DETROIT – On a hot, muggy morning in August 2005, I quickly buckled my two sleepy, slightly confused babies in their car seats. It was 6 a.m. Suitcases and baby gear filled the trunk, with a few photo albums wedged in between. Hurricane Katrina was less than 24 hours away and the mandatory evacuation order meant we had to leave our home as quickly as possible. I took one last photo of the house as my newly planted palm tree swayed in the breeze as if to wave goodbye. I had followed the path of the storm as a meteorologist, realizing we would likely never come back to this home again. Holding back tears, I slowly backed out of the driveway for the very last time.
19 years later, my son who survived Hurricane Katrina, is now a college student living off campus in Tampa. As hard as it was evacuating Katrina alone with two babies, it is much worse watching your child navigate a mandatory evacuation and major hurricane from 1,178 miles away.
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I don’t share this moment to evoke sympathy. My days of mourning the effects of Hurricane Katrina have long since passed. I share it to give you a glimpse into the difficult and heartbreaking reality of evacuation orders. Look around your house. What would you take if you knew an unstoppable force of water would fill it up to the ceiling in only a matter of hours? Where would you go? How long could you survive on the amount of cash in your wallet or the gas in your car? Gas stations have already run out of fuel in Tampa. Open banks will not be abundant in the aftermath of a severe hurricane and credit card terminals won’t work.
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Less than two days before Milton’s impending impact, there is a 30-mile backup to get out of Tampa. Hotels are full at three times their normal nightly rate. In a public shelter, you will likely sleep on a cot in a room bursting with hundreds of other residents, filled with uncertainty and worry. It could be days or weeks with no showers, no internet or TV, no cellphone service and nowhere for children to run or play. And what if the shelters that allow pets are full? Do you leave your beloved animals behind? If you decide to stay and ride it out, the authorities ask that you use a Sharpie to write your name and birthdate on your arm so you can be identified by those coming after the storm has cleared. An ominous reminder of nature’s fury.
And with Milton bearing down, what happens to the survivors of Helene? The shock and adrenaline are gone. Reality is now sinking in. People are exhausted and just want to go home and sleep in their own bed. For some, that bed is gone – their home no longer exists. Gone in mere minutes. For these people, hope will soon turn to hopelessness. Especially, if they are faced with rebuilding while they grieve a loved one who isn’t coming home.
When the mayor of Tampa gives a dire warning that if you stay you will die, it’s because the lives of people are what matter the most. I now look back on the days following our evacuation with a different perspective. I was in a hotel with my parents and my two babies for weeks. I can still see my Dad chasing them up and down the hotel hallway for hours and hours trying to keep them entertained, trying to maintain some sense of normalcy when there was none. We lost my Dad three years ago. And I would give up my home and every material thing I own to have one more day watching him play with his grandchildren. Floridians and Carolinians are stronger and more resilient than they might realize right now. And until they do, it’s up to us to lift them up.