The Aftermath

The Aftermath
By Sheryl McAlister, a writer based in Columbia, SC

As you might expect, out of the epic flood that took Columbia, SC, hostage last week, there are thousands of stories. Stories of people who did the right thing. The lives that were saved. The countless acts of courage. The harrowing tales of strength and survival.

Now, school buses have started running again, and the water we’ve had to boil for so long is suddenly okay to drink. Large appliances are still sitting in trees, but runners have taken back their streets where only last week the creeks overflowed. A beloved college football coach abruptly resigned; the state fair came to town on schedule.

But the return to a semblance of normalcy feels a little disrespectful. Like the world should stop a little longer so that those who were hurt the most can catch back up to it.

Those of us minimally impacted feel a little helpless, like we wish we could do more. But, then again, it’s not about us. It’s about people who have suffered mightily and lost things that can’t be replaced – loved ones, homes, everything.

I imagine going through something so horrific is a very lonely process. No matter how many friends you have. No matter how many people love you or volunteers help you. No matter how good your insurance is. It all boils down to you.

And, frankly, the least the rest of us can do is give you a break.

I blew it the other day. I meant well. But I blew it, all the same.

I went to the post office. Predictably, the line was long; the service was slow. But people were mostly quiet. No one was complaining, which was a good thing. A firefighter came in, smiled, took his place in back of the line of about 20 people and said – only to himself and to me – “Gosh, I don’t think I’ll make it on this lunch hour.”

I asked a simple question of the folks in line. “Would anybody mind if this fireman goes to the head of the line?” Given that it had only been 9 days since the worst storm ever in SC, and the firefighters had been pretty busy, I didn’t think it was an unreasonable question.

Apparently, it was. There was a guy in line about 8 people from the front. A young guy — 20-something. He went completely bananas. Completely.

“NO!!!!!!!” he shouted at me and anyone who could hear him. Which was pretty much everybody within a 2-mile radius of the place. “If it’s not an emergency, he can wait like the rest of us.”

O! M! G!!

I mumbled something like “Gee whiz, you must not have needed a firefighter during the floods.”

To which the young guy screamed: “I lost EVERYTHING!!! You want to make a comment about that?”

I, of course, did not.

Uncharacteristically, I shut my big mouth. What in the world had I just done?

Everyone in line looked shocked, and sort of eyed him like he’d done something wrong. Someone else in line exchanged a few words with him. I wasn’t listening. I tried to disappear into the concrete wall. I studied my mobile phone as if my life depended on it. After things had settled down, I watched the young man.

I line-stalked him a little, I guess. He had on a brand new gray, flat-billed baseball hat. He had on shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt and flip flops. Cute kid. New clothes. He was quiet again after the poor firefighter left.

And then he got to the post office window, and this is what I learned. (Disclaimer: I was not actually stalking the guy. We were in line at the post office. Everybody can hear everything.)

He had lost everything. He was there to turn in the key to the mailbox at the apartment that no longer existed. He was there to tell the postmaster that he couldn’t get his mail anymore because the apartment was gone. His belongings were gone. He didn’t know what his address was going to be. It would be another couple of weeks before he even knew where he would live.

Receiving his mail was beside the point. His clothes looked new because they were probably all he had.

He didn’t look homeless. But he was. Lonely and desperate.

When he walked past me to leave, I moved my hand out gently to touch his arm. I didn’t know if it was appropriate. It just seemed like the right thing to do. I whispered to him, “I’m sorry about that.” I tried to shake his hand.

He leaned in and gave me a bear hug. And he held on for a second longer than most total strangers would. So I did the same, until he let go. And then I said something I had no right to say. I put my hand on his shoulder and said “It’s okay.”

He turned and looked at the line of people and said, apologetically, “I’m sorry. I’ve had to talk to FEMA and ……” I don’t know what else he said. I honestly don’t. It took everything I had not to burst into tears. For him. And my own stupidity.

He walked out the door. The line was quiet again. It moved forward slowly as the line at the post office usually does. And, one by one, each of us left. To go do whatever it is we had to do.

As we move through this aftermath of the worst storm in our state’s history, and as we get back to our lives, we have to remember that some people have lost everything – however that’s defined for them. And no doubt in that desolate journey toward what will become the next phase of their lives, they are likely teetering on the edge.

I hope I do better next time to remember that. We owe it to each other to remember that.

Copyright 2015 Sheryl McAlister©

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Related stories: Come Hell or High Water

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  1. I can imagine being there in that line. People get a bit crazy when everything is lost. There are few words that we can say that will help in those dire moments when silence overshadows all thoughts. You were right to reach out in the end and that gesture enabled the man to feel the empathy in the room.
    On a different tack, the South Carolina legislation decided a few years ago to not fund the post-Sandy hurricane aid to New Jersey. It was not a very Christian thing to do. The state of SC is very much about fending for yourself, and, being very anti-“Big” government. I wonder how many South Carolinians are rejecting help from FEMA now.

    When the fires were raging down the canyon of my oldest cousin’s home, in a gated community of Boulder CO, people watched as our government tax dollars funded the planes and helicopters bringing desperately needed water and chemicals to squelch the fires threatening their bastion of Republican life. Later, I asked my cousin why, if their upscale neighborhood is so anti-government, they didn’t mount their own fire squad and pay for the firefighting themselves. My question was met with a stony silence. (My cousin’s home was salvaged, though they had to evacuate)
    When disaster happens we turn to the federal government to help with all types of aid. It cost taxpayers money to fund and train the people at FEMA. I know, I’ve been to Mt. Weather, VA and I have met a number of decision-makers whose primary concern is rescuing Americans and cleaning up from natural disasters. It is a very small person who would accept the aid for themselves, but deny it to others who may live in states that don’t follow the person’s political affiliations.
    By the way, I couldn’t afford to take off time from work to volunteer for Sandy, but my son Jason did and it was a wonderful experience for him to help fellow Americans in their time of need. He volunteered at the Red Cross.

    Liked by 1 person


  2. Thank you for reminding us that we are utterly unqualified as judges and that by forgiving ourselves we can be God’s love. This was a powerful addition to my morning devotion. Love to all!

    Liked by 1 person


  3. Sherri, from my safe haven in Little River I feel like all I can do is watch the news and cry for all of Columbia. We’ve never had anything like this in our state. I am very proud of my home, Columbia, and my state, South Carolina. I’m proud of that young man you talked about and sad for his loss. I know he will find his way through this struggle as so many in Columbia and all over South Carolina are doing. Thank you, Sherri, for keeping us informed. BTW. One of my best friends recently told me, quietly, “No. There is nothing you can do. And you would just be in the way if you came.” She is 76 years old and had build a peaceful life for herself. She has lost so much and what FEMA will do to help seems so little. But I know her. She will get her smile back. Aunt Carole

    Liked by 1 person


    1. thanks, Carole, and stay safe.



  4. did you get his name or how to stay in touch with him ? as humans, we can help one person at a time as we all slog through this gut wrenching disaster

    Liked by 1 person


    1. hi barbara. unfortunately, i didn’t. honestly, it didn’t occur to me. i felt like i had intruded enough on his life. but i certainly wish him well …. thanks for reading and writing in….



  5. Sheryl, I too may have said what you said. We do look at 1st responders differently now after so much loss. I know your heart was in the right place and it took an even bigger heart to reach out with an apology and hug! By sharing your mistake we all have learned a lesson! Thanks for writing. Lisa Melton Chapman

    Liked by 1 person


    1. thanks so much, lisa, for taking the time to comment …. and to read! i heard from pati last week also. it’s been a long time, and i hope you and yours are well.



  6. Sherry, what a great writer you are!

    Liked by 1 person


  7. […] view of the devastation caused by the violent flooding in the South. Its companion piece, The Aftermath, offered a stark reminder of just how difficult it was to get back to life as we knew it. Comments […]



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