Wind Like a Freight Train
A week and a half before Hurricane Helene made landfall, I woke up with a stiff neck. By lunchtime, I was wincing in pain while bending to get something from the fridge. The resulting neck sprain put a damper on my training for the half-marathon Spartan Race I'm running with my brother-in-law in November. At the time, this seemed like an inconvenience. Little did I know, it would soon be the least of my concerns.
Wednesday night, as reports of the approaching hurricane intensified, I packed a bag and moved to my sister's place in Murray Hill, Jacksonville. My San Marco apartment, just blocks from the St. Johns River, didn't seem safe. Neither did leaving my car parked next to the alley that floods during heavy rains. The mood at my sister and brother-in-law's was relaxed, almost nonchalant. Having lived in Jacksonville for several years, they approached the incoming storm with the casual attitude of those accustomed to hurricane season. Their calm wasn't from stoicism, but from familiarity with these situations.
That evening, Mom texted our family group chat: "So they have cancelled my work here for the next 2 days. It's raining." She added an umbrella emoji and a "Singin' in the Rain" gif. The tone was light, almost carefree. Mom had just returned from a 10-day vacation to Montana and was sorting through my late grandmother's belongings, preparing the house for sale. I replied, "Well, at least you've got plenty to keep you busy!" She responded with a simple, "I do!"
None of us had any idea how bad it would be for Mom in Mills River, North Carolina.
Friday morning, I woke up to a series of minor annoyances. My neck was still a bit sore, a nagging reminder of my interrupted training plan. As I reached for my phone, I noticed a notification that my gym was closed due to the approaching hurricane. "Great," I thought, mildly irritated at the prospect of another missed workout. It was just another small disruption in what I expected to be an ordinary day.
As I scrolled through my notifications, sipping my morning coffee, my phone buzzed with a message from Mom. Then another. And another. Each text was more alarming than the last. "We're probably gonna lose power here soon. Both of gran's dogwood trees have been uprooted and I think we lost a pine tree between us and Oy." The creek near her house was rising rapidly, nearly reaching the bridge to the cornfield.
Trees were falling, debris was flying, and the storm's intensity caught her off guard. "I had no idea it would be like this," she texted. The beautiful dogwood in front of the house was gone, and she feared losing the roof over the living room.
I checked my weather app. The eye of Hurricane Helene was directly over Mom's location. "Based on the map, it looks like you're getting pummeled!" I texted. Her reply was immediate: "Totally!!!!!"
When I called Mom, the fear in her voice was palpable. In the background, I could hear the windchimes on her porch, their usually soothing tones now an eerie counterpoint to the storm's fury. "Can you hear the wind?" Mom asked. "It sounds like a freight train." Without her pointing it out, I might have missed the roaring backdrop behind the chimes. The sound sent chills down my spine, making the distance between us feel even greater.
Despite the unfolding crisis, life demanded attention to mundane details. I had a work meeting about brand strategy scheduled for 10:30. Struggling to focus at my sister's, I made the questionable decision to return to my powerless apartment. The meeting became a juggling act – phone plugged into a car battery jump starter, laptop battery conserved for team chat. As I discussed marketing plans and brand positioning, half my mind was hundreds of miles away, wondering if another tree had fallen or if the creek had breached its banks.
As the day progressed, the true extent of the damage emerged. Mom's cottage was flooded, leaving her without plumbing or water. The creek had swelled, surrounding her house and my aunt's. Sewage pipes were ripped out from under bridges, posing health risks. Each update painted a grimmer picture, and the reality of the situation began to sink in.
By Saturday morning, Mom reported that restoration experts were coming to assess the damage. Their verdict was grim: high risk of MRSA due to sewage in the floodwater. They advised against entering the cottage until it could be fumigated. The foundation had borne the brunt of the incoming water, with mold a looming concern.
As our group chat became more and more populated with photos of the damage, one image stuck with me: Mom standing next to the massive root balls of two fallen trees, dwarfed by their size. It was a stark visual representation of nature's power, and our powerlessness in the face of it. The trees that had stood for decades, providing shade and beauty, were now horizontal, their roots exposed to the sky.
Today, feeling helpless in the face of blocked roads and my inability to reach Asheville, I started a GoFundMe for Mom. Setting the goal at $7000 felt arbitrary – how do you quantify the cost of rebuilding a life? Yet within hours, anonymous donors contributed $500 and $1500, pushing us closer to our goal than I'd dared hope.
As I explained the situation to Mom over the phone, something unexpected happened. I felt a sob well up in my throat. It caught me off guard; I can't remember the last time I felt that surge of emotion. The reality of the situation, the distance between us, and the overwhelming support from strangers all hit me at once.
Despite everything, Mom is trying to find humor in the situation. We laughed about the irony of her spending 25 years in Florida, right by the ocean, never experiencing anything like this until now, in inland North Carolina. Her resilience in the face of such devastation is both inspiring and heartbreaking.
The support extended beyond financial help. My boss, upon hearing about Mom's situation, contributed generously to the GoFundMe. Friends and acquaintances reached out, offering assistance and kind words. It was a reminder of the community that surrounds us, often invisible until we need it most.
As I write this, well past my bedtime on a Monday night, I'm still processing everything. Mom is safe but displaced. Her cottage needs extensive repairs, and the full scope of the damage is still unfolding. The immediate crisis has passed, but the road to recovery stretches out before us, its end not yet in sight.
The sound of that freight train wind lingers in my memory, a reminder of how quickly life can change, and how resilient we can be in the face of unexpected storms.
Help Us Rebuild
If you've been moved by this story and would like to help, please consider contributing to our GoFundMe campaign. Every donation, no matter how small, can make a significant difference in helping my mom and aunt Vicky rebuild their lives after this devastating flood.
You can find our GoFundMe page here: Sisters in Need: Helping Mom and Aunt Recover from Asheville
Your support, whether through donations or sharing this campaign, is deeply appreciated. Thank you for your kindness and generosity in this challenging time.
