"Didn't we almost have it all; When love was all we had worth giving?"

Lying in bed, I listen to the soft and soothing sound from below. A gurgle of sorts before the whoosh of release. In a span of roughly fifteen minutes, I hear it four times. It’s strangely comforting and relaxing. As I absorb the ambience, I remember the previous four days.

It started abruptly. Loud with vibrations that nearly made my teeth chatter. It had been a scene reminiscent of that in Jurassic Park when a dinosaur approached and the water in the glass shook, causing a mini ripple effect. But this was different, like multiple dinosaurs practicing an interpretive dance performance, including a tap number, only to stop and start over again. My chair jumped. I was convinced I would fall through the floor. A plastic cup bounced off its shelf in the bathroom. Then, there was the noise. Earsplitting. Impossible to concentrate on music, TV, and was especially obnoxious during an online conference. It was just day one.

He called the morning of day two and we discussed the progress of the jack hammering in the basement. He tells me about the sump pump and I begin asking questions about the neighborhood water table and if the apparatus would be overtaxed. After all, it’s only this past summer that I learned the neighborhood had been built on a swamp. The engineers and town officials, in all of their knowledge and wisdom, drained the water and filled the area with sand. What was fine in the 1960s is no longer acceptable with climate change and Connecticut trading a traditional hot and dry July and August for a monsoon season.

He told me the pump would be OK, but will never have a vacation. He detailed the ridiculous amount of water and sand he found in the area where the device would reside. He gave me the analogy of building a sand castle on a shoreline. Just as he made progress, a wave came and tore it down.

I joked, “So we should have had a party with that last flood and rented a wave machine.”

He laughed and quickly answered, “Yes. You could have. I felt like I was at the beach with so much sand and water.”

Days later, he told me as politely as he could, he thought I had over-exaggerated the problem. There was no way. Upon entering our basement, he didn’t want to demolish the finished side. He pleaded against it. He checked and rechecked the paperwork refusing to believe the issue. The space had been beautiful even without its carpet. He surveyed and touched the painted walls, walked past the wet bar, noticed the half bathroom and toyed with the light dimmers. Surely there had to be a mistake.

Then he began the work.

We. Never. Had. A. Chance.

Those words haunt me. Even as I lie in bed and am soothed by the sump pump at work. All summer as I had recounted our experience of cleaning up the water after each flood in the basement, it seemed surreal. As if I had embellished the quantity and seriousness. When people believed me, I felt as if I were defrauding them. I was the Brandy who cried wolf.

I was certain when the basement waterproofing experts finally arrived, they would discover my atrocious tale of woe was just that – a fictional, nonsensical story. I waited for the confirmation. I depended on it.

It never came. In fact, the opposite happened. I had been reassured none of what we did caused the issue or perpetuated it. We did the best we could with what we had. The water in its ludicrous quantities was bound to seep into the house. It had been the perfect storm. All along.

I am lulled to sleep.