September 7, 2006

One year later

I don’t think I’ve mentioned on this site that I was raised in Jefferson Parish, right outside of New Orleans. The last time I went “home” was about nine years ago. Sis, who now lives in Dallas, met me there, along with a few other relatives. We cleaned up the old house as best we could and packed up my dad for a road trip to visit relatives in towns throughtout southeast Texas. He and I then flew back here, as my brother had not been able to provide the care Dad needed. Brother continued to live in the old house until we sold it over a year later, the sale closing just a few days before Dad died. Brother stayed in the area, mostly living in motels and working at whatever jobs he could find. I think he lost his anchor with Dad and the house gone. He was frequently out of touch with the family & rarely had access to a phone. This time last year we did not know that he had moved from a motel in Jefferson Parish to one in New Orleans. We only knew that the family friend who tried to find him that Sunday had to give up and take her own family out of harm’s way.

We, along with so many others, breathed a sigh of relief that Monday morning. It was the “big one” that Dad had always worried about (he was chief engineer for those ill-fated levees for many years,) but the city had survived. The relief was short-lived and we watched in horror as all of Dad’s predictions came to life. The days that followed seemed surreal. I took to the couch, constantly clicking between news channels, physically ill at what I was seeing. I called Dallas frequently, looking for news. We consoled ourselves that brother was probably okay, but communications failures precluded him getting in touch to tell us that.

He finally called on Friday. He was in the Astrodome. He had been evacuated by the US Coast Guard from a second floor balcony over his own flooded motel room and, after only one night in a staging area, been transported away from the city he loved. He’d had a harrowing week, but never been in any real danger. My nephew picked him up and helped him complete his journey to Dallas.

I don’t know if my brother will ever regain his footing. He’s living with our sister ourside of Dallas. He hasn’t gotten a job and doesn’t go much of anywhere or do much of anything. He mostly just sits on my sister’s couch, going out occasionally to visit with relatives. Sis is having a hard time with the burden, both emotional and financial. I think that my brother, like many survivors of disaster, has lost his sense of place and isn’t really sure where he’s supposed to be or what he’s supposed to be doing. I hope that time will allow him to eventually restore his life to some new “normal” that works for him.

My family’s tragedy is so small in light of the devastation so many have suffered. Still, it’s ours. The city we loved is beginning its rebirth into something new and different. Maybe, just maybe, my brother will do that too. Someday.

Progress report: I’ve been a slacker this week, lost in the restrospectives that I can’t make myself not watch. Time to re-focus and start over.

Technorati Tags: family, Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans, survivors