Twice
our condominium has been flooded in the past few years.
The
first time was from an overflowing toilet two stories above our
ground-floor unit. That took six weeks to “mitigate” (i,.e.,
clean up the mess, replace damaged ceilings, dry out the interior
framework, etc.)
Over
the weekend, the flood came from below.
First,
we thought our aging water heater finally had given up the ghost,
expiring in a gush of its Luke-warm contents.
But
several hours into sweeping the floodwaters out the front door while
Barbara suctioned up what she could with our carpet cleaner, making
endless trips to dump the tank on the lawn outside . . . we learned
it was not the water heater.
Oh.
no. As it turned out, I had been standing barefoot for several hours
in sewage overflow from a clogged exterior line. Three other units
were flooded, too.
Turning
off the main water line, and thus depriving the sewer feeds of
ongoing volume, stopped the flow. The stench, and questionable
looking debris were left behind.
On
the floor. On the walls. On the ruined rugs, shoes and baseboard and
carpeting.
“The
Flood Pros” arrived to assess and make repairs. The sensors showed
our flood, indeed, was a “category three” contamination event. In
other words, poop.
Two
workers came in to tear away the affected walls, insulation,
carpeting, etc., and treat the wall interiors with anti-microbial
chemicals.
Exhausted,
Barb and I watched them work from the couch. One guy, clearing the
drain under the water heater from which the flow had gurgled and
flowed, suddenly growled with disgust: “CHUNKS! I HATE chunks!”
That,
of course, broke our mood of despair, if only for a bit. Laughter and
tears.
The
work goes on. The condo looks like a war zone. But it won’t always
be that way. This, too, will pass.
Still,
we’ve gotten far closer to our neighbors, organically speaking,
than anyone would ever dream . . . .
