They are jackhammering our downstairs bathroom in the morning.
The leak is in the sub-flooring, maybe as far as four feet down. The kitchen and dining room floor is ruined. Pergo completely buckled like little “wood-like” waves. We just said forget it and started tearing the warped pieces off. I want to arrange to be here all day because I freak out at the thought of some stranger being in my house when I’m not there; on the other hand, there is no way I can do that because, uhm, he flat-out told me in his little Ukrainian accent that he will be jackhammering all day. We have to cover everything downstairs with tarps and, for the love of God, who has random tarps lying around for when they jackhammer your downstairs bathroom? I’m fashioning them out of taped-together Hefty Bags even now, at 11:30 pm. I think our bathroom floor will be dirt, basically, when the little Ukrainian man is done jackhammering and reading my journals. Which is my biggest fear. Not theft. Journal reading. I will cut you, Ukraine. I swear. I’m in no mood. Please pray that he doesn’t read my journals. Or, okay, steal my sack of potatoes or something.
This place will soon no longer be ours and I haven’t talked about that much lately because it’s too hard to really talk about, but I have felt so heavy inside for so long about it. I’m tired of so many disappointments, one after another, of dreams that just ….. pfffft. Somehow jackhammering the place to smithereens tomorrow feels like an apt metaphor for how I feel.
KA-KA-KA-KA-KA-KA-POW-OW-OW-OW-OW-OW.
The only good news here is we don’t have to pay for the work; the Homeowner’s Association has to pay; it’s a “whole building” issue. Thank God. It’s $2800, just to jackhammer. The people in the unit next door, below us a couple of feet, had their carpet yanked up today from the steady trickle of water. Their floor is water right now. You could puddle-splash in there if it didn’t make you feel like slitting your wrists to look at it. So the problem starts under us and gravity pulls it down the building. That’s the problem of living here, on a canyon. The pull of gravity. Their puddles and our wood-like waves happened in a little over 24 hours. Unbelievable.
Of course, any repairs to our bathroom and kitchen we would have to cover, but we can’t. It will be too massive. Our lawyer said don’t do it. It’s not your problem. I cried at first because I thought it was our problem and then I cried when I found out it wasn’t — and not because I was relieved, but because I felt like a jerk all over again.
But maybe, in a weird way, we’re getting out at the right time. Maybe we’re being protected from much worse problems down the road. Maybe there are some serious structural issues with the building. Maybe God is protecting us after all. I look around the room right now at the destruction and begin to feel a little more divorced from it, a little less sad about leaving. I look around, frankly, and have moments where I think “I don’t need this mess, this insanity.”
We did everything right to get here — to this house where everything has gone so wrong. We didn’t lie. We didn’t cheat. We just bought a home and held on as long as we could.
So maybe God is saying, “Hey, it’s really over; something new is beginning.”
Oh, God, please. I hope so. I really do.
Oh, gosh, Tracey, I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this (all of this) right now. I hope you’re right and that it’s God’s way of saying, “See? You’re going to be SO GLAD later on that I got you out of here.” I hope that six months or a year from now you are all “Wow, things really turned out a lot better than they looked back in December ’08.”
Oh, Tracey. I know where to send the prayers…where do you want me to send the cookies? I wish I could help.
What ricki and Jayne said.
I’m so sorry- you’ve let us in a little on what a long sad story this has been. Prayers up for you both.
and on a practical note- if it is dirt, you might want to bunk with friends or in a motel, or cover it with your makeshift tarps. You do NOT want to be breathing in the dirt under your house, especially if it’s wet. Experience.
I am sending great big hugs and prayers to both you and MB.
I know this is small consolation, but you are not alone in this…this is happening to so many people. You did do everything right, and you are no where near being a “jerk.”
I like your way of thinking that this is just a stepping stone to something better. I think it is.
Tracey,
Thanks for the post, and when you ended on the note of God providing something new, it make me think about the issue of God’s provision even when things seem utterly stinky. I came across some information a while ago that has stuck with me relating to these issues, and I hope it comes across as encouraging.
The depression-era photographer, Dorothea Lange, took that iconic image of a dust-bowl woman sitting with a few of her kids, looking beyond hope. I’m sure you know the one I’m talking about. Well, I read a few months ago about that woman, and the fact that she’s alive and well, living – I think – in Oregon (maybe mid/northern California). Now, what I take from that is that if God can take (literally) dirt-poor people, and carry them through the rough times, I can have confidence that he will do the same for me (and you). God has a habit of doing two things (among many, of course): turning things around in amazing, unanticipated ways, and waiting until 12:59 and 59 seconds before doing them. I’m not saying he will keep you in your place, just that he seems to delight in surprising solutions to seemingly hopeless situations.
Also, the prayers will continue, of course.