I will carry you through the hurricane waters and I'll remember you in the blue skies

Reflections on the 20th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and my mom's diagnosis with early-onset Alzheimer's

As an elder millennial, it feels inevitable that major milestones in my life coincide with national tragedies and natural disasters: I was navigating high school when the Columbine school shooting happened; I watched the Twin Towers collapse in the cafeteria during the first few weeks of my freshman year of college; and within a few weeks of Hurricane Katrina, my mom officially received the diagnosis that she had early-onset Alzheimer’s.

It’s crazy to think it’s been 20 years since then—20 years since I lived in Houston, TX, about five hours away from New Orleans. It was my first time ever living away from the East Coast, somewhat of an impromptu move after a chaotic end to my college career, which had unraveled thanks to being stalked by an ex-boyfriend for the duration of my last semester. After he was kicked off campus temporarily for leaving a rambling, incoherent letter in my car (apparently, he was watching me pack up and saw me go back into my dorm apartment, then ran over and put it inside), the head of public safety sat me down in his office. “If you were my daughter, I would strongly encourage you to get a restraining order.”

At that point, I was already so exhausted from the months leading up to that moment and wanted nothing more than to get as far away from him and everything else on the East Coast. So when an opportunity arose to go to Houston (which is a story for another blog post…), I took the $1,000 scholarship I won at the end of the year for my work on campus publications, used it toward moving halfway across the country, and left as much of my old life behind as I could.

It wasn’t an easy move, and it was the first time I really understood that just because you’re changing your scenery doesn’t mean you can outrun your problems. On the upside, I found a community of other lost souls who all seemed to have ended up in Houston because they were also trying to leave their old lives behind. I worked for minimum wage at the Borders on Kirby (RIP) and split a one-bedroom apartment with my born-again Christian roommate who worked in the café. We pinned up a sheet to create a makeshift second bedroom, where I slept on a mattress on the floor.

Money was tight. I remember saving up to buy a legit Sicilian-style pizza because I was so broke, but so desperate for food that felt like home. (While the $25 price tag felt incredibly steep, it was worth it.) Sometimes we’d go to the club that was upstairs from a Mexican restaurant and listen to our friend/co-worker DJ. It was the first time I ever heard the Pet Shop Boys’ “You Were Always on My Mind”, and I danced and laughed half-drunk around friends, feeling empowered and hopeful that maybe things were finally starting to look up.

I was 21 went I moved down there and turned 22 that July. My now ex-husband/new-boyfriend at the time talked about taking me to New Orleans to celebrate. We agreed to try in the fall, once the weather cooled down.

Katrina was my first time understanding just how dangerous and deadly hurricanes can be, and just how deep the grief runs in the South—built and rebuilt so many times because of both the storms of nature and the darkness in some men’s hearts who believe there must always be someone to control. I watched along on TV, dumbstruck as people clung to the top of their roofs, waiting for someone to save them, realizing as time ticked on that nobody would. Within a couple weeks, I witnessed refugees from NOLA pouring into our city, stunned and trying to survive. The city felt emotional and desperate—people coming together to help, raising money and supplies and morale however they could, feeling the weight of knowing (but not saying), that it easily could be us on the receiving line of this some day.

And then, just weeks later, the forecast predicted that Hurricane Rita was aiming for Houston. Predictions were always hard to nail down, but they were warning it was going to be big. Especially on the heels of Katrina, people were not taking any chances. Newscasters offered sober warnings to anyone who chose (or had no choice ) to stay to write our social security numbers on our arms in black sharpie “just in case.” As I packed up essentials in my bottom-floor apartment, I couldn’t help but imagine the waters spilling through the apartment door and windows, hitting my ankles, then rising to my waist.

My now ex-husband/then-boyfriend and I decided to leave early to get ahead of the crowds. We woke up at 3:30 a.m. to drive to Austin, only to realize once we hit I-10 that half the city had the same idea. We sat in gridlock for 8 hours only to make it about 40 miles from the city (a trip that usually takes less than 3 all in). We knew we needed to pivot, even if that meant heading to a spot that might fall more directly in the path of the storm. We changed course and ended up in Victoria at a friend’s mom’s house, ready to brace for the worst. But after another 8 hours of snail’s-pace driving, turning off the ignition during particularly slow stretches to conserve gas (we passed so many makeshift signs of plywood and spray paint indicating stations were out of gas and water), eating the Tastykakes my friend had brought during a recent visit, cooking ramen on the roof of a car with the heat of the sun, we were grateful for someplace to go. At least our odds will be better in a house than on this highway, we surmised.

At the last minute, the storm’s path changed, and the worst of it hit Mississippi. Instead of floodwaters and downed trees, we had perfect late summer weather. A group of our friends all ended up making their way there too, and for the first time in most of our lives we had full permission to do nothing but kill time for a couple of days, and we made the most of it. Home-cooked meals and playing music and games together, painting nails and laughing and dreaming about what life could be if we were ever allowed to slow down like this again.

I knew our respite came at the expense of someone else’s heartache. I knew that we were lucky because someone else was not. It was bittersweet, but I was still grateful. It felt like things were starting to turn around, like I was finally finding my footing.

I did not realize the next storm would be a direct hit.

I took the call in the breakroom of Borders. My dad was telling me that things were not good with my mom. This wasn’t a complete surprise; the past months has been filled with odd and inexplicable behavior. Tearful phone calls fielded during that final semester of hell, followed by the forgetting and paranoia. I just figured we were both going through something, that maybe she was itching for a fresh start the same way I was.

I knew it before anyone else in my family did—at least, I was the first one willing to put a name to it. By happenstance, I met someone whose mom had also been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, who was some years ahead of us in the journey. While this girl was sharing her story with me at a party and I nodded along, knowingly, all I could think was: Fuck.

I get why they didn’t want to say the words—saying them automatically makes it true—but I guess I wanted to rip off the Band-Aid off. As though looking at it squarely in the face might make it easier. In some ways, I guess it would have. But now, 20 years later, I know nothing was ever going to prepare us for what was to come.

I was already having my doubts about Houston. There were things I loved, but so much I didn’t. After the turbulence of the previous year, I just wanted someplace soft to land, and while I found incredible connections with people in this new city, it was hard not to feel homesick. And once we realized that we weren’t dealing with the effects of menopause or a B-12 deficiency, or even a dreaded diagnosis with a hint of hope like brain cancer, I had no choice but to come home.

It was nearly 12 years later before I finally got to visit New Orleans to see how we both rebuilt ourselves in that time. By that point, the city, much like me, was scarred, but surviving. Grief-soaked, but grateful for the chance to begin again.

“We are experts at mourning and celebrating,” my Lyft driver told my friends and I during my most recent visit (the city has become a bit of a pilgrimage place for me in more recent years). “For everything we’ve seen, for everything we continue to fight, you have to be.” I never had to live through the level of devastation and loss that New Orleans endured, but the storms I’ve weathered have helped me understand the truth of his words: grief & joy aren’t separate acts. They’re how we survive.