It’s an odd thing: packing up your belongings and preparing to leave your house, unsure of its fate. I tell myself, “You’ve been through this before; you’ve lost your house before, and everything turned out okay.”
But, this time feels different. This time feels worse.
Thirteen years ago, my house succumbed to the power of Hurricane Frances and Hurricane Jeanne. Its ceiling collapsed with Frances, and the outer wall fell with Jeanne.
Afterwards, we sifted through the remains of our home and we saved what we could. We didn’t lose everything by any means, but we did lose a lot. We were lucky. It didn’t feel like it at the time, but we were. The house was condemned, but we could rebuild.
And so we did. We spent that year renovating our home to restore it to liveable conditions.
Our family has been through a lot in its history on this planet, and losing a house is just another one of those things. I’m a seasoned hurricane veteran (I think I’ve lived through like 15 in my brief stint on Earth), and I am taking all precautions.
Irma is one scary hurricane; its constant shifts in tracks, its devastation through the Caribbean — it’s no joke. I’m as ready as I can be, and whatever happens…we will survive.