Tuesday, December 26, 2006 at 1:01am
The call of Katrina
Column: wavelength
On Monday, Aug. 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina slammed into the Gulf Coast, the levees in New Orleans broke, and unforgettable mayhem ensured. Like so many, I was desperate to help.
As the gods would have it, the magnitude of the storm created a huge need, and there was a call through my credentialing organization that the Red Cross would waive its usual requirements if we mental health folks who were licensed would complete its application process and be willing to give a minimum of two weeks of time.
I feverishly completed my application over the Labor Day weekend, was able to finally connect and fax the papers late Tuesday night. Forty-eight hours later I received a response.
Thursday night I came home to listen to a telephone message that said, "You have been authorized to travel" and informed me I would be deployed to area 871. I was to call an 800-number to make travel arrangements; I was to call another 800-number at 3 p.m. the next day for a conference call. I was to leave immediately. The whole message seemed like a rattling string of digits; it was brief, brisk, formal, and military-like. I played it over and over again to make sure I had accurately heard all the information.
The Friday afternoon conference call is chaotic, and fear of the unknown is palpable. We are told to bring several copies of our professional license along with ID. We are told we were going to hardship areas and, therefore, needed to bring toilet paper, soap, towels, rain gear, sleeping bag, bug spray, flashlight, snacks, enough clothes to last for two weeks as well as be able to carry it all. We are warned about mosquitoes, snakes, and unpotable water. We are told not to count on cell phone service or electricity. It is recommended that shots like tetanus and the like be up to date.
I shut down my practice for three weeks and fly to Montgomery, Ala., on Monday, Sept. 12, two weeks to the day since Katrina slammed into the Gulf coast.
I arrive in Montgomery with many other volunteers from all over the country. We are all excited, a bit nervous, and anxious to receive our assignments. That evening we are placed in area motels that house Red Cross volunteers (several to a room) as well as families of Katrina evacuees. I find great morning communion at the motel as Red Cross workers get their coffee and cereal right along with displaced moms, dads, and kids. We are all in it together.
People call out to us from their cars at stoplights in front of the motels and ask, "Y'all from New Orleans?" They honk their horns, wave, and shout what sound like blessings of "we're with y'all." It feels like we are all connected to one another in a more tangible way these days. The web of light is alive and thrumming.
On Day One we are taken to the main staging area, which is an old, empty, massive K-Mart building, where the Red Cross has created assorted "desks," labeled mental health, nursing, transportation, mass care, supplies, health, orientation, staff shelter, etc. The parking lot is filled with hundreds of rental trucks that are constantly being filled (day and night) and sent out to assorted distribution sites. I complete orientation, fill out more forms, hang out at the mental health desk with my colleagues, and learn the fine art of "hurry up and wait." We are all eager to be assigned.
Every time a contingent is sent out from HQ, everyone in the building stops what they are doing, stands, applauds, hoots, hollers, and whistles best wishes to the outgoing gang. It is a connecting and encouraging moment that I happily experience as we, a group of mental health workers and nurses, board buses to travel down I-10 to our assignment in Gulfport, Miss.
The chatter on the bus stops as we roll past billboards stripped clean and hanging at asymmetrical angles; boats overturned or resting on land; and a boat, eye-level with the highway, wedged up in tree branches. We see bridges damaged, trees sheared and bent, and buildings mangled. Even the Interstate is missing some pieces. The four-lane highway, in places, becomes two lanes. Normal things are out of place; the scenery is incongruent. I am reminded of paintings by René Magritte.
We pull off the highway and travel on a winding road until we reach the Biloxi-Gulfport Red Cross field headquarters, an old lodge surrounded by swampy grasses, a myriad of rental trucks, and a ring of port-a-potties. We have arrived.
(Tomorrow: Chaos and drama at the Seabees base)
— — —
Adele R. McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath, and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © copyright 2006 by Adele R. McDowell
As the gods would have it, the magnitude of the storm created a huge need, and there was a call through my credentialing organization that the Red Cross would waive its usual requirements if we mental health folks who were licensed would complete its application process and be willing to give a minimum of two weeks of time.
I feverishly completed my application over the Labor Day weekend, was able to finally connect and fax the papers late Tuesday night. Forty-eight hours later I received a response.
Thursday night I came home to listen to a telephone message that said, "You have been authorized to travel" and informed me I would be deployed to area 871. I was to call an 800-number to make travel arrangements; I was to call another 800-number at 3 p.m. the next day for a conference call. I was to leave immediately. The whole message seemed like a rattling string of digits; it was brief, brisk, formal, and military-like. I played it over and over again to make sure I had accurately heard all the information.
The Friday afternoon conference call is chaotic, and fear of the unknown is palpable. We are told to bring several copies of our professional license along with ID. We are told we were going to hardship areas and, therefore, needed to bring toilet paper, soap, towels, rain gear, sleeping bag, bug spray, flashlight, snacks, enough clothes to last for two weeks as well as be able to carry it all. We are warned about mosquitoes, snakes, and unpotable water. We are told not to count on cell phone service or electricity. It is recommended that shots like tetanus and the like be up to date.
I shut down my practice for three weeks and fly to Montgomery, Ala., on Monday, Sept. 12, two weeks to the day since Katrina slammed into the Gulf coast.
I arrive in Montgomery with many other volunteers from all over the country. We are all excited, a bit nervous, and anxious to receive our assignments. That evening we are placed in area motels that house Red Cross volunteers (several to a room) as well as families of Katrina evacuees. I find great morning communion at the motel as Red Cross workers get their coffee and cereal right along with displaced moms, dads, and kids. We are all in it together.
People call out to us from their cars at stoplights in front of the motels and ask, "Y'all from New Orleans?" They honk their horns, wave, and shout what sound like blessings of "we're with y'all." It feels like we are all connected to one another in a more tangible way these days. The web of light is alive and thrumming.
On Day One we are taken to the main staging area, which is an old, empty, massive K-Mart building, where the Red Cross has created assorted "desks," labeled mental health, nursing, transportation, mass care, supplies, health, orientation, staff shelter, etc. The parking lot is filled with hundreds of rental trucks that are constantly being filled (day and night) and sent out to assorted distribution sites. I complete orientation, fill out more forms, hang out at the mental health desk with my colleagues, and learn the fine art of "hurry up and wait." We are all eager to be assigned.
Every time a contingent is sent out from HQ, everyone in the building stops what they are doing, stands, applauds, hoots, hollers, and whistles best wishes to the outgoing gang. It is a connecting and encouraging moment that I happily experience as we, a group of mental health workers and nurses, board buses to travel down I-10 to our assignment in Gulfport, Miss.
The chatter on the bus stops as we roll past billboards stripped clean and hanging at asymmetrical angles; boats overturned or resting on land; and a boat, eye-level with the highway, wedged up in tree branches. We see bridges damaged, trees sheared and bent, and buildings mangled. Even the Interstate is missing some pieces. The four-lane highway, in places, becomes two lanes. Normal things are out of place; the scenery is incongruent. I am reminded of paintings by René Magritte.
We pull off the highway and travel on a winding road until we reach the Biloxi-Gulfport Red Cross field headquarters, an old lodge surrounded by swampy grasses, a myriad of rental trucks, and a ring of port-a-potties. We have arrived.
(Tomorrow: Chaos and drama at the Seabees base)
— — —
Adele R. McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath, and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © copyright 2006 by Adele R. McDowell