It doesn't rain but it pours
At three o’clock in the morning, my vulnerability to the elements feels scary and depressing. A far cry from my usual experience – stretching back to childhood – of loving the rain at night: lying in bed listening to that exquisite drumming and trickling, feeling safe and snug in the comfort of my bedroom, swaddled in my doona.
Not anymore. Not after the flood – when the upstairs toilet sprang a leak while we were out and we returned in the evening to a power outage and water dripping from the ceilings. The only dry clothes and shoes I had were the ones I was wearing. The feeling of being displaced, of having your sanctuary desecrated, seeing the room where you sleep, sodden, ugly brown watermarks blighting the walls, is wearing, to say the least. In the end we packed the entire contents of our house off to storage while the wall linings and ceilings were gutted, the floors sanded and re-polished and new carpet laid. We spent three months in a hotel.
I consider hunting out the big torch in the hall cupboard and squelching along the perimeter of the house to investigate the drain under the decking. Mould has been growing in the corner of my daughter’s built-in robe, which is on an outside wall, near the drain. It never has before. The plumber has suggested I observe what happens in the area during a deluge. But the underside of the deck is covered in spiders’ webs and the thought of an unexpected arachnid encounter is too abhorrent. Besides, I think the torch battery needs replacing.
How long I have been awake? I turn over as the numbers on my digital bedside clock flip over to 3.01am. My eyes smart. I yawn.
Sleep has been elusive over the past week or so. Since the cyclone. Or was it before the cyclone, when the landscapers started demolishing the front retaining wall, the budget dependent on smooth progress and no hiccups? I can’t remember. But on the eve of Cylone Yasi I kept vigil from Melbourne, cursing my new smart phone, doing Facebook and Twitter updates throughout the night. Feeling vulnerable for all of those North Queenslanders who were facing a night of terror, wondering what would be left of their lives in the morning.
Newspaper and television images of flattened houses and banana plantations, cars and lounge suites bobbing along main streets and side roads play over in my head like a late night horror movie. Another clap of thunder sounds and I imagine the accompanying fresh torrent of rain washing more of my topsoil away. Not my house or my car or a neighbour or loved one. My topsoil. I try to keep perspective. But it is hard to keep perspective at three o’clock in the morning.
I lie on my back and try to relax. Maybe the deep breathing routine will call back the Sandman: breathe in for six – lovely clear, carefree, life-giving air coursing in through my nasal passages and into my body to heal and restore my equilibrium; breathe out for six – expelling everything that is ugly and black, all that would undermine the peace at my core; hold for six –feeling emptiness; begin again and keep going until my breathing in and my breathing out are as transparent as the other …
In the morning I go out and inspect my front garden, and yes, the topsoil has migrated to the footpath and the road. With the help of a neighbour it takes me all morning to shovel what I can back onto the garden.
As I clean out the gutters on the garage I wonder what the chances are of my teenagers helping to clean the ones on the north side of the house. They have a busy day scheduled: op shopping, two parties, movie and cooking honey joys.
I’ll hire a handyman.
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