It ain't over even when it's over
Trip Start
Sep 22, 2005
1
7
9
Trip End
Mar 03, 2006
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Walnut Creek, California
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Dave proved to be my kind of guy. Perfect example: When we first left Louisiana with the dogs, the plan was to find loving homes for them, since Dave can't have more than one dog in his condo. By the time I left, the plan was to buy a bigger condo. My kind of thinking. I also have to appreciate someone who gets as excited as I do when all three of the dogs go both Number 1 and Number 2 on their walk. That, dear readers, is a true achievement.
So I left Dave as a single Dad and flew home. As far as I know he has not yet been totally buried beneath dog beds and squeaky toys. Now, like all Katrina volunteers, I'm beginning the process of readjusting.
It's complicated, and I'm grateful to have new friends to talk to about it. It's difficult to understand without going through it. At the risk of overemphasizing our trauma, many of us seem to have mild symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. That doesn't really seem possible--but then again, if we had been searching for HUMANS, finding dead body after dead body, pulling terrified and emaciated people out of their homes, we wouldn't second-guess the effects on our psyches. And those of us who dropped everything to go help the animals--well, we tend to see animals as humans with excessive body hair anyway, so is it really all that different?
It manifests in ways both predictable and not. One of my friends reports unreasonable anger at people who are going on with their normal lives (i.e., everyone). Though I haven't felt anger, I do find it odd when people talk about anything other than the hurricane (which happens most of the time). Our work there was all-encompassing, and it's hard to fathom doing things like reading the paper, going to the gym, or talking about the latest movies.
More interesting to me is this same friend's obsession with her pets' food and water. Ten times a day, she flies into a panic, unsure if she remembered to feed them that morning. She checks their water bowls with equal fervor. Simultaneously, she finds herself distancing from them, not wanting to be too attached in case some tragedy should occur.
For me, much of my anxiety comes out in dreams. During and right after my work there, I would wake up frequently throughout the night, certain that I had forgotten to check a house properly. I would dream of houses spray painted with "Pets Inside," houses that I had not yet found. I would wake myself fumbling around in the dark, searching for an address--a replay of all the times we could not find a house because the street signs and address numbers had been blown away. Then there are the disturbing dreams, dreams that, believe me, you do not want to hear.
Most poignant, though, is the experience we all seem to share: Beneath the shiny facade of our everyday lives, we see the phantom of what could be. One friend of mine can't stand to look at a healthy dog, because in the shadows of its eyes he sees the emaciated creature it could become. I see water lines that aren't there, ghosts of a flood that hasn't happened. Michelle's first instinct when she goes to someone's house is to assess the sturdiness of the door, the size of the windows, and the space under the house where a dog could hide. She wants to have a plan for breaking in in case she needs to. I walked through our neighborhood at dusk the other night, when friends are walking their dogs and neighbors are playing with kids and pets in the front yard. The sound of dog collars jangling made me cry--This, I thought, was the sound of New Orleans at dusk just two months ago. The quiet contentment of suburban neighborhoods transformed so quickly into massive quiet suffering. Our homes, our lives, our families have another side, a devastated mirror image lying just beneath the surface. Never have I felt it so strongly: There but for the grace of god go I.
But no, really, I'm adjusting just fine! I must sound like a total wackjob. I guess it's all part of the process.
