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A flood of emotions
Aug. 31st, 2005 03:42 am( ...real life here, as it relates to the All Too Real Life happening 1500 miles away )
We struggle, we try to make sense of it. We liken it to other tragedies. "It's our tsunami," I read. Excuse me. I know, it's early days. The death count attributable to Hurricane Katrina is going to rise. But more than 300,000 people died from last December's tsunami. Three. Hundred. Thousand. Yes, the numbers the first few days were much lower than that. I don't know what is to come this time around, but if the count cranks up in similar fashion, I can't begin to fathom my likely reaction.
Why am I trying to scale my emotions, as if I can measure and calibrate grief? It's wrong. Horrific is horrific is horrific is horrific. Comparisons of horror don't work any more than comparisons of grief do, much as we talk as though they do. I finally realize my standard analogy applies to Hurricane Katrina, just as it does to medical crises when they arise. We're on a roller-coaster ride right now -- one like Space Mountain; it's in the dark. There are the long, waiting bits while the cars climb high; there's the first plummet, and who knows how long it will last. There are the unexpected twists and turns, the whiplash as the cars swoop back, forth, and 'round another loop d'loop. The outlook changes constantly, and it's sometimes hard to know what's up and what's down. No matter how much we'd rather be elsewhere, once the ride starts, it's important to stay in our seats and see it through until we're safely back at the platform, wherever reality we find when we arrive there. The real trouble comes if we decide to get out of the car while it's going round its track. That trick never works.
As always, it's the people I'm sharing the ride with who make all the difference in how I see it through. When it's working right, I help do the same for all who choose to ride with me.
There's a Funway in here somewhere. See you on it, always and forever more.
We struggle, we try to make sense of it. We liken it to other tragedies. "It's our tsunami," I read. Excuse me. I know, it's early days. The death count attributable to Hurricane Katrina is going to rise. But more than 300,000 people died from last December's tsunami. Three. Hundred. Thousand. Yes, the numbers the first few days were much lower than that. I don't know what is to come this time around, but if the count cranks up in similar fashion, I can't begin to fathom my likely reaction.
Why am I trying to scale my emotions, as if I can measure and calibrate grief? It's wrong. Horrific is horrific is horrific is horrific. Comparisons of horror don't work any more than comparisons of grief do, much as we talk as though they do. I finally realize my standard analogy applies to Hurricane Katrina, just as it does to medical crises when they arise. We're on a roller-coaster ride right now -- one like Space Mountain; it's in the dark. There are the long, waiting bits while the cars climb high; there's the first plummet, and who knows how long it will last. There are the unexpected twists and turns, the whiplash as the cars swoop back, forth, and 'round another loop d'loop. The outlook changes constantly, and it's sometimes hard to know what's up and what's down. No matter how much we'd rather be elsewhere, once the ride starts, it's important to stay in our seats and see it through until we're safely back at the platform, wherever reality we find when we arrive there. The real trouble comes if we decide to get out of the car while it's going round its track. That trick never works.
As always, it's the people I'm sharing the ride with who make all the difference in how I see it through. When it's working right, I help do the same for all who choose to ride with me.
There's a Funway in here somewhere. See you on it, always and forever more.
