Wednesday, December 27, 2006 at 1:01am
The uncensored Katrina disaster volunteer
Column: wavelength
It is 8 a.m. at HQ, and the mental health desk briefings are called to order in the parking lot. We shield our faces from the sun and swat away the bugs as we await our daily directives. My first assignment is Sector 17, a neighborhood in Gulfport that has street after street of rubble, branches, tarps, twisted wreckage amid still-standing houses. Power has been out for days, the weather is very hot and humid. Life is not normal: Schools are not open, many businesses are closed, the area hospital just reopened. Curfews are in effect.
The local shelter has just been closed, and we, my partner for the day and I, have a box truck filled with assorted supplies. We comb the neighborhoods distributing goods from the back of the truck and talking to people. We meet families that emerge out of rubble, happy to have diapers and any available foodstuffs. We are flagged down by a disaster rescue squad boss looking for MREs (military meals ready to eat, complete with a heating unit that is activated by a bit of water) for his 50 disaster workers who are running short of food and have been subsisting on Ramen noodles. We are resourceful and able to put our hands on a case that we happily deliver to the rescue squad.
At Day Two's briefing, there is a call for two volunteers to work the staff shelter at the Navy Seabee base. It is an intense situation that has turned sour. I raise my hand, and it becomes my new home for the duration.
The Seabee base is an enormous four-bay hangar that normally houses tanks and massive construction equipment. (The Seabees are the construction arm of the Navy.) Vehicles travel up and down the main concourse. The Red Cross is in the second bay; there are 600-plus Red Cross workers housed here, with approximately 50 to 100 people departing and arriving daily. In adjoining bays, there are FEMA workers, Job Corps kids, Nevada One Medical, U.S. Forestry Service, Scientologists wearing yellow "volunteer spiritual minister" T-shirts and offering free nightly massages, plus Marines, firefighters, and Native American smoke jumpers who later are deployed to Texas and California.
The main concourse of this hangar is spotted with white coolers filled with water, Gatorade, and ice. It is very, very hot in Mississippi. Evacuees stand in unshaded lines for countless hours, sometimes over countless days, waiting for Red Cross or FEMA to complete their paperwork so they can receive money. Daily, evacuees, nurses, and mental health workers in the lines keel over from heat exhaustion and dehydration, as do volunteers loading trucks, working the warehouses, and the like.
One day the heat index outside is 112. Inside the shelter it is 10 degrees hotter. There is concern about bacteria and illness, so FEMA installs a kind of air conditioning that blows some air into the entire facility and lowers the temps to 85ish. FEMA also brings in showers in trailers. There are outdoor wash stations, port-a-potties, and food catered by Braggs, the big name with fire crews.
My first 24 hours at the Seabee base I visit two ERs, ride in a police car, and spend time with the head of security at the Navy base. Later, I escort an unstable volunteer back to her home on the East Coast, a trip that takes 24 hours. It is Day Three before I actually put my head down on my cot. There are nights of high drama, including young volunteers with drugs and alcohol, which are verboten in our quarters.
When the lights go out at 10 p.m., the darkness is punctuated by blue or orange flares anchored to the floor to denote aisles, outlining uneven flooring, and attached to the massive fans brought in to help circulate air. People are up and down all night long, going to the port-a-potties, unable to sleep, disturbed by noise, heat, and close quarters. There is constant movement in the dark. Even if your eyes are closed, there are shadows walking across your lids. The flares and emergency lighting give the place an otherworld reality.
If you step outside, the area is brightly lit with enormous pole lights. There is the whir of the compressors. It feels like you have just stepped onto a soundstage for a "M*A*S*H" episode with the tented tables and chairs that serve as a mess hall. There are those who cannot sleep. The air is filled with nervous energy, fatigue, and homesickness. Every night after lights out, I do "walkabouts" and connect with the insomniacs and wanderers.
I rarely leave the base. I am busy talking to people. There are volunteers who can't get out of their cots, some who drink and drug, some with night terrors, some who don't sleep, some who are unraveling. Many are men looking for redemption; they are shattered and broken. I help defuse and debrief; I help manage frustrations with the system. I offer solace and a safe haven.
There are a multitude of stories. Volunteers willingly take off their glasses and clothes and directly hand them to evacuees; they empty their suitcases and open their wallets. They want to help in any possible way.
* There are two women who drive a box truck with supplies. They meet 7-year-old Daniel on his red bicycle. Daniel leads the women through the depths of the bayou to many forgotten houses that need supplies, the last of which is his, where there are 15 people under one small roof.
* Two volunteers are sent to an area called Diamondhead, where there were large homes on the water, some with individual hangars and runways. Almost everything was wiped out. They are directed to George's house, still standing and housing seven of his neighbors, one of whom George saw floating by in the storm; he threw her a rope that he had tied to a cooler, and saved her life. They needed food.
* Todd and his partner encounter a woman and her daughter who is wearing a filthy dress, says her shoes "have washed away," and sing-songs that the upcoming Monday is her birthday. The fellows pool their money and go to Wal-Mart at 8 a.m. (You had to go early or the shelves would be empty.) They buy an outfit, shoes, doll, and birthday cake. They return to the girl's yard, as that's what is left, and bedeck the birthday girl with her goodies. The girl is delighted; her mother sobs. Todd calls his wife that night and relates the day. Todd realizes that Monday was his wife's birthday as well and he had forgotten; Todd apologizes, and his wife tells him that he has given her the best birthday ever.
The days and nights are full; the days blur and melt into another. The work is a blessing. And it's not over. Now it is time to receive my shamanic assignments.
(Tomorrow: Undercover shaman)
— — —
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
The local shelter has just been closed, and we, my partner for the day and I, have a box truck filled with assorted supplies. We comb the neighborhoods distributing goods from the back of the truck and talking to people. We meet families that emerge out of rubble, happy to have diapers and any available foodstuffs. We are flagged down by a disaster rescue squad boss looking for MREs (military meals ready to eat, complete with a heating unit that is activated by a bit of water) for his 50 disaster workers who are running short of food and have been subsisting on Ramen noodles. We are resourceful and able to put our hands on a case that we happily deliver to the rescue squad.
At Day Two's briefing, there is a call for two volunteers to work the staff shelter at the Navy Seabee base. It is an intense situation that has turned sour. I raise my hand, and it becomes my new home for the duration.
The Seabee base is an enormous four-bay hangar that normally houses tanks and massive construction equipment. (The Seabees are the construction arm of the Navy.) Vehicles travel up and down the main concourse. The Red Cross is in the second bay; there are 600-plus Red Cross workers housed here, with approximately 50 to 100 people departing and arriving daily. In adjoining bays, there are FEMA workers, Job Corps kids, Nevada One Medical, U.S. Forestry Service, Scientologists wearing yellow "volunteer spiritual minister" T-shirts and offering free nightly massages, plus Marines, firefighters, and Native American smoke jumpers who later are deployed to Texas and California.
The main concourse of this hangar is spotted with white coolers filled with water, Gatorade, and ice. It is very, very hot in Mississippi. Evacuees stand in unshaded lines for countless hours, sometimes over countless days, waiting for Red Cross or FEMA to complete their paperwork so they can receive money. Daily, evacuees, nurses, and mental health workers in the lines keel over from heat exhaustion and dehydration, as do volunteers loading trucks, working the warehouses, and the like.
One day the heat index outside is 112. Inside the shelter it is 10 degrees hotter. There is concern about bacteria and illness, so FEMA installs a kind of air conditioning that blows some air into the entire facility and lowers the temps to 85ish. FEMA also brings in showers in trailers. There are outdoor wash stations, port-a-potties, and food catered by Braggs, the big name with fire crews.
My first 24 hours at the Seabee base I visit two ERs, ride in a police car, and spend time with the head of security at the Navy base. Later, I escort an unstable volunteer back to her home on the East Coast, a trip that takes 24 hours. It is Day Three before I actually put my head down on my cot. There are nights of high drama, including young volunteers with drugs and alcohol, which are verboten in our quarters.
When the lights go out at 10 p.m., the darkness is punctuated by blue or orange flares anchored to the floor to denote aisles, outlining uneven flooring, and attached to the massive fans brought in to help circulate air. People are up and down all night long, going to the port-a-potties, unable to sleep, disturbed by noise, heat, and close quarters. There is constant movement in the dark. Even if your eyes are closed, there are shadows walking across your lids. The flares and emergency lighting give the place an otherworld reality.
If you step outside, the area is brightly lit with enormous pole lights. There is the whir of the compressors. It feels like you have just stepped onto a soundstage for a "M*A*S*H" episode with the tented tables and chairs that serve as a mess hall. There are those who cannot sleep. The air is filled with nervous energy, fatigue, and homesickness. Every night after lights out, I do "walkabouts" and connect with the insomniacs and wanderers.
I rarely leave the base. I am busy talking to people. There are volunteers who can't get out of their cots, some who drink and drug, some with night terrors, some who don't sleep, some who are unraveling. Many are men looking for redemption; they are shattered and broken. I help defuse and debrief; I help manage frustrations with the system. I offer solace and a safe haven.
There are a multitude of stories. Volunteers willingly take off their glasses and clothes and directly hand them to evacuees; they empty their suitcases and open their wallets. They want to help in any possible way.
* There are two women who drive a box truck with supplies. They meet 7-year-old Daniel on his red bicycle. Daniel leads the women through the depths of the bayou to many forgotten houses that need supplies, the last of which is his, where there are 15 people under one small roof.
* Two volunteers are sent to an area called Diamondhead, where there were large homes on the water, some with individual hangars and runways. Almost everything was wiped out. They are directed to George's house, still standing and housing seven of his neighbors, one of whom George saw floating by in the storm; he threw her a rope that he had tied to a cooler, and saved her life. They needed food.
* Todd and his partner encounter a woman and her daughter who is wearing a filthy dress, says her shoes "have washed away," and sing-songs that the upcoming Monday is her birthday. The fellows pool their money and go to Wal-Mart at 8 a.m. (You had to go early or the shelves would be empty.) They buy an outfit, shoes, doll, and birthday cake. They return to the girl's yard, as that's what is left, and bedeck the birthday girl with her goodies. The girl is delighted; her mother sobs. Todd calls his wife that night and relates the day. Todd realizes that Monday was his wife's birthday as well and he had forgotten; Todd apologizes, and his wife tells him that he has given her the best birthday ever.
The days and nights are full; the days blur and melt into another. The work is a blessing. And it's not over. Now it is time to receive my shamanic assignments.
(Tomorrow: Undercover shaman)
— — —
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