If you make a wrong turn and end up in the heart of it all, there’s a light brown hue over things. The leftover mud. Sometimes on the trees. Other times on the asphalt. Up the rock walls while driving. A reminder that destruction happened here.
If you make a wrong (or right) turn, you can see piles of wreckage. An office chair. Metal debris. Plastic things. Relief and aid workers (yes, they are here). A reminder that destruction happened here.
When I look at the photos of the water level only feet from the top of our two-story building, “Hendersonville Pediatrics,” I’m reminded that destruction happened here.
I feel like the shock is over for many, but not all. Those who lost everything will have their own “stages” of grief to walk or run through. I hope no one forgets that people just like you and I are still having to shower at the YMCA with their families during what are already chaotic days with kids. They have to cook where they can—sometimes at work. They are scrambling for honest folks to fix the holes in their roofs and grind down their tree stumps. There are many stories of jobs half done, tree cutters or construction guys not showing up or not finishing the job. We are still boiling water—which for some of us is a pleasure because we have water to boil and can even shower in it. Multiple pots on the stove. A few coolers in the living room. A reminder that destruction happened here and has not left yet.
Most kids are back in schools and daycares, just in various capacities: some late starts, others early pickups, water brought to schools in tanks or wells being built. But kids are very resilient. They adjust better than we do sometimes. They show us their resiliency every day. Look for it.
When Helene first hit, it was reminiscent of COVID except that we know more now. The fear is still there because we lovingly don’t want our kids home now more than ever: it’s because we do love them. Home didn’t work then, and it doesn’t work now.
The cohesiveness of communities happened quicker this time, though: the sharing of neighborhood meals, playdates, kids outside and off screens until the streetlights came on (when there was electricity). That was one of the blessings.
For those who have to rebuild their homes, businesses, and lives … it is not over. Day 33 is just the beginning. So don’t forget us in these beautiful mountains, and please send positive thoughts as we dig ourselves out in more than one way.
Lauretta Stombaugh is a pediatrician.
