When you ask someone from New Orleans how they did in the storm, they say, “Oh fine, considering…” or “I can’t complain, with all the horrible things that happened to other people.” Then they go on to mention the eight feet of water in their house, the terrifying emergency evacuation, the insurance company that refuses to pay for flood damage, the aunt who had to go into assisted living, the roofer who still won’t come to replace the blue tarp, or some other combination of calamities.

Those of us who didn’t lose a friend or relative or home feel lucky and depressed at the same time. The worst didn’t happen to me, but I’m still trying to assimilate the disaster that hit New Orleans—the destruction, deaths, inhumanity (and shining examples of true humanity), the disgraceful media coverage, the more disgraceful fumbling at every level of government, and what we all now call Katrina brain, a sort of pervasive “duhness.” I’ve loved New Orleans since I first came here in 1961. I’ll spend the rest of my life here. The city will never be the same, but what will it be like? There are a million predictions, but no one knows.

My own Katrina story starts like a lot of others. On Saturday, August 28, 2005, we discovered that what we thought was a Florida problem was heading straight for us. I was planning to ride it out at home as always, but my companion Michael Ledet, an artist and book designer, needed to go back to Hammond, north of Lake Pontchartrain, to get ready for family and friends running to higher ground. I decided to go along so I loaded my tranquilized cat into the carrier and packed enough clothes for the two or three days it would take to return to the city. Diva is still in Hammond today, and I replenished my wardrobe at Wal-Mart several times before I could get home. Wal-Mart should have run the rescue effort. Talk about efficiency.

Katrina did plenty of damage in Hammond—a tree went through Michael’s roof—but little compared to New Orleans. As the weeks went on, and we were forbidden to return to the city and take care of things, the anxiety and rootlessness got to be too much. We decided to drive to the east coast to promote the paperback version of Martha Washington, setting up speeches and signings on the way to the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia for a big speech. They’d been glad to hear that I hadn’t blown away.

Along the way, we visited with displaced friends in Birmingham and Asheville, coming to Richmond on September 27. The guest room was on the second floor, and getting up very early the next morning, half-asleep, I made a wrong turn and plummeted down the stairs. Michael dashed down and straightened my head so I could breathe, talking to me while waiting for the ambulance. The next hours and days are a hell of partial memories as the staff at St. Mary’s discovered I had a broken neck (C 1/2), which most often causes death or paralysis. Good luck out of bad, again. Particularly with the very patient nurses who looked after me while I was waiting for surgery on a morphine drip. Discovery: morphine makes you very paranoid. I thought the ward was in a cellar and the nurses were planning to abandon me to drown like a rat. Katrina dreams, indeed.

Unfortunately, I shared that fear with the nurses time and time and time again. This is a public apology to some very patient nurses. One actually bought my book and had me sign it after I was back in my senses again. Michael and our friend Sandy bought an enormous box of candy for them.

Michael cancelled all my appearances. The people at the APS were shocked: What next?

Another piece of good luck was the choice of a neurosurgeon, Dr. Peter Alexander of Richmond. He realigned my vertebrae (didn’t do any unnecessary fusing) and drilled the holes in my head for the halo brace. All went well, and the hospital was ready to get rid of me, but I still couldn’t come back to New Orleans—no doctor, no electricity, no phone, and not very many flights. Dr. Alexander found a rehab center to take me until I could make arrangements to get home. My daughter came to escort me back, and my sister came to take care of me at home. I was back in New Orleans by late October to live through eleven horrid weeks in the brace.

The first weeks were spent thoroughly drugged, but when I finally got up and out, I found out how many people have survived broken necks in those braces. They would come up to me on the street and tell me their stories. Other people sympathized, but wanted to know—how did it happen? does it hurt? (ha) and how do you sleep? (sitting up, propped by pillows).

The doctor let me out a week early so by Christmas, I was only wearing a neck support. During all that time, I hardly saw the city and didn’t know much of what was (or really, wasn’t) going on. In January, on the day I was allowed to take off the support, Mobile Infirmary called to tell me my son Colin, who had evacuated there, was in a diabetic coma. The next day my daughter Elizabeth drove me over, and I spent the next three weeks with Colin. Some of the doctors gave up hope, but he eventually roused. He spent another month in a rehab center, but is totally recovered and back at work. His friend David was a godsend through everything.

While all these tribulation were going on, Elizabeth’s wedding had to be postponed three times. She asked me: “Do you think our family is doomed?” Not at all. We had some tough times, but unlike others, we survived. We’re really awfully lucky.

Elizabeth finally got married in March to a great young man, and we could all be there, healthy and happy. The Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival was the one literary festival to take place as planned pre-K (I’m president of the board), and our out-of-town fans flocked to support the festival and the city. And I finally did make it to the American Philosophical Society in 2006, where they treated me like a long-lost, favorite relative.

It’s taken me nearly two years to write about all this. Somehow it was easier to keep on making repairs, dealing with insurance companies, and just generally doing what needed to be done. It’s almost impossible to accept that a storm, complicated by the utter failure of the Corps of Engineers’ levees, has changed all our lives forever.

The uptown section of New Orleans is fine, as are the French Quarter and other older areas that hug the high ground along the Mississippi River. There are amazing examples of strength and grace as people continue to rebuild homes and businesses and lives, helping themselves and each other. Relief teams from around the nation still arrive weekly to help with the effort. But the wreckage of much of the city encourages crime, thousands are still displaced, insurance is killing us, businesses have left town taking jobs with them, and government still lags in every area. The more visitors to the city, the better. They can see what we’ve done for ourselves and what still must be done. And, hopefully, how much the spirit of New Orleans still survives.

To find out more about the Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival, visit tennesseewilliams.net. The 22nd annual festival is scheduled for the last week of March, 2008. To see Michael’s beautiful paintings, go to michaelledetart.com.