. I look in a different direction, lower the volume, change the channel. More than just a storm happened. It happened to hundreds of thousands, with an equal number of perspectives, majority of stories worse than mine. My thirty tornado alerts weren’t that bad, after all.
Copyright @ 2017 Suzann Peterson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this text or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address the publisher. All rights reserved.
