Water, Water, Everywhere

Arriving home, I look forward to dropping my keys and bag at the door, removing my shoes, and floating further inside. I never expect a splash and the sound of rushing water. It sent me darting into the powder room looking up, expecting water to flow from the ceiling. Nothing there, instead water sprayed like a hose from the side of the toilet. Panicked I tried to shut off the main water valve and finally closed the toilet supply line.

Fatigued after 4 hours on the road and shaken, I flipped on the lights to see pools of water in the dining room, living room, and the side of the couch in the family room. My mom, who I spoke with while I drove, listened as I shrieked and cursed. “There’s water everywhere” was all I could choke out coherently. The deceivingly dry appearance of the kitchen and remainder of the family room hid water under the hardwood. I sat in a chair, looking around with tears in my eyes and thought “My house…” over and over.

I remember a flood in 1996, several feet of water covered our home’s first level after a major storm. I sat on the steps and watched my toys float by. For weeks I hopped across the furniture to avoid the sticky black surface after the floors came out. My Granny washed all my stuffed animals and sat them on the driveway to dry in the sun. I didn’t come home to nearly as much water, the pools and puddles of various sizes still required peeling my first floor’s wig back. My home is my safe space and I was devastated to see it in such a state. I can’t say when it started, I was away from Thursday morning to Sunday evening.

I planned to sit on my purple couch, watch the Grammy’s and eat the rice and peas I carried back from Maryland. Traded the couch for my bed, while 11- 12 fans droned and buzzed, working to dry the floors. The appliances were spared damage, the only lost belongings included a floor pillow, a trunk from college, and the bottom of a bookshelf peeled away. The semi-functionality was a saving grace. The weekend away reinvigorated me, I had an epiphany, and knew that unlike other years, I wouldn’t have to fight for my life in February. Does calamity follow every major self-discovery?

Over the next four days baseboards and some drywall were removed. Floors ripped out and hauled away. Half of the kitchen cabinets were detached with the backs cut out of those that remained. Every piece of cookware, kitchen gadget, and utensil sat out on countertops. Sitting in my garage prior to the virtual walkthrough, the only place that muffled the now 19 fans, the claims adjuster noted how stressful this must be. Despite the obvious I hadn’t thought about it.

I was overwhelmed and in overdrive to get things taken care of. At the same time, the one place I feel the safest, most free, and at peace was noisy and torn apart. The claims adjuster was adamant that I should and could stay elsewhere after the walkthrough. It was so loud she couldn’t hear me until I walked back into the garage. I declined the housing offer, even in a rough state I prefer my home to any other place. The fans ran nonstop until a declaration of dryness for the cement came on the 9th. The swift action of that first week would not continue. The insurance waiting game began.

There was no further communication until I called my insurance company, State Farm, again on February 26^th. Strike one. I did all my crying over the first two days, now I wanted a timeline and answers. I felt silly and selfish for my annoyance when I see people violently ripped from their homes and land on a daily basis. At the same time, I was indignant. Reminders whenever I left my bedroom. Cold, bare floors, dust coated furniture, cookware, and pantry items. Crawl space boxes littered the dining room. Upstairs, the pole room full of first floor odds and ends. Coats and shoes strewn across the guest bedroom and bathroom. Utility closet wares clogging up the laundry room. Every routine was thrown off. I felt dysregulated in my space and the lack of communication after everyone had done their part grated on me. My home was injured, awaiting further treatment. Confinement replaced the usual free feeling. I was dismayed, exhausted, and annoyed. Cut the check and put it all back right.

My call at least forced the claim handler to reach out to a restoration company and their estimator came out on February 29^th. Apparently, my claim handler left everybody hanging. The estimator called me on March 4^th to see if I had heard anything from State Farm. I try to be patient, I wasn’t snappy about the two week silence. One week was apparently vacation, which everyone deserves, but what about the week prior sir? My claim was a straightforward situation so dragging feet wasn’t going to cut it. Tagging in my insurance agent on March 11th got the claim handler to tighten up. Direct deposits for personal belongings and mitigation rolled through. A week later, approval for the repair estimate. Finally, the next phase could begin.

Meeting with the restoration project manager on March 27^th meant some extra rest. Minor calamity shouldn’t be the only avenue for work reprieve. I was so happy to finally see light in the darkness that I didn’t have any real questions, just tried to remember the order of restoration operations. My kitchen filled back in on April 8th with the reinstallation of the cabinets, with fresh boxes. I’m still not sure that I put my pots and pans back the way I had them before, but everything fit. I cheerfully picked new hardwood colors that same week. The old floors had a multicolor look and I found three colors that could replicate it. The following week, new drywall and baseboards went in. The woodwork triggered a side quest. The wood shavings attracted a hornet that thought her new home would be hanging over my garage door. Spotted Monday, evicted on Tuesday.

The flooring work exceeded State Farms funding, strike two. The project manager found a workaround, but it meant the hardwood install couldn’t start until after my long-awaited mid-May vacation. I wasn’t leaving the layout and direction of the planks to interpretation. After four days of much appreciated work, the color and warmth returned with the fresh hardwood. After 3.5 months I could walk downstairs barefoot again. I don’t have to hole up in my bedroom every day. It’s been surprisingly difficult to break that habit. I’ve grown accustomed to being upstairs all the time. The powder room still needs trim and the toilet supply line replaced. Two kitchen drawers are missing, one disappeared during demo, and the other is serving as the replication reference.

Even with the balance of work, my home looks and feels warm. The sun’s glow on the floors fills the rooms again. Balanced colors, my tiger rug back in her place. I’m still cleaning up dust and bringing things back downstairs. The exhaustion and anxiousness are gone though. I recognize this place. My one-person dance parties will begin again. My healing house is whole and we can make good on that February epiphany.