What fresh hell is this?

I am scared. No, I am terrified. In addition to the crap hand that I've recently been dealt (sorry for the pity party here), we now are contending with the very real threat of Hurricane Frances coming our way. At the risk of outing myself somewhat to those who may know me in the 'real' world, I live in Jupiter, the northernmost city in Palm Beach County, Florida. Luckily, our home is not in a mandatory evacuation zone but, not so luckily, it is a wood frame home--meaning that it is not likely to withstand the onslaught of 140+ mph winds. Add to the mix the many tall trees on our acre and a half lot and you've got a recipe for potential ruin. The way it is looking now, we will be staying with friends who live about 2 miles from us in a concrete block home with hurricane shutters, built to much more rigid codes that were put in place after Hurricane Andrew, but still no guarantee that we will be okay.

I went through Hurricane Andrew in 1992, while living in the southernmost city in Broward County (south of Palm Beach). While what we got in Broward was nothing like what the folks in Homestead, Florida City, and Kendall went through to the south, it was still one of the most terrifying nights of my life. I swore I'd never stay through another storm. But now I'm a homeowner, and I don't want to stray too far from my house, my memories, my everything. My husband says we can just leave, take the dogs and get out of town. But I don't want to do that, simply for the fact that it will be that much more difficult to return home and survey the damage.

Tonight we will begin preparing our things--pack up vital documents, over the counter and prescription medications (including my prenatals, gonal f, and medical records--don't want those getting destroyed now do we?), bag our photos and put them in a cabinet for safe-keeping, and so on. The list is endless. My husband needs to buy plywood for the windows since we don't have hurricane shutters--and plywood is becoming scarce in these parts. I am beginning to panic.

Just getting out of bed these past few days has been an undertaking that requires every ounce of my energy. I cannot do a thing, it seems, without my husband nearby--he wakes up with me, gets me motivated to get in the shower, promising to be right back after he irons his shirt. I have no will right now, no strength. He is giving me all of that and then some. I feel pathetic, like I'm being too clingy but I simply cannot do it without him. I am terrified to go on, to face each day. I cry each night when we turn out the lights and it is time for bed--great wracking heaving sobs--because I am afraid of the next day. I want to be distracted, to keep the TV and the lights on and fall asleep to them, because then I do not think about losing the one thing that I wanted so very badly...the life that we created that is now gone.

Tomorrow I meet with a grief counselor. Maybe she can help me make my way back to living because right now, all I want to do is curl up in a ball and make it go away. I've talked with or e-mailed 'real' world and cyber friends who've gone through similar loss, and it has helped some. They tell me I'll get through this eventually, with time and love. But this has been a hit that my somewhat already fragile mindset was not prepared for. I battled with clinical depression back in 2000 (before we even knew that infertility was a part of us) and am afraid that this may put me back there. It was a dark time and I don't want to be that person again. I want to see the sun again...I just want to laugh and to smile and to hope. Is that too much to ask for?

Oh, and since I'm asking for stuff today, I'd like to ask that bitch Frances to keep the fuck away from the southeast Florida coast--I've had just about all the shit I can handle heaped on me for one week, thank you very much.