Day 18 of the Apocalypse, Ground Zero, Gerton, NC pop. 231

Yesterday we got power.

Up until today, we spent 17 days managing our propane consumption and running our whole house generator for only 2 hours each morning, and 3 hours in the evening.

We timed everything from showers to cooking to pooping to laundry, to communication with the outside world to fit within those 5 precious hours.

17 days with a total of 5 minutes of phone calls with the outside world for me, because service is still so spotty on my phone.

17 days of getting to know so many more of my neighbors. Sitting with them on their porches, at the fire station, perched on fallen trees, and talking - hearing their hurricane stories. Learning what happened to their homes, and their hearts on Friday, September 27th.

Hearing about all of the old trauma that has been stirred up as a result of this devastation- women being raped, or held hostage - feeling re-traumatized by this disaster.

People having nightmares of being trapped or drowning in water or mud.

Loved ones lost. Houses and cars and animals gone.

Remembering our own hurricane story - that morning huddled in bed with Jeff and our dogs as the wind blew at 75 mph, listening to the crack of trees falling, flinching each time, wondering if one would hit our house. Jeff insisting we keep the shades drawn; shielding me from watching the moment-by-moment destruction. Having no idea what we would see when the rain and wind stopped.

17 days of being so tired that even a good night’s sleep isn’t enough for me to feel rested.

Yesterday, when we had power and our Starlink signal connected, I needed to look something up online. I went to type in a URL address and literally typed in internet.com.

So there’s that. My brain isn’t fully functioning, yet.

17 days and probably 200 hours of Jeff coordinating supplies from the outside world. As I type this, he’s working on getting a handful of tiny homes to Gerton, for our neighbors to live in who lost their homes.

17 days of helicopters flying low over our house 24 hours a day. I don’t even have to look anymore. I can tell by the sound if it’s a Chinook, a Blackhawk, the National Guard, or a hospital helicopter.

17 days later, and I still don’t really know how to talk about what happened to us, other than to say it feels like we are living in a war zone.

I am still so tired.

We are all so tired. It is weirdly comforting to know that all pretense is gone. We are casualties of, and comrades in, our common ground which is exhaustion.

It is exhausting to spend all day getting your basic needs met.

It is exhausting to never know what each day will bring.

It is exhausting to try to explain to anyone who is not living in devastation the toll it takes.

Today we’ll go down to the fire station. I’ll minister to people. Jeff will work on supply coordination. We’ll drive into town to grab some groceries. I’ll have to remind Jeff not to buy bags of ice because we don’t need to use our coolers anymore to keep meat and milk cold.

We’ll come home after a long day, and Jeff will have to remind me to turn on the lights because I keep operating in the dark.

I have made the darkness my friend. It is safe to me now, even though it exhausts me.

We’ll have dinner with our neighbors. We’ll go to bed too late and get up too early because that’s just what our bodies do now.

We will continue to do our part to recover ourselves, and our community.