My Level of Awareness

Is that they go from this:

To this:

In a single heartbeat.

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My husband and I were in the car together this morning, and at 8:22 am, he turned to me and said “Happy Anniversary.”  One year and three minutes ago, our lives irrevocably changed.

This short exchange sums up almost every reason I love my husband.  He has this way of working small miracles.  He turned one of the greatest tragedies of our lives into a celebration of our ability to endure as a family.  Hardship can tear people apart, or it can knit them together inseparably in bonds of survivorship.   We are more than husband and wife, we are veterans in arms.

On 8:25 am, August 29, 2005, the eyewall of the most costly and devastating storm to hit the Gulf Coast in recent memory passed over our house.  We watched the pulsing glow of the radar from miles to the north, the miracles of modern technology making it possible to pinpoint the movement to our very street, at the very moment we became  homeless. 

By the early afternoon, still a Category 1 hurricane, Katrina tore after us into Jackson, MS.  Gathered with family around the radio in a house without power or telephone, we strained to hear any reports of our town, of our neighborhood, hoping for the best, but knowing with a unacknowledged certainty to expect the worst.  We slept that night with the windows open and the dregs of the storm winds blowing rain and leaves under the eaves.

The next day the simmering heat of August in the Delta reclaimed itself.  By that afternoon, with our two-month son sweating, listless, and unwilling to eat, we evacuated for a second time, to the last relative with the power to get the baby out of the relentless swelter.  We huddled in a packed apartment living room, staring at the grainy images on the television in disbelief as we saw our town, our entire area, dismanteled before us.  The images were too profound to process.  Casino barges heaped upon houses.  People on rooftoops.  Babies in incubators evacuated from the top of the hospital my own son was born in just two months before.  My heart broke for the mothers that watched their babies fly away without knowing where they were going, or even if they would arrive.  Finally, numb and tearless, we could watch no more.  We turned away in willful denial toward the business of waking each morning and finding a place to sleep each night.  At the time, that was enough.

We started the pattern of endless hours on hold with insurance companies and emergency agencies that would form the rythym of our lives for months to come.  Endless hours on other peoples phones, in other people’s kitchens, straining the bonds of hospitality, but with nowhere else to go.  Nowhere else to go.  We moved constantly - the apartment of yet another relative, an empty house waiting to be sold, the food court of the mall, the back of a car with the air conditioning running.  We desperately searched for a gas station with both power and gasoline, waited in gas lines for hours at a time, trying to get enough fuel to make the drive home and confirm what our hearts already knew.

We lived on the unselfish decency of acquaintances and complete strangers who sent us clothing, diapers, and when needed, cold hard cash.  We salvaged what we could from the reeking remains of our home and we took it to Baton Rouge and spread it out on the lawn of a tolerant friend to disinfect it, if not save it. We lay at night in a state somewhere between exhaustion and resignation, unable to do anything but let the events of each day lead us forward.   We let our son, with his blissful ignorance and simple needs dictated the ebb and flow of our lives.   Feed the baby.  Change the baby.  Call the insurance company.  Wash mud. Wash mud. Wash mud.

FEMA checks got misdirected.  Insurance adjusters got misdirected.  Bills mounted.  Our jobs remained in limbo as the weeks passed.   We hit rock bottom during a two-hour drive back to our veterinarian in Slidell, a saint remaining amidst chaos, because we could not bear to have a stranger put down our aged German Shepherd Dog. With no home and no resources, we could no longer care for her.  The feeling of impotence was complete.

After eight weeks on the road, we moved from a Motel 6 into a tiny one-bedroom furnished apartment in Little Rock - two adults, one baby and a dog - and we were grateful to have room to breath and space that felt like our own.  I had a whole new redefinition of luxury that consisted of having my own stove.  The lesson on the folly of materialism was not lost, and I will rarely use the term “I need” anymore.  We lived in limbo, our feet in Arkansas, our minds in Louisiana and we waited.  Waited for Kris to find out if he was one of the hundreds of people dismissed from his job in Tulane.  Waited to see if I could salvage my research program from my ravaged research center.  And somedays we just waited for nothing at all.  Not able to go back, but not sure if we could go forward. Not sure what insurance would settle.  Not sure if we could rebuild.  Neither here nor there, just lingering somewhere in-between.

As we waited, the logistics of going home became increasingly complicated.  My job wanted to keep me in Little Rock, but only until April.  His job wanted him to return to New Orleans by mid-December.  The flood compensation could not be paid until February.   Homeowner’s insurance skyrocketed.  Rentals in Louisiana were impossible to find and as the walls of our tiny apartment closed in, the thought of moving into an even smaller FEMA trailer became increasingly unbearable.  Finally, facing a Christmas of uncertainty, an unexpected phone call opened the door as all the others were being closed.  We took a breath and decided the waiting was over.  We would never go home again.  We were staying.

I lost my home three times.  The first was when the eyewall passed over it, sweeping storm surge waters to the eves of my house, lashing it with wind and fallen trees, burying it in swamp and filth.  The second time was when we made the decision that there were no more reminders of our past to reclaim and we closed the door behind us for the last time and walked away.  The third and final time was when we signed the papers over to the man who would remain and rebuild it with his hopes.  That house, the house I walked into as a new bride smelling of fresh paint, the nursery of my dreams I built for the love of my son, was no longer my home.   All the treasures of my past were washed away, but not washed clean.  The pain of their loss I will always carry with me on this date.

But I will also carry the memory of my husband’s strength, how he never faltered in his faith that we would emerge whole.  I will remember my son in his happy abandon, oblivious to loss greater than an empty stomach or a wet behind.  I will remember the outpouring of care from friends and strangers and how the outstretched hand can restore your faith in humanity.  And I will remember how, in the turmoil and the uncertainty, my family remained the solid core of my being when possession, career, and place were stripped away.  They were my constant reminder of how little we need to be truly happy, and of the redemptive power of love, of the need to celebrate life, not once a year, but in the Carnival that we awake to every day. 

 Happy Anniversary, my love.  Happy Anniversary.

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I write a lot here about the silver linings of Katrina.  It is necessary to my outlook on life to find them; it is only the firm belief that when God closes one door that he opens another that can overcome the massive feeling of disorientation that the storm blew through my life. 

Had we stayed in New Orleans, Harry would have had a nanny at 2 months old.  I was due to return to work the day after the storm hit.  We had a dear friend, Elaine, who was willing to come to our house for price I could afford.  As her child, Rachel, is the nearest thing to a perfect teenager that you are likely to find, I believed in her ability to raise a pretty good kid.  The happy coincidence of somebody you trust absolutely, at a cost that will not financially ruin you, simply cannot be had more than once in a lifetime.  Unfortunately, when returning to New Orleans became an impossibility, that opportunity vanished.  Elaine’s home sustained comparatively little damage, and her husband’s job not only remained, but flourished.  Arkansas was a little too far for her daily commute.

If I ignore the fact that I was raising an infant in a series of spare bedrooms and motels, Katrina did bless me with far more maternity leave than I ever intended.  It was October before the USDA was able to get its employees reassigned and I had to report to my new duty station in Arkansas.  Even after I officially went back onto duty, I had a research program in ruins, a facility unprepared to process us and assign us email and access privileges, and a tiny furnished apartment only ten minutes away.  My time was even more flexible than my days as a researcher.  I came home at lunch every day to feed Harry and cuddle him.  Since Kris’s job at Tulane was still on hold, he was able to extend his family leave and be a stay-at-home-dad, a role that became semi-permanent when I decided to accept an unexpected offer to change careers and stay in Arkansas.  Though it wiped us out in the material possession department, Katrina presented us with the gift of time with our son.  For this, we are grateful.  We have a happy, well-adjusted little man who has had a suprising level of stability despite the turmoil he has been through in his short little life.

But no good thing lasts forever.  After the bills were settled from Katrina, the new job pays well enough to keep the basics of life intact, and Harry in his home, spending quality time with his Dad.  But one income, even in Arkansas, leaves little room in the budget for extras, or to save for the future.  So, the time has come for Kris to go back to work.  Since Harry has been at home all this time, this has caused me a certain degree of anxiety.   I mean, it was one thing to leave him in his own home with somebody who knows and loves him. But now?  He is going to be spending the majority of his waking hours with strangers.  It’s enough to make me hyperventilate thinking about.  I have eliminated the possiblity of another in-my-home-caregiver.  I just don’t know anyone I trust enough to have the free unsupervised run of my house and, frankly, I can’t afford it.  I have also eliminated the idea of placing Harry in a home-based daycare.  The lack of oversight involved in a single caregiver gives me nightmares.  This means group daycare.  While I am paying for it by a loss of individual attention, there is a certain comfort in having more than one responsible adult present.  It just seems more, well, accountable.

Our interview with our first daycare was not a reassuring experience.  The facility was a bit worn.  It was not dirty, but it wasn’t the sterile hospital clean I was expecting.  Then again, the place is filled with toddlers and pre-schoolers, what WAS I thinking?  And the caregivers were so, well, young.  The director couldn’t have been out of her twenties.  I will admit, this last bit is likely the biases of an “older” mom showing their gray roots.  They were very nice, and the child:caregiver ratio was sufficiently low.  Harry would be one of only five 12-to-24 month olds in his room.  They had a daily curriculum with scheduled activities, and tracked his meals and diaper changes.  They are less than five minutes from my work - close enough for me to drop in and have lunch with Harry.  Harry scrambled down out of my arms and immediately flew to the toys, unconcerned.  I think we could have left him right there and he would have been happy as a clam.

But, it just didn’t instill that flood of confidence that I was expecting.  I didn’t ask half the questions I wanted to - they seemed so accusatory.  Did the toys get sanitized regularly?  Could I send his food with him? (He eats all-organic at home.)  What were their punishment policies?  It was all just so overwhelming.

I am going to call a few more facilities and arrange a few more visits this week.  I am going to take a checklist so that I can go down the list and it will feel less intimidating to ask the questions.  I am not looking forward to it.  I miss him enough when he is home safe with Daddy.  I don’t know if I am ready to turn him loose on the big, big world.

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I was having a really shitty morning - my pathology lab was giving me crap over our contract, which has stalled protocol development.  CRO’s.  There are so few, they pretty much have you by the cahones in contract matters.

Anyway - so here I am feeling low and hating my job, when the phone rings and I don’t recognize the caller id.  It is, of all things, and at this particular moment, a headhunter.  An honest-to-god headhunter.  Hunting my head. MY head.  Fascinating.

The job was good, something I have unique qualifications for, and it was sounding really interesting up until the point where they said the magic “R” word that killed all negotiations.  RELOCATION.  To New Jersey. 

Now, I have nothing against the Garden State, aside from the inborn distaste and biases that ALL native New Yorkers are born with.  Except, it’s on the East Coast.  And it’s cold.  And expensive - no way am I going to find a sweet little house in the woods for what I am paying here.  And, not to sound picky and whiny, but for the love of pete, I JUST GOT HERE.   I haven’t even had a birthday in my current house.

So I thanked her very much for considering me, and I gave her permission to keep me on file, and sent her on her merry way. 

But, I have to say, it is nice to be wanted.

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Pluto is not a planet.

It is, however a dwarf. So we now have eight planets and lots of dwarves.  Astronomy conferences are starting to sound a lot like bedtime stories.

Nice to know that those physical scientists are just as flaky as us life scientists. 

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Because Charlotte put the flames to my feet, I will have to confess.  I am responsible for the “Devil in the White City” debacle.  Honest, though, I did NOT deliberately put it first.  I ran the randomization twice and both times it came out on top.  I took it as a sign from God, but in retrospect, this may have been a bit misguided.  As a disclaimer, I will warn you that I said something about drivel…

Okay, now that my chest is clear on that, I will have to say that I didn’t think it was all THAT bad.  He definitely got better at writing as he went on, but I guess I am used to the jumping around.  It annoyed me less than the jumping around in “Game of Thrones”, which I have never finished (by the looks of the book list, I will be forced to later).  My one big criticism is that it was not balanced.  As interesting as I found the architectural history of the Fair, and I really do find it interesting, there simply was not enough on Holmes to spice it up for an easy read.  Not exactly beach fare.

Larson’s foreshadowing is clumsy (which may be my understatement of the week), but, well, it’s HISTORY.  Technically, we know how it turns out.  This however, does not forgive the fact that the infamous “footprint” passage was repeated almost verbatim the second time it came up.  That’s just lazy.  The things that I really felt were out of place were the menus.  They felt like Larson stuck them in there just because he could. 

All in all, the ending just felt anticlimactic.  But then again, that may be the point.  There was this HUGE buildup for this extravaganza that lasted a few months and was gone.  Poof.  I bet a lot of people felt that way at the time, too.

Well - on to Scorpion Bombs next month.  I am in the mood for weaponry.   After everyone chimes in who wants to get their licks in on “Devil…” I will post the synopsis of the next GAMBLE gamble.

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We ALL worked on the garage this weekend:

Luckily child labor is legal in a family business.  Next, he learns to run the vacuum.

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We finally got a start on sorting the garage this weekend.  This meant some small tragedies, like letting go of a lot of the things that we “recovered” from Katrina.  There was hopeful thinking when we pulled things out of the wreckage that turned out to be denial, as we realized they ultimately had to go to the corner.  Our wedding album.  My picture albums from school in Spain.  Other things were pleasant surprises - Kris’s microsprayer survived and worked.  I guess we just have to take the silver lining that we now have a lot more garage space.  In this way, the reclamation project was a qualified success.

Qualified success seemed to be the theme for the weekend.  When I finally got to play with the Futura, I ran into a bit of a software glitch.  The design software to run the machine loaded and ran just fine.  The problem was when I installed the Autopunch add-in.  This plugin allows me to autodigitize graphic files to stitch out on the machine.  Well, you can see the usefulness of that capability.  Unfortunately, when I installed the add-in, it ko’ed the machine software.  GRRR.  Singer’s site was spectacularly unhelpful, so I am looking into a couple of group forums to get some assistance before I actually brave calling their dreaded consumer line.

There is a lot of stuff I CAN do with stock designs without doing Autopunch, so I am not completely SOL if I can’t get this resolved.  But, I have to admit, digitizing capabilities were one of the main appeals of the machine.

We’ll see, we’ll see.  I still have patience.  For now.

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My little artist: 

Now that I have figured out how to embed video on my Wordpress blog, the rest of you are not safe.  Prior to this, I confined myself to annoying MySpace with most of the exploits of my brilliant son, but now I will taint this blog as well.  Oh, the wonders of technology and open-code philosophies.

And yes, I hang his pictures on the refrigerator.  Pitiful.

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Didn’t have a chance to get it out of the box (the ORIGINAL BOX, perfectly intact and repacked) last night.  Long story.

Well, due to an increasing feeling of suckiness throughout the day (headache, queasy, light-sensitive and generally crappy), I didn’t do a whole lot of playing with the Futura.  I did open it up, and install the software.

From what I did see, I am very, very happy.  Not only were ALL the pieces there, but they threw in a lot of extras.  I knew in advance that they were going to do this - the woman who had originally bought it called me and asked me if I would like all the accessories she had bought - she asked only $30 for $70 worth of stuff (and included the receipts!).  Hard to pass up, really.  This included a bajillion different feet - one of them was a hem-rolling attachment, invaluable for making veils.  And a cording foot.  I am one happy Ebayer, indeed.

The machine was, as she said, completely unused.  It still had the packing tape over the platform to hold the compartment doors down. 

Today, there will be a short trip to Hobby Lobby for some necessary expendibles.  This weekend, we fire this baby up and see what she can do…

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