Motherhood Whispered Under Its Roar
Photo by Johnstocker from Canva
I was standing in line for a Seattle harbor boat tour when I heard the text’s ding. I pulled off my sunglasses and took a breath. Enticing aromas of oysters and chowder were distracting while I tapped the cell phone’s screen. A weather report flashed.
A slight hurricane possibility existed, perhaps but not necessarily, heading to northern Florida. I immediately called the generator guy, Troy, so he could service our unit. Then I contacted the diesel fuel company we use and requested a fill-up. Next, I called my son.
He and his family were enjoying a staycation in our waterfront home in Naples, on South West Florida’s mid-coast. They’d been there for a few days, enjoying the pool, the beach, the restaurants, and our club on the Gulf of Mexico shores. Numerous pictures of my grandchildren, daughter-in-law, and son were messaged. I was pleased that they appeared joyous, content, and safe.
Unbeknownst to us, disaster was about to strike.
Following the weather alert, Dylan and I discussed the possibilities. At that time, it appeared the storm would head north, and our area not in harm’s way. That was also true the following day when my husband and I boarded the ship for a week’s cruise to Alaska.
Days later, we were far from our Florida home, docked in an Alaskan port, when the news hit us. Hurricane Ian was flooding our town and my kid was at risk.
It doesn’t matter the age of your children when a disaster strikes. A mother’s heart freezes at the thought that her child is in jeopardy. I wanted to run to him, his wife, and their two children.
With terror gripping my heart, I envisioned holding him as I did when he was an infant, protecting him in the safety of my arms, as I had always done. As a single parent when he was young, I was his primary role model, and protector. I bandaged his scraped knees, kissed away any pain, and sheltered him from life’s cruelties as best I could. Isn’t that still my job?
Photo by Barbara Olsen from Pexels
The desire to protect your child never dwindles, although it may diminish somewhat with the passage of time. Then again, I don’t totally believe that to be true.
My 92-year-old mother stepped in when I was away, calling Dylan every day from Kentucky, asking a myriad of questions until the vice around her heart would lessen momentarily, only to build again before the next call. Later she told me she was terrified for her great-grandchildren, hating her inability to rush in to help. Sounds very familiar.
Riding out the storm.
At thirty-seven Dylan is a fabulous dad, husband, gifted English teacher, and capable of taking charge and making wonderful, linear decisions. Yet, I wanted to be there. Perhaps I needed to be there. Yet, he was happy I was not, voicing his concern for my safety. I’m not ready for the role reversal that comes with aging and I hope that I, like my parents, will never be.
Ultimately, Dylan and his family rode out the storm in our home in Naples, his staycation turning into something more serious. Without my direction, he prepared the house as he’d been taught over the years — the outdoor furniture brought indoors and he’d filled the house with food and water.
Dylan also invited his father (my ex) and his family to stay with him, along with his half-brother’s two college roommates. That, too, is part of evolving into honoring your best self during a crisis.
Had Dylan’s preparation been enough?
Dylan’s father, wife, and son had recently moved to our area but were newbies in the ways of the hurricane. They didn’t know that spaghetti models are thready guesses until a day before the storm hits. If you wait to prepare, it’s too late.
Dylan texted me every few hours to let me know that they were fine. He was reassuring and calm. But, I could see flood waters coming over the sea wall, clawing their way toward the house, knocking over palms and my beloved avocado tree. The security cameras worked for the first eight hours before they went dark along with my thoughts.
Photo by 12019 from Pixabay
This storm turned out to be different than any other we had experienced during the last thirty years in Naples. It lazed its way over the Gulf of Mexico, ultimately destroying the landscape of our precious area and those around us.
Hurricane Ian’s girth and power turned out to be a formidable foe, taking close to a hundred lives in southwest Florida. It ravaged our town, eating homes, cars, boats, and businesses as it chomped its way across Florida, ultimately turning his angry hunger onto South Carolina.
Unlike many others, our home survived along with everyone in it. They flourished in the hurricane-proof fortress my husband built almost twenty years ago.
The surge waters were feet from the front door when they miraculously stopped and began to recede. We had never even seen any bay waters come into the yard before. The disappearing waters uncovered horrible destruction, a splintered mash of lumber, tin, glass, and shattered lives.
“Sounds like he’s all growed up.” — Kingsley
It’s not that I’d never seen my son take charge or act as a leader. But within Ian’s throes something deep inside my soul, where the sweet smell of infancy lingers alongside memories of every ‘first’ he ever encountered, changed.
My son became a man in my absence, the type of man I hoped, prayed, and modeled for him to become. My love and respect for him grew in proportion to Ian’s destructive strength.
“Sounds like he’s all growed up,” Kingsley, a male Canadian friend chided when hearing the story. That may be true, but I still want to pull him onto my lap and protect him from life’s tragedies, just as my ninety-two-year-old parents still want to do for me.
It is now time to rebuild and heal.
My heart aches for the more than 100 lives lost and dreams ripped from the soil. As Floridians begin the monumental task toward healing and repair from that damned hurricane’s wrath, I am certain more stories of growth and resiliency far greater than mine will surface through the wreckage. Each one is important, for only together are we Florida Strong.
