A Hurricane Story
Cheryl Sawyer

I’m a counselor, a mother of 2 teenagers, and I have lived on the Gulf Coast nearly all my life. I work with kids and teachers and I train people to become counselors. As I watched the Weather Channel in late August, I knew that Hurricane Katrina would be a killer and that many, many people would come from Louisiana to the Houston Area to seek shelter.

I live just a bit north of Galveston, TX. We have been prepared to ride out a storm every summer for the past 40 years. Sometimes they come close but nearly all of them have either veered east of us or gone south into the Corpus Christi area. In some ways, I know deep inside I was somewhat hoping for a hurricane to hit us. We’ve prepared again and again and again, only to find out it was another false alarm. Every year, the weatherman warns us that we’re going to be at risk and every summer we plan our vacations around the contingency that a storm might come into the Gulf and rip apart our home. Everytime a storm does enter the Gulf, we are bombarded with minute details about preparation and the need for evacuation. Yet the storm never comes.

When Katrina threatened Louisiana, I felt guilty. I half-wanted that storm to hit New Orleans and half-wanted it to hit us, like a soldier that has been prepared for “war” for so long, for so many years. When we watched the exodus from New Orleans, I kept thinking (judgmentally, of course) that if WE were forced to leave, we would do X, Y, Z. We would not get separated, we would not lose each other, it would not matter if we left things behind as long as family was safe. We would probably not have to leave because we live 15 miles inland in a brick house in the driest part of the county. However, as word of the horror stories told by the evacuees filtered through to us, I realized that we just barely “dodged the Katrina bullet” and that Katrina could have ripped apart my family as badly as it ripped apart the families from Louisiana. Katrina scared us. Katrina could have been us.

Survivor guilt kicked in: I joined in the hurricane relief efforts 110%. My family and I cleaned out our linen closets and donated all of our extra sheets and towels. We emptied our old toy boxes and tee-shirt drawers into donation bags. We bought several hundred dollars worth of groceries, personal hygiene items, and school supplies for the relief efforts. We cooked and served food. I attended Red Cross training to be a mental health provider and spent hours in the Astrodome and at some of the smaller shelters listening to stories: horrible stories about choosing whether or not to leave behind pets, massive personal losses, catastrophes that happened to evacuees sitting in traffic, watching animals and people die from the heat and car wrecks. I listened to the atrocities that occurred in the SuperDome, of rape, suicide, death, separation, starvation; I saw the chemical burns on the legs of the men who stood in the floodwater sewage for 72 plus hours awaiting rescue. I counseled a family who endured the horrors of the Dome for five days only to have the father killed as their bus flipped on the way to Houston. I still maintained my job and spent hours supporting other counselors so that we could continue together with the massive, somewhat overwhelming task of helping those who were seeking relief from the storm in our community. When I did turn on the television set, it was full of storm stories and images of the devastation in Louisiana so I turned it right off. I could not sleep well at night and when I did sleep, I had dreams of running from a storm or getting separated from my children and my husband. By September 10th, I was so physically exhausted that I fell, hurt my back, and ended up in the doctor’s office. He gave me orders that I was to stay in bed for a couple of days and I was forbidden to do any “charity” work for at least 3 weeks to give my back some time to heal. I was so very disappointed in myself. I was not “Wonder Woman” and I begrudgingly went out of town for 3 days to catch up on my rest. I barely slept for those 3 nights and I realized I had gone way too far in my efforts. I returned home on Monday morning determined to let go of my survivor guilt and to put the Katrina devastation in to proper perspective.

At noon, on Monday, September 19th, I was at work when I heard that another powerful storm, Rita, was predicted to hit Galveston. I was practically immobilized for several hours; this could NOT be happening to us, too. By Monday night, we started realizing that we might really be in danger from this storm but the authorities were monitoring the progress closely. Most of our family had agreed that if we had to evacuate, we would meet at a vacation resort outside of Waco so we went ahead and made reservations for the family. By Tuesday afternoon, the county’s evacuation plan was put into place, schools were dismissed, and we mandated to leave before 6 am Thursday morning. My husband, who works at a chemical plant, was told that he could not leave and that he would be forced to stay at the plant for the storm. If he chose to leave with us, he would lose his job. My 2 teenagers and I spent most of Tuesday night securing both my house and my mother’s house (thankfully, she was out of town), making arrangements to transport our pets, and making choices about what to take and what to leave behind.

I’ve lived in this house for 28 years. I was faced with the prospect of losing every single thing I owned and forced to decide within hours of what to take and what to leave. We had limited space in our car: we could take “stuff” or we could take our pets. We packed 3 days worth of clothing, some bedding, and our pets. Each teen was given a small plastic box in which to put the things they cherished the most (photos, MP3 players, jewelry). I chose to take my best jewelry, my stuffed rabbit (given to me at birth), my husband’s dog tags, my camera, and my laptop computer. That’s all. Well, not quite all. I packed my younger brother’s 9mm pistol under my seat and I don’t believe people should possess handguns. I have no idea of how to shoot a pistol; I have never owned, loaded, or shot a pistol in my life. But I had heard the stories of crime on the road and I was taking my 15-year-old daughter and my 16-year-old son on a trip alone and I was scared.

At 4 am, I kissed my husband goodbye as he left for work; I didn’t know when I would see him again. I fell asleep for 3 hours and then made some phone calls. Our entire family lives in our town and we were all scrambling to get out. We seemed to all be going different ways; I decided to wait until noon to leave . My brother-in-law needed for someone to drive his little Honda car for him (he has severe emphysema and needs oxygen and breathing treatments) so we decided that my 16-year-old son (who only has a learner’s permit) drive his car for him. My daughter and I would follow in my Sequoia pulling our pop-up camper. There was room in the back seat of the Honda for my son’s very old Golden Retriever and we put 4 kenneled cats and 2 huge Malamutes and 1 ball python in the back of our Sequoia. I had dog and cat food and a gallon of water for the animals. We each grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water and set off on our 4 hour trip to Waco at 12:25 pm on Wednesday, 18 hours ahead of the mandatory evacuation time and approximately 72 hours before Rita was to make landfall on Galveston Island. It was the trip from hell.

The Houston Chronicle says that 60% of the Houston-Galveston area evacuated and that 25% of the evacuees were stuck in traffic for more than 20 hours. They estimate that 2.2 million people tried to evacuate and it seems that nearly everyone left Wednesday afternoon. The Texas sun was high in the sky with temperatures in the mid 90s and the humidity level was set at the usual sauna-based standard. We moved at the average rate of 2-5 miles/hour. We had to keep turning the air conditioning off and on because the cats and dogs were panting so hard that I thought we’d lose them. We were in bumper-to-bumper traffic from approximately noon until 5am. At some point, we had to completely turn off our air because we thought we would run out of gas. There was no gas at any station along the way. There was no opportunity to go to the bathroom but it really wasn’t that necessary because we had nothing to drink. We saved our water to try to drip into the cats’ mouths because they wouldn’t drink either. I stayed on my son’s bumper because I was terrified we would get separated. Most people were gracious and allowed us to change lanes when necessary while others zoomed past us on the shoulder at the speed of light, kicking up dirt and road-items onto our cars. Ambulances were passing us 2 or 3 at a time trying to get the elderly out of town. The cell phones worked intermittently and only for a few seconds at a time due to overload but we were as together as we could be. My husband was still forced to work and my anxiety was skyrocketing about his safety as the plant was located at the intersection of Galveston Bay and the Houston Ship Channel. He was 100 feet from the shoreline, directly in line for a hit from a Category 5 hurricane. I told him to just quit his job and walk out but he wouldn’t do it.

Around dusk, things began to get worse. We had been on the road for about 9 hours and we were tired. People were getting quite aggressive by that point and some were attempting to avoid waiting in line by driving to the front of the next lane and then bullying their way to the head of the line. We were in line to exit Beltway 8 and enter the Katy Freeway (I-10) and I glued my bumper to that of my son so that we would not get separated as we changed freeways. I was so very terrified I would lose my husband and afraid for my son as he had never driven a car on a freeway much less tried to handle that kind of traffic. I had never tried to handle that kind of traffic.

Then four police motorcycles wedged their way in between my son and me. They were leading some political motorcade on the shoulder, consisting of maybe eight or ten shiny black limos followed by a long entourage of reporters and maybe 20 to 30 other cars that had attached themselves to the end of the motorcade. The police forced my son up onto the I-10 ramp while holding me back on Beltway 8. They effectively blocked me from following him and after blocking the way for the motorcade to get through the traffic, they left me to try to fight my way onto I-10.

My daughter and I were separated from my son for hours. Our windows were rolled down due to the heat. We were stuck in traffic, progressing at maybe a mile or two an hour, but mostly sitting still. At some point, my left arm cramped to such a point that I could not move it and then my leg went numb. I was having chest pains and could not move my arm and I was trying to stay calm but it was all an act. My 15 year old daughter and I traded places and she had to drive. Any time we needed to change lanes, I hung out the window, begging for others to allow us to switch and she slowly changed lanes, pulling a 20-foot camper behind her. She kept trying to make me laugh and we made up stupid stories and we even invented new cuss words to yell at people so that we didn’t say ugly things. We were so scared. At any time, we knew someone could walk up beside the car and pull one of us out. I had the gun under my seat but I knew I’d never used it before and I wasn’t sure how to take it off safety. As the night went on, we saw people standing on the sides of the freeway with overheated cars or carrying milk jugs looking for gas. We saw one car take a dead dog out and lay it gently on the grass beside the freeway and another one put a dead animal into a big plastic garbage bag. Some people were crying and holding each other while others were driving more aggressively. The line-crashers on the shoulder were fewer because the shoulder and grass beside the freeway was blocked with cars that had run out of grass. We saw women squatting beside the freeway to pee. We saw hot, sweaty, crying children holding their parents’ or sibling’s hands as they stood on the side of the road. The mosquitoes were merciless as was the heat and humidity. There was no gas. There was no water. There was no food. We could not pull over and rest. My son was missing in a sea of traffic with his uncle that needed breathing treatments; he was on oxygen yet people were throwing their cigarette butts out the windows and cars were overheating and oxygen is so very flammable. I was terrified my brother-in-law would die as my child tried to drive him to safety or that their car would catch fire and blow up. My husband was stuck on the ship channel. My daughter was in danger and struggling to not only drive the car but take care of her mother. My arm wouldn’t move and I didn’t think we had enough gas to get us off the freeway-parking lot. The whole ordeal was so surreal; it felt like a nightmare and I could not wake up.

Around 5 am, we managed to exit the freeway. I had been able to establish brief periods of cell phone contact with my husband and learned that he had been released from the plant and that he was taking a back-road to Waco. My son managed to get through to me on the cell several times to let me know he was safe and we eventually learned that he was behind me, although I don’t know how that happened. I pulled into Brenham, TX, to wait for him and found a Walmart that was being manned by the local volunteer fire department as an emergency stop-center. I got out of the car and was greeted by a high school student who offered me water. I could barely speak with emotion and I thanked her and went back to my car. My daughter helped me water and walk our dogs and cats and then went to sleep in the front seat almost immediately. The volunteers heavily patrolled the Walmart parking lot and many people were sleeping on the ground beside their cars. My son caught up with us and we were together again. My brother-in-law was strong enough to drive and my son fell asleep almost instantly; he had driven non-stop for nearly 18 hours without break. My husband called and he was safe in Waco. I couldn’t sleep. As the sun came up I had my first rays of hope. We were about two-thirds of the way to Waco and we were ready to push on.

Again there was bumper-to-bumper slow traffic but we had a full tank of gas and we were able to run our air conditioners. We stopped to eat at a Dairy Queen in Rosebud and I had no appetite; I could only drink a glass of tea. A woman was standing in her front yard beside the Dairy Queen as we unloaded our dogs and I apologized for blocking her driveway. She had a water hose in her hand and she hugged me and asked if I needed water. She helped me water the animals and let me walk them in her yard.

I realized then that the shoe was on the other foot. Whereas I had offered food, comfort, and water for weeks, now I was on the receiving end. I needed water and a hug. I needed to sit in the shade and breathe. But I couldn’t talk about what we’d been through and we just made jokes about the way we smelled and talked about the needs of our dogs and cats.

Things were better; the small town police waived the traffic through and we made better progress. At some point, however, we were again halted in traffic. We were sitting in the sun waiting our turn in a single line, when line-crashers started up the shoulder attempting to bully their way in between the waiting cars. I wouldn’t take it this time. My daughter pulled our Sequoia and camper up on the shoulder beside my son and refused to allow anyone to pass. I put the pistol on the front seat of the car and I stood on the dirt beside the car and physically blocked the path of the line-breakers. I just couldn’t let anyone get between my child and me again. The line breakers honked and drove up to my knees. I had my car door open and I was ready to grab the gun and shoot. This was not only incredibly dangerous, but absurdly stupid. It is legal to carry guns in Texas and I am astounded that someone didn’t run me over or shoot me. Slowly we moved on and the line-breakers were forced to get in behind us somewhere. My rational brain was not working. I had no rational brain, just pure fear and rage.

We arrived in Waco at our rental house at 1:15 pm on Thursday. We were on the road about 25 or so hours. My husband greeted us and I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t go to sleep for several hours and even then, it took 20 mg of valium combined with Darvocet and ice to get my muscles spasms to release so that I could fall asleep. I slept restlessly and woke up after hours and turned on the tv to see where the storm was headed. The TV channel had a live camera focused on a blazing bus full of elderly citizens trapped within as well as senior citizens lying on the side of the road. I ran to the bathroom and threw up and went back to bed holding my husband. About an hour later, one of the cats got loose and ran into the woods. I spent most of that day wandering about the woods looking for the cat. I just could not let it go and I could not rest. Eventually the cat came back on his own; we were all together. There were about 18 of us at this one house and about 12 more lived close by and came to support us. Although we were all safe (and actually many were having a pretty great family reunion), there was an edge to our usually happy family. Wives were snippy with their husbands. Husbands were prowling about the property as if we were in a war zone, fixing, unloading, gathering things. The cars were all gassed up, water bottles were filled, and the oil was changed. We barely ate anything and we prepared to get hit by the fury of the storm. But the storm didn’t come to us. It went in north of Galveston. Our town caught a bit of wind but we evacuated for nothing.

We returned home on Monday, without incident. My entire family was safe and our property was barely damaged. Our fence was down and I think maybe our roof has some minor damage but I won’t know until the next big rain storm because we don’t know how to check it out and the contractors are all out helping people who suffered more serious damage. I was thankful that there was minimal damage. I did talk with Dr. Bill Steele and participated in a huge group debriefing. I listened to his advice, especially the part about “forgiving yourself” for not being perfect. I am thankful that it is all over.

But it is not over. We’ve been home 12 days now and I’m still not sleeping well. My husband has put our yard in meticulous order and has made temporary repairs to the fence but he is not sleeping well either and both of us are barely eating. My kids stay up late and they’re not doing so well with their schoolwork. Their teachers are edgy; some are over-demanding while others are laid back and understanding. We have not unpacked our bags or put the pictures back up on the walls. Our fridge is still filled with bottled water and the camper is still ready to roll. We are waiting. There is no activity in the Gulf right now as the T storm went into Florida but we are still waiting. We have a box on the kitchen table for important papers and we’re throwing stuff in the box that we might need in the event of an emergency.

In the evenings, my husband and I are trying to casually talk about our future. We want to move. We don’t feel safe here any more. We don’t want to ever go through this again. Intellectually, I know there are dangers everywhere: hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, crime, floods and I also know we’ve never been hurt here in this house. But we don’t feel safe and we want to leave.

The local papers are full of hurricane stories. I can’t read them. I can’t listen to other people’s stories right now, either. I’m supposed to be a counselor, a helper, and I can’t help right now. I tried to pretend all this past week that we are back to business as usual but we’re not. I know that I did not have the worst experience; many people died. Many lost pets. Many slept on the side of the road. Many lost everything. I cannot tell my story either because it is so insignificant when compared to those who first went through Katrina and then suffered through Rita. So I’m typing it out and I hope this will make it fade enough for me to get back to normal. If there even is such a thing.

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