Reflections: Day 5
It’s a strange feeling to look down at my phone calendar and realize that nothing will be grayed out because it happened, but only because time keeps ticking.
It’s interesting and beautiful to watch my kids keep moving forward as the community around us is so devastated: playing music, rediscovering the joy that is reading, helping clean up the yard, making a game out of who does which chore and then, of course, fighting about it anyway. Yet they understandably feel the sadness when we drive around or when we share a friend’s story—what they lost and what people need. With every fallen tree Siena says, “Aw. That’s really sad,” with genuine empathy in that moment.
I’m thankful watching my husband boil and boil and boil the water because the days ahead are uncertain. I pick up things where he left off and vice versa, all in an effort to keep the pulse of the house beating for all of us.
My “Hendersonville Pediatrics” family is the best. We all jump in like family should. My partners and I remain dedicated and are ready to do whatever is necessary for our practice and HP families, just as we did a few years ago. Hoping that this time will not involve tents and knowing that this time we won’t be wearing PAPRs. You can look at our faces this time and you will surely see that we are ready.
This is a sappy post, I know, but it all points to resilience. We all have it. For those of us who have been blessed during this tragedy and for those of you who have not been, may we help one another overcome this, do what needs to be done, and try to remain thankful or at least hopeful.
Reflections: Day 6
Detouring to work and driving along the French Broad River gave me an eerie feeling this morning. I know all of the damage that river just caused. I sometimes sit and write at The Biltmore Estate on my days off, under the trees, next to the river watching it. It’s still beautiful. Just different.
I worked today and was thankful because some moments seemed normal. Others seemed heavy. It’s weird to talk about a kid’s favorite color or book at checkups when the noise in my head is chattering about schedules, donations, my family, whether I will be able to find gas on the way home, and whether my employees who lost homes are past the state of shock. I did hear staff laughing in the background some, which helps.
There is some comfort in having so many people in one space now. I guess because it’s life and those there are able to be there and sticking together to keep going.
Jason is off to work tonight. We’ll pass each other in the driveway as usual.
Goodnight.
Reflections: Day 9
Yesterday I hit a lull. I think during tragedies it’s natural to have an initial peak of energy and then it drops, but you can’t predict when. Maybe it is due to lack of sleep, not enough time for your nervous system to recover, or maybe it just happens. Because.
I am one of the lucky ones. I haven’t lost much except for a sense of peace. My first family is OK. My second “work” family is going to be OK. Some are homeless now, but will be OK. One of my offices is gone—in the photos you can see water stains on kids’ artwork hanging on a bulletin board. The exam table is in the hallway on its side. The office is uninhabitable and now a health risk. My house is OK and I have water, food, and electricity. I get to go to work. It just looks different now. The little time in between patients is now filled with texts, coordinating things, checking in on employees, and the background chatter of “what’s next” (meaning the next 24-48 hours). The experiences in the exam rooms are different, too: more focused and filled with stories from those who are or who know the people struggling. The reality is that we are giving out wipes not just for the babies, but for the parents because they can’t shower right now. The reality is that parents are way more stressed right now, and it’s palpable. There is lots of sharing. Lots of “How can I help?” Lots of connections and hugging. That part is great.
There will be ebbs and flows. On top of the usual fall/winter illnesses, we soon will be faced with surges of infections as water comes back, as families cram into small spaces, and as stress builds for the kids. I worry about the emotional toll on the kids going through this. It’s reminiscent of COVID, except now we have memories of what it could look like. It was not pretty. It will not be pretty.
So hold on, Asheville. Help who you can, even if it isn’t handing out food or diapers. It might be spending time with someone who needs it, having a neighborhood play date because it is fun and gets everyone out of the house, cutting down the trees, or realizing the various levels of struggle going on here. There are many ways to help, and remember, we are all helping in some capacity.
This too shall pass.
Lauretta Stombaugh is a pediatrician.
