With the boys safe at their dad’s house, John and I made a last minute run to grab a mini-fridge and some chinese food before settling in for the night. The house I’d moved into just two days prior, had taken on 6 inches during two recent flooding events, so we were anticapating at least that much water this time around. A bummer for sure, but it still left us plenty of room to lift our belongings up and out of harm’s way. To my naive eyes, this still seeemed like a totally managable situation. But I’d forgotten to take one very important detail into account: mother nature does not care for reason, or manageability or livelihoods. She wants what she wants and there’s literally nothing you can do to predict or stop this.
As we were finishing up our last meal, the rain began to pick up. But we were safe inside and, in our minds, had taken all the necessary precautions to ride out this perfect storm. I even created the cutest little makeshift panic room in the master bedroom — which included everything from dog food, to human food, to board games, to booze. The bed was high enough to allow plenty of room to for us to escape the anticpated 6 inches of water — if it even reached that point. Either way, we were confident we’d outsmarted this beast.
Why didn’t you leave before things got bad?
That’s the million dollar question everyone asked us.
Here’s the thing: Sure, we’ve all seen natural disasters unfold on television. We’ve witnessed the high water rescues, the people who cling to rooftops desperately waving the shirts off their backs, and the roads replaced with rushing rivers. As gripping as these things are to watch, they can in no way prepare you for just how quickly things go from bad to worse. Before the storm hit, I couldn’t wrap my mind around exactly where or how water even enters the house. In my mind, it would be a slow trickle — an anticlimatic drip drip drip through shoddy windows and inferior doorways.

Around eight that night the street and front yard begin filling with water. (This was one of two beasts we were up against with Harvey — the sheer volume of the rain water alone, coupled with the bayou spilling out and over its bank.) The rain water accumlated so quickly we couldn’t have left if we’d tried, so we hunkered down in the bedroom with three oblivious dogs to try and get some sleep. In the event water did enter the house, we wanted to be somewhat rested for it.
But as soon as we put our heads down, we got an ominous text from my neigbor that the bayou (we were one street in from) had gone over its banks and that we needed to get ready. Unlike us, they’d done this before and knew how quickly things were about to unfold. Not more than another ten minutes passed before my dog began inquisitively tilting her head from side to side, while jumping on and off the bed with dramatic Lassie-like whimpers.
“What is it, girl?!”
It was water.
So much water.
Dirty, smelly bayou water, rushing in through the floorboards. My first reaction was a sort of detached amazement. “Huh, so that’s how the water gets into a house.” But my detached amazement quickly shifted to complete and utter panic. “HUH. SO THAT’S HOW THE WATER GETS INTO A HOUSE.” There is no slight trickle or drip drip drip. The boogeyman doesn’t knock or wait for an open window or unlocked door. Rather, she forces her way in univited, streaming into invisible cracks with a weighted human-like fury.
Aside: I finally get why we give proper names to storms of this magnitude. They are life like and have a mind of their own. Rationally I know they are, in fact, not alive. But when you come face to face with one there is no other way to describe it than alive, angry, and hungry for retribution or something else you can’t offer.
We ran down the wet hallway towards the living room — which was filling with water even faster than my bedroom. Outside, our already flooded out cars sat defeated in the driveway. The sun now set, any doubts we had about riding out the storm no longer mattered…we were in it.
Retreating back to the bedroom, we jumped on the bed with the dogs to wait for Harvey’s next move. At that point we had around five inches of water -enough to be concerned about the house, but not enough to be concerned about our safety. Still, I thought it best to give 911 a call in the event other people might also need help (ha — little did we know how many). It was a no nonsense call, so uneventful and business like that I could have been ordering a pizza.
“We are fine now. I just don’t know if we will get more water and wanted to call and let you know we might need a hand at some point.”
“Okay mam. We will route this call accordingly and someone will be there to help you shortly.”
One hour and four more inches of water later, a greater sense of urgency began setting in. It was then that John decided it was time to cut power to the house, as many of the outlets were already underwater.
I will never forget how lonely it felt when he left the room to find that breaker box. Nor will I forget how terryfing it felt to be in that house the moment he reached it and cut power.
Darkness has never felt so tangible.
We laid together on the bed in a silence that was interrupted only by loud, echoing gurgle-like sounds that I still can’t seem to shake. It’s nearly imposible to put words to, but I’ll try. You know the sound something makes when it submerges into water — a shampoo bottle held under the surface gurlgling as it fills with water? It was similiar to that, only amplied a million times over and coming from every room in the house. Essentially, our house was the empty shampoo bottle being forced under water. It gurgled and creaked and cried, as water made its way into voids invisible to the naked eye.
If those walls could have talk they would have screamed.
I called 911 a second time, with slightly more panic in my voice, to tell them the water was rising four inches an hour and that now we actually really did need help.
John and I stared at the toilet from the bed, and made a deal that we’d need move to higher ground once it was completely submerged.

As we stared at the ceiling, I realized my back was no longer dry. The safe mattress had been replaced by a heavy water-logged sponge, and was no longer a viable option.
“We have to go now.” John told me, because I kept asking for just five more minutes to prepare myself for the water.
“I know. Okay. I’m ready. Let me just put my rain boots on.” I said, always sensible.
“There’s too much water. Your rainboots are useless.” he laughed.
“Whatever. You never know.”
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and threw one leg off the bed into the dark murky water. My rainboots instantaneously filled with water, but my legs still felt safer having them on. We emptied out the storage tub filled with the fun board games and booze, and turned it into a boat to float the dogs across the house. Slowly, we made our way down the pitch black hallway towards our plan B — the kitchen countertop.

Once we had three dogs and two adult butts somewhat situated on the narrow countertop, I called 911 again. Only the third time wasn’t a charm, and no one even answered. It rang and rang into nothingness.
It was then, in an attempt to make myself feel better, that I blurted out dramatically, “I don’t want to die.”
I desperately needed John’s reassurance and for him to tell me I was being ridiculous. No one is dying!
His reply was calm, steady, and matter of fact.
“I don’t want to die either.”
And that’s when it finally dawned on me.
“No one is coming for us, are they?”
