Posted on the LACDL List service today
In advance of Hurricane Katrina, I was one of forty three Louisiana Department
of Social Services staff members, who was assigned to work at the Superdome in
New Orleans on the joint Emergency Preparedness Task Force for citizens with
special needs with the City of New Orleans' Office of Public Health. What a
misnomer! DSS employees were identified by red vests with the DSS insignia. OPH
and other caregivers had red-orange bands on their wrists and some wore lab
coats. Other than latex gloves, at the outset, this was the only equipment
provided to us. Some of us began on Saturday night by manning the phone banks
and setting up the staging area at the loading docks in the rear of the
Superdome, under Gate E, facing the New Orleans Arena. But most of us arrived
early Sunday morning, shortly before the "Special Needs" population was allowed
entry. Our vehicles were parked, and remain parked, under Gate G, near what was
to become the heliport and military base. Our original assignment was to
register the Special Needs or Medical Needs evacuees while OPH did triage and
determined whether they would stay at the Dome or be sent to another location.
There were 2 doctors and 2 nurses for hundreds of patients per hour. From the
outset, there were not enough forms available for the number of people that
showed up. Someone ran to make more. OPH ran out of triage tags as well. The
residents of entire nursing home facilities were being dropped at the door
without paid staff to support them. Families and neighbors were dropping off the
sick and elderly and either intentionally leaving them alone or leaving them
briefly thinking that they would make their way back later, not knowing that
some of the people would be shipped to other locations in the meantime. Hospice
patients on the verge of death were brought in. One laid on a table, barely
alive, for hours. It was so crowded, hot and chaotic, there were not enough cots
or space. Because the loading dock doors were open, it did not smell too badly.
There were psychiatric patients who claimed no special need at all, but were
clearly in the right place. There were rows and rows of wheelchair patients and
we crawled over and amongst everyone to get the registration information so that
no one would be lost.
After only an hour, the concept of "registration" blew away with the on-coming
storm. (One doctor gamely tried to keep a list or at least a head count, but
abandoned that attempt around 2:00 am.) All of us became nurses aides, go-fers,
and whatever else was needed for the duration. At that point, we had nothing but
latex gloves and a limited supply of bottled water to comfort the patients. We
helped ambulatory patients to the bathrooms. There was no food and no medicine
in the loading dock area to give patients while they waited to be sorted and
possibly relocated in the pre-storm hours. Unexplainedly, expensive medical
equipment, such as respirators and electric wheelchairs, was being left behind
when their owners were shipped off to hospitals. It was useless to us, except
for the extra tanks of oxygen which we "borrowed" when the triage of other
oxygen dependent patients began taking too long.
The thing that everyone wanted most - information about what was happening and
where they were going- was unknown to us, too. There was no one in charge with
good information. Trying to find even the simplest answer required asking at
least five or six people and the answer would still be unclear. For instance,
the policy for people accompanying the special needs patients who were being
sent elsewhere depended on who was asked. NOPD would bring in entire families
and promise them that they could stay together, only to be told by the OPH or
military that the rules were different. If the patient was going to a hospital,
no one could accompany them. But if the patient was going to another shelter or
make-shift medical facility such as the Assembly Center in Baton Rouge, one
person could go. (When the military finally arrived and asked someone "who's in
charge?", they pointed to us! Like we had taken over by then!)
Intact families were separated. We had the horrible task of helping families
leave a sick or disabled patient on his own and say good bye so that he could
go to a hospital - or help them decide which relative would go with a patient
being sent to another shelter and which would stay in the general population of
the Dome with the children or other family members. Families had to choose
between parents, spouses and children in only minutes, possibly to become
separated indefinitely and in to uncertainty since no one knew where anyone
would be sent. With the registration system broken down, we took to assisting
family members by writing phone numbers of relatives in other states, who could
act as a liaison once final destinations were reached, on the arms of both the
patient and the separating family members.
One dialysis patient, Ms Matherne, gave us all a problem. She came in with her
son and his 18 month old son. The son had wandered off and she was pretty sure
he wasn't returning. That didn't seem to bother her. What bothered her was that
her son had helped her carry 3 small suitcases, a box and 2 garbage bags of
bedding. Now there was no one to help her, there was a space limit on the last
bus out for dialysis patients and she was NOT leaving without her stuff. Angela
tried to reason with her first, but got exasperated. Then Dr. Jim, the
priest/doctor, tried. Finally, I grabbed all of her stuff and sat it in front of
her. I told her that I was going to go through her bags with her, get rid of
what wasn't needed and consolidate it into 2 bags, which they would allow on the
bus. We got rid of diapers and food but kept the Bible and a television. She
seemed satisfied, but kept eyeing the bedding. I told her I would tag it with
her son's name, in case he came back. She knew that wasn't likely. I said, "It
comes down to the comforters or you and the baby's health. What's it going to
be?" She relented. Dr. Jim said a prayer. We put the diapers and food to good
use with the remaining patients. It was like that a lot. We tag teamed on
patients until someone could say or do the right thing that registered. It
exhausted us.
We were bombarded with relatives that had become separated before arriving at
the Dome and who were now trying to find sick or feeble patients. Because the
registration system had broken down, there was no way to assist them. Sometimes
we would take them to tour the second floor and there were a few success
stories. But mostly we had to guess, based on the patient's health problems,
that they had been sent to another hospital or shelter. It was heart-wrenching
each time of the hundreds of times we had to do this.
We each developed special people we watched over. One of my first was a tiny,
blind lady, Ms Ruby. She couldn't have weighed more than 80 pounds. When we met,
she was sitting in a chair, sure that her daughter was coming to get her. I
feared that she had been left. After telling him Ms Ruby was blind, I asked a
guardsman to help us find her daughter. He asked what she looked like. I said,
"you're kidding, right?" We didn't start a search. I asked Ms Ruby if she'd
like some water and she said, "diet coke". I said that I was sorry that all we
had was water, but she said she wanted diet coke. "Me, too," I said, "but all we
have is water." It was then that I figured that I better explain to her what was
happening. In great detail, I told her that she was in a huge cement and steel
loading dock area with trucks and ambulances at the door, rows of cots with sick
people and lots of workers running around. It had started to rain and I told her
that as much as her daughter may be trying to get to her, she may not be able
because of the storm. She said, "That's okay, honey. Just call me a cab." I told
her that I thought she should stay with us til the storm was over and she should
make herself comfortable on a cot. She insisted in sitting in a chair so that
her daughter would be able to see her. Twenty four hours later, she was still in
that chair despite all of our attempts to get her to lie down. Finally, I begged
her and promised her that I would stay while she slept and if her daughter
showed up, I would make sure she saw her. She said, "I believe I'll take that
nap now."
We escorted, wheeled, and pushed the patients who were designated to stay at the
Dome to the second floor conference room. At that time, electricity and
elevators were still working. One of the favorite people I escorted was John
Jordan. He too was blind. He sang gospel hymns and quoted the Bible all the way
upstairs, but you could tell that Mr. Jordan had not always been so religious. I
asked him if he was on any medication and he handed me four prescriptions.....still
written on the paper and unfilled. I asked him if he brought any pills with him
and he said, "No time. There was a storm coming." He must have thought I was the
idiot. I saw him 2 days later as he shipped out on an ambulance and I called to
him, but he was singing and didn't hear me.
There were two women, one deaf and the other deaf and blind. We wrote notes to
communicate. On the way to the second floor, a guardsman in a cart kept yelling
"clear a hole", meaning "get out of the way" and I kept yelling back "they're
hearing impaired", until finally the guy next to him slugged him and told him to
shut up and wait a second. When I got them settled upstairs, I found someone
near them who promised to let them know if there were any announcements. I saw
them 2 days later as they were evacuating and, in rudimentary sign, I asked if
they were OK. She signaled that they were "so-so". That's what we all were
trying to be.
The National Guard tried to establish registration using a lap top computer
coupled with a nursing station check-in at the location on the second floor, but
that too was soon abandoned. Initially, there was no bottled water on the second
floor, but there was a drinking fountain and we still had running water. There
were no cups to bring water to the non-ambulatory patients. We begged for a few
from the nursing station so that patients who had brought medication could take
it. Everyone was asking for food and water. With the electricity on, so was the
air conditioner. Patients complained of the cold, but we had no blankets or
sheets.
The first ballroom/conference room filled and we were forced from our own
quarters into a hallway to make more room for the patients. While trying to care
for the people, we also had to move our belongings. Meanwhile, the stadium area
of the Dome was half filled with "general population" evacuees. The sewerage
system was overloading.
Eventually, in the early morning hours of Monday, all of the pre-storm evacuees
were settled. Some food and water arrived for the special needs patients,
supplied by Second Harvesters Food Bank. We assisted in getting it to the
non-ambulatory patients. We had electricity and water. We do not know whether
the general population was fed. We heard they were not. Everyone hunkered down
to wait out the storm. It would be our last chance to rest.
The hurricane itself was awesome, as the word was meant to be used. From our
sleeping area in the hall on the outer rim of the Dome, we could hear things
pinging and banging on the metal framework. Some were so loud and the objects
hitting the Dome so large, that everyone awakened. From the safety of the
recessed doors, we watched as roofs of the high rise buildings blew off and the
palm trees on Poydras Street bent farther and farther. The wind passed in fast,
huge, white gusts, so powerful that the wind itself could be seen. Glass broke
on surrounding buildings. A flag was tattered to shreds. The light covers on the
top of the street lights were blown off. The Dome's flag poles and clock towers
shook and swayed. The rain came horizontally. Inside the stadium, two vents in
the roof banged and crashed in the wind until they were blown off, tearing the
roof's cover and eventually causing two more vents to give way and the whole
cover to be blown off the roof. It was raining through the porous cover of the
Superdome into the stadium! The electricity went out and stayed out.
Surprisingly, no one panicked or complained. Everyone still felt safe in the
Dome. The general population was moved into the concourses, ramps and hallways.
We had to move our sleeping space and belongings once again. During the storm,
we spent some time sitting with lost children, whose parents eventually came and
claimed them. Most of the lost children you see on TV now came from the
Convention Center.
During the height of the storm, miraculously, a call came through from Damond,
one of the teenagers that I mentor. He was hysterical. His mom and sister had
decided to stay in their 2 story house in the Ninth Ward while he and his
grandparents had evacuated to LaPlace. His mom had just called to say that they
had spent the night on the roof, that they couldn't hang on anymore, that they
loved him and good-bye. There was nothing I could do but reassure him that they
were strong women who would find a way to survive. The phone cut off. I was sure
they had drown, but I would spend the next 12 hours searching every truck and
ambulance that came in, to no avail.
The storm was over. Unlike the patients and general population, we could go
outside, breathe fresh air and see the damage. We walked on Poydras Street.
There was a car, put on its roof by the wind, between the high rises across the
street. The windows on cars and buildings were blown out. There was broken glass
everywhere. Part of the cover of the Dome hung from its edge like a wet towel
while other parts were strewn in the street. Metal sheeting was wedged in the
outer frame. It all looked fixable. There was no flooding at that time. There
was talk that we might be leaving soon. We breathed a sigh of relief ---- too
quickly.
Inside, peoples' patience and calm were starting to deteriorate. The military
would not let them out of the stadium area. The people were treated more as
prisoners than evacuees, and some of them responded accordingly. The air was
stifling. The smokers could not smoke and were especially testy. The bathrooms
started to back up as there was no longer running water. The generators supplied
limited electricity for safety lighting only. Again, there was no information as
to when we all would be leaving. Eventually, the military was convinced to let
small groups of thirty to venture outside for ten minute breaks, to get air and
to see the damage. It helped ease some tension for a while.
We returned to assist with getting the special needs patients on the second
floor to bathrooms and bringing them the food that was left. When we went
outside again, the second disaster had happened, but we did not know what it
was. Monday night outside the Dome was beautiful. Without any electricity and
with no lights in the CBD, all of the stars could be seen. But there was waist
high water on Poydras Street where we had been walking only a few hours earlier.
It kept rising. We heard the Industrial Canal levee broke. We did not know about
the 17th Street Canal yet.
Monday evening, ambulances and trucks began streaming in filled with people who
had been pulled from roofs and rescued from attics. Then the water got too high
for ambulances. We all returned to the loading docks to help and never really
returned to the patients on the second floor much after that. There was not time
and there were too many new crises to address. My first post-storm people were
Mr. George and his wife. He reminded me of my grandfather, with a tilted
baseball cap and crooked grin. When Mr. George got too tired to walk up the
ramp, I had to take them upstairs separately in a wheelchair I commandeered. On
the way, his wife said, "They say were having a hurricane." I replied, "Yes,
maam. I heard that too." A few minutes later: "I heard we're having a
hurricane." I said, "Did you sleep during the hurricane, maam, because it's
already passed." "Well, they said it was coming," she said. I asked Mr. George.
Indeed, they had slept through it all and been pulled from 4 feet of rising
water in their house by a neighbor.
Many of the post-storm people did not have any belongings except the few clothes
on their back, and some did not even have that. Many had no shoes and the water
around the Dome and in the docks was contaminated with the trucks, urine, vomit
and human misery. All were suffering from exposure and dehydration. They were
exhausted. One woman laid on a mat on the muddy floor, repeatedly screaming for
help for hours, while waiting to be transferred. Some cried or screamed. Most
were just in quiet shock. The noise of the generators was loud and constant in
the background.
The Louisiana National Guard was with us at this stage with a few more doctors
and a few more supplies. We had bottled water, but other supplies were still
limited. Even though it was extremely hot and we were all drenched with sweat,
the new patients' prolonged exposure to the elements made them think it was
cold. We became some of the first looters. We ran through the Dome, removing
curtains, bunting and any fabric we could find to use for sheets and blankets.
We used the latex gloves on peoples' feet to protect them from the muck. We
scrounged all over for food. There were a few MREs (military meals ready to eat)
on the docks, but at that point, we were told that they had to be saved for the
rescue personnel since it was unsure as to when more would come. We snuck a few
away anyway, divided up the contents and discreetly passed out what we could.
The bathrooms near the loading docks were flooded. We made make-shift "bathroom"
with a bucket and curtains in the corner. Mostly, we tried to provided
reassurance and comfort. One of the DSS staff found a pack of baby wipes left by
some family the night before and went from patient to patient, wiping their
faces and telling them it would be okay. I kept having movie flashbacks and this
was like 'Gone with the Wind.'
Ms Wright, a paraplegic woman, and her 83 year old aunt, Ms Clayton, had been
pulled from their flooding house. Ms Wright did not have any clothes on, but she
was more concerned about Ms Clayton, who kept getting separated from her. Ms
Clayton liked wearing the latex gloves on her shoeless feet. I told them to
insist that Ms Clayton was Ms Wright's caretaker so the triage people would stop
separating them. In reality, it was the other way around. We scavenged though
boxes of promotional items that were probably to be given away at a Saints game.
We found backpacks with t-shirts in them. I gave one to Ms Wright.
And I gave two more to some little boys who came in with one's mother, dressed
only in their underwear. They were ecstatic when we placed them on the Saints
playing field. While I was doing that, I had my first successful reunion. On the
field, a woman approached me. I looked at her face and, before she said a word,
I said, "I know where your mother is." She was the spitting image of Ms Ruby!
"Red shirt, blue sweat pants?" "Yes, and tiny", she answered. We went running to
the docks. Her nap was long over and she was sitting up on the cot. Everyone
cried. Because she now had a caretaker and her daughter had a husband (and the
rule would have allowed only 2 of them to go in special needs population), they
all went off into the general population. As conditions deteriorated later in
the Dome, I worried about what happened to Ms Ruby and it still bothers me that
I'll never know.
At some point after the storm, more military medical staff arrived and they had
some supplies with them: bedpans, urinals, tape, changing pads, bandages. It
made meeting the patients needs much easier. They also brought more MREs and
cots. Hundreds of cots. It was then that we realized the probable extent of the
disaster. We set to work helping them set up cots and put them in rows. There
was a big paneled truck that was parked in the far corner and kept a motor
running at all times for refrigeration. We understood that it held bodies. No
one said anything.
In the midst of the chaos, the National Guard brought a man to me. "He says you
know where his family is." I had never seen him before. Apparently the man went
out to smoke and couldn't find his way back to the right hallway that his family
claimed as their own. What was he smoking? He told me that I had picked up a
mental patient from his area the night before. The guardsman wanted to go with
me to find them, not believing the guy's story, but how could anyone make up a
story with me and a crazy woman? I knew where he meant and took him there.
Many of the group that came after the storm were elderly people who usually
lived alone and survived, but who had special needs, too. (People without
obvious medical needs were being trucked to the other side of the Dome where
they would be searched for weapons, given a bottle of water and one MRE before
being placed in the already overcrowded, filthy and tense general population.)
We changed adult diapers and assisted them with their daily care. We got them on
and off of bedpans, which we then emptied into the nearest garbage cans. There
was no means for proper disposal of bio-hazard waste and there were no red bags
at that stage. The floor became slippery and dangerous with tracked in flood
water and with human waste. One of our staff fell in muck and injured her arm,
yet she kept working. Even with the dock's doors open, the smell was bad, but
not as gut-wrenching as what we encountered inside the Dome as we pushed some
patients up ramps, through throngs of people to the second floor area. We
searched for cots and food to settle them in the hot, smelly, dark conference
room, before returning to the docks to assist others.
We bandaged small wounds that the doctors and nurses did not have time to
treat.We bargained with patients to borrow their walkers and wheelchairs to
assist other patients. Those who were oxygen dependent or on dialysis were
shipped off on the next available 2.5 truck (sometimes not for hours and hours)
to get to a facility that had electricity. When they left, we took anything they
had left behind and used it for other patients. We ran out of adult Depends and
improvised with baby diapers. One man had some brain injury that distorted his
body and prevented him from speaking. He made noises and kept trying to get off
the cot. We cried when we had to use a bandage to tie his ankle to the cot to
prevent him from hurting himself. We did not know what he could understand about
what was happening to him.
We began placing more patients on the playing field of the Dome. It was more
comfortable for some of them, especially those with children, but it gave us
even more territory to cover and we were already tired. Doing the simplest task
that would take five minutes normally, took hours, because along the way other
people would ask for help or information. There were three dementia patients who
required a lot of watching for their safety and for the safety of the other
patients. "Joe" had to be told every five minutes to sit down, which he
dutifully did. It turned out that he felt most secure if he was surrounded by
walls, so we let him sit inside an unused metal detector frame. A man from
Honduras kept asking us for a mop. We should have let him clean up a little
because it need it. But he kept telling us, "I go where I want" and we were
afraid he would hurt himself, wander outside or get in the way. The tiny female
was all dressed up in a suit, hat, pumps and wig. She became combative and when
we asked for assistance (because there was more military to watch them than
there were of us), instead, the military personnel came and taped all three into
their chairs and cots with blue duct tape. They could not eat or drink for
themselves for the duration, so we tried to feed them and give them water. They
were so confused. The lady kept trying to bust them loose.
A diabetic man came in with his little dog. He kept feeding the dog crackers
from his MRE. I told him not to get caught because they wouldn't give him
anymore MREs. I asked him what he would do with the dog. I explained the one bag
and no pets rules. He said the dog was his family, emptied the contents from his
one bag and put the dog in it. I didn't blow his cover and I hope both he and
the dog are OK and together. One woman came in with a shower curtain wrapped
around her. She was clutching her four year old son so tightly, he couldn't
breathe. We tried to get her to let go so that we could give her and him some
food and water. She cried and told us that she could not let him go because her
husband and other two children had washed away in the flood. She rocked him and
herself in her misery.
Monday night I was walking across the football field when I heard someone in the
stands, screaming my name. It was Trina and Kia, Damond's mom and sister. I have
never been so relieved to see anyone. Trina has a host of medical problems and I
asked her why she didn't come through the special needs area. She said they
didn't ask her. She had none of her numerous medications with her. She told me
that on Sunday afternoon when it started to rain, they realized they made a bad
decision and quickly packed a bag to leave. When they opened the door to go, the
car was floating down the street. The Industrial Canal levee had just broke and
the water was rising that fast. They got on their second story roof. The water
continued to come up to them. They made that fateful call to Damond.
Just then, the house next door floated off its foundation and bumped into
theirs. It was higher, so they jumped on to that roof. The house floated down
the street to an even higher roof, occupied by two other people. The four of
them held on to each other and the roof all night and for the entire hurricane.
She said that God sent them the house.
We did our best to solve every problem that confronted us, all the time
searching for information as to our own families, friends and neighborhoods. We
tried not to think of our own situations while dealing with the catastrophe and
suffering of others. Our clothes and feet were never dry, soaked with our own
sweat and whatever else got on us. We washed with the pre-moistened bath wipes.
We tried to avoid using the vile bathrooms, a task that was aided by our natural
dehydration from the heat and the stress. Our "breaks" consisted of running back
to our cars, re-charging our phones in the only electrical source available and
trying desperately to make contact with the real world. The only thing that
worked with any reliability was text messaging. I didn't even know how to do it
last week. Now I can do it in the dark. We tried to relax and sleep, but the
stress, noise and smells made it impossible. We slept very little after the
storm until we were off the hell's island that the Superdome had become.
Conditions in the whole Superdome were deteriorating. We heard the same horror
stories that you heard in the news. The frustrations of the people confined in
that awful place made them call out to us, sometimes in a harassing and
threatening way. We were accused of not helping them, and that part was true,
but explaining that we were only assigned to special needs people would not have
been wise. We tried to ignore them. The threats got more serious. The military
became worried about the safety of the special needs patients on the second
floor and moved all of them and us to the Arena, adjoining the Superdome.
I went back in the Dome on Tuesday morning to get Trina and have her seen by the
doctors. I ran into some friends of Damond's from the Ninth Ward and we had a
quick reunion. When I found Trina and Kia, they were reluctant to leave the two
people who helped them survive on the roof, but after many tears and exchanging
of contact numbers, I got them outside. On the way to the Arena, I told her not
to minimize any of her medical conditions and to tell them that she needed Kia
to stay with her, in case she had a seizure. When we got to the Arena, Trina
promptly had a seizure so that she didn't have to explain anything. They were
airlifted out of there in the afternoon.
I was last in the Dome on Tuesday afternoon. It was the most inhumane place I
have ever been. It was the worst disaster movie magnified. The stench was worse
than any I ever smelled, and I grew up surrounded by livestock farms. It was
hot, dark and dangerous. I still regret and worry about the man in Section 145,
Row 32 who was without his insulin, but couldn't walk as far as the Arena and I
had no way to transport him. Same for the lady with the walker, whose neighbor
had rescued her but could no longer assist her because she had to see to her own
children. I need to know what happened to them.
The general population was given water. They were not given any respect or
information. They were given MREs without training on how to use them. They were
not told how long they would have to endure that hell. A public information
director to give them training about emergency sanitation methods, how to use
the MREs and what was happening would have relieved much of the tension and
misery. These people, OUR PEOPLE, did nothing wrong. They were evacuees, not
prisoners. No human should have to live like that for even a minute. Their
despair turned to frustration and to anger. One young man told us that he had
'escaped' twice and they bought him back at gunpoint. He wanted to use our phone
to escape again. We told him that we were worried that they'd bring him back
dead the next time. He said it would be worth it to get out of there.
When we moved to the Arena, things did not get much better. The most significant
difference was that the New Mexico Disaster team, sponsored by FEMA, ran the
triage at the Arena. They were remarkable, but they only stayed 2 days. They set
up a complete MASH unit right below the balcony where we were assigned to sleep.
The first night in the Arena, there was running water, but no electricity.
Instead of total darkness, we were now illuminated with giant klieg lights for
surgery in the MASH.
Our job in the Arena, along with OPH, was to continue to provide care to the
patients who had been transferred from the second floor of the Dome. We were on
our last ounce of energy. While the original plan was to leave when the last
patient left, it became obvious that there was never going to be a "last
patient". There was a steady flow of new patients coming into the Arena from the
street and from the Dome at about the same rate as they were shipping current
patients out. The evacuation of the Dome by bus had started, but it was taking a
long time and the impatience was growing. People were being allowed to come over
to the Arena from the Dome with both real and imagined illnesses, to try to get
out of there earlier than they would have on the buses provided for the general
population in the Dome.
Once the military arrived in full force, security got better. We were respected
by them and treated as an essential part of the operation. We were allowed to
move about freely. They, along with the EMTs and police who wandered in, gave us
news of what was happening on the streets. Every time the shifts or commands
changed, so did the rules and operations. Mostly we could adjust. They were
tired and overworked as well. Some of the pilots were on leave from Iraq. They
gave advice as to what follow-up medical screenings we would need as a result of
the conditions where we were working. Their "street skills" were not refined,
and they tended to believe every story that anyone trying to enter the Arena
told them, adding to the overcrowding and inappropriate use of the special needs
evacuation.
Very quickly, the Arena became as bad as the Dome with sweat, urine and other
waste on the floor. They had us start lining up the wheelchair patients first
for evacuation from the Arena to shelters and hospitals around the country. It
was very slow going and disorganized. They set up a 'color coding' system
consisting of tying red or yellow plastic around the wrists of patients and
caretakers. It was confusing. OPH's armbands were also red. The red plastic was
supposed to designate a person as a caretaker for an individual patient as well.
The problem was that the people with 'street smarts' would get a red bio-hazard
garbage bag, create their own wrist band and pair themselves with unescorted
patients. The yellow bands signified the patients. No one was supposed to get on
the Arena's trucks and ambulances without a band, but some savvy people would
wait at the corners of the trucks and jump on while the military personnel were
not looking because they were trying to figure out how to get a problematic
patient on the vehicle. When the military was informed of these situations, they
did not really understand the problem or did not know how to remedy it. We
watched as a steady trickle of patients continued to arrive at the Arena, even
as they were shipping others out and our anxiety mounted.
Wednesday morning there was no running water. We handed out food and bottled
water to the non-ambulatory patients while those that were able to walk lined up
at a Domino's concession to get theirs. We helped change diapers and, if they
had fresh clothes, we changed their wet smelly clothes that wheel chair patients
had stayed in for days. There were a few babies and children in the shelter and
some were sickly. One of our staff found a man dead in the bathroom. Later, a
two month old baby died.
The disaster effected everyone. Fats Domino was in the Arena in a diabetic
crisis. He had no insulin and neither did the medical personnel at the Arena. It
had ran out very quickly. He was beginning to hallucinate that he was there for
a concert, so he was refusing to eat. One of our staff convinced him to take a
few bites. Eventually, he was flown out, not because of his celebrity but
because of his condition. Later, on the radio, I heard that he had been reported
missing. They should have checked the Arena. We knew where he was.
The wait in the Arena was so long and so disgusting that caretakers, even paid
caretakers, began to abandon the sick and disabled to try to get on one of the
regular population buses. There was a cerebal palsy, paraplegic patient who had
been abandoned. One of our staff paired him with another patient who suffered
from prostate cancer, but who was mobile and helpful. They were inseparable for
24 hours. At the last minute, just as the paraplegic patient was to get on the
ambulance because of the preferred status, his paid caretaker returned and
forced his way on, too. Since he had the documentation, the military would not
listen to the unpaid, volunteer caretaker and he was left to wait until his
patient group was called another twelve hours later.
Just when we thought we could not keep going, a group of sixty international
students and tourists appeared and volunteered to take over our duties in
exchange for safe lodging until they could be evacuated. One of the airlines had
flown some of the tourists into New Orleans on Saturday afternoon without
telling them about the hurricane. The airport closed and they couldn't get out.
Talk about the vacation from hell. Those tourists and students fanned the
patients with cardboard box lids all night to try to ease the heat. They moved
some outside in their wheel chairs and stayed with them all night. We got our
cots and moved outside to sleep on the walkway to the Dome, away from the
stifling stench of the Arena.
When our duties were lessened and relieved on Wednesday, we suffered the first
wave of personal grief, as we finally had time to contemplate what happened to
our own homes, friends and families. As we waited outside the Arena, a woman
approached a group of us threatening 'manslaughter' if there were not better
progress on her evacuation. We knew how she felt. Nonetheless, our tensions
increased. Just then, the OPH employees exited the building en masse and it
became clear that they were leaving. We rushed to get our things and follow.
Security became a concern as our obvious absence and departure would only
increase the tension in the population. We went to the bottom floor of the Arena
as quickly and quietly as possible.
An army 2.5 truck arrived to take the first group out to the nearby Hyatt, where
we were supposed to catch a bus. The army truck was commandeered for another
mission and did not return. A scouting group went to explore wading and walking
to the Hyatt, to no avail. Eventually, a Second Harvesters panel truck came and
the remainder of the OPH, DSS and international student group smashed into it.
They were constantly afraid of hijacking. All movement was done as quickly and
stealthily as possible. We got out of the truck and waded into the Hyatt, that
was without power for a short while. Then we waited some more, needing to be
very quiet for security reasons, as the general population was being put on
buses through another area and the Hyatt and NOPD did not want to alert them
that we were in the building to be evacuated. So as not to overload the sewerage
system at the Hyatt, we taught everyone the backpacking method of urinating in
cups or bottles and defecate in bags, all to be sealed and placed in the
garbage. (We continued to use this method of 'sanitation' until we were
eventually evacuated.)
Our buses did not come. Instead, only the DSS employees were sent by the Guard's
2.5 truck back to the Dome. A DSS employee just left; fed up and frustrated with
the inability to get us out. Later, we heard she had safely made it out of the
city while we were still on the helipad. We left OPH and the international
student group at the Hyatt. I kept thinking of that word from Saving Private
Ryan, "fubar", fucked up beyond all reason.
For the most part, we were holding up pretty well emotionally to this point. We
had not had time to dwell on our personal situations. The most difficult times
were when they were moving us. We saw the destruction from a truck guarded by
men with AK47s. We saw the desperation and fear, true fear, in the faces of the
people on neutral grounds and sidewalks, who still were trying to decide whether
it was better to go in to the chaos of the Superdome for evacuation on take
their chances on the horror of the streets. While we appreciated and needed the
military, we also felt invaded by people who did not understand us, the "us"
that is uniquely New Orleans. Inside we were screaming, "What is happening to
our city, our heart, our soul?" and we wept.
It was getting to be dusk on Wednesday when we arrived at the same loading dock
where it all started. This time, we were the evacuees. We were told to take off
the red vests that identified our group for security reasons. We were led by
armed guard, in single file, through the bowels of the Superdome, with
instructions to be very quiet. We arrived at the Dome's Section G parking lot,
right where our cars were parked at nightfall. It had taken all day just to
cross the street from the Arena to the helipad at the Dome, though there was a
ramp that we had been freely using, without security, in all of the preceding
days. We were told to put the red vests back on and to stay away from the
overhangs and balconies where the general population congregated.
Then we were given the worse news: We would be spending the night on the
helicopter pad, without any accommodations whatsoever. We slept on the cement or
on cardboard boxes on the cement. We were promised "top priority" and that we
would leave on the first chopper in the morning. All night, smaller helicopters
came and went all around us. Troops marched past our heads, startling the staff
who tried to sleep. Someone remarked, "Now I know how the homeless men in
Lafayette Square feel" and someone responded "We are the homeless men in
Lafayette Square." It was so sad, it was funny. We could have withstood the
night if the promise had been kept in the morning, but like all other plans and
promises in this venture, it was not.
That night, I learned that my friend, Val, who lives two blocks from me, had
survived the storm with little damage, but then the water started to rise. When
the water got to her roof (which means it also got to mine), she and her family
got the inflatables from the pool and swam to St. Leo the Great school on St.
Bernard Avenue, around the corner. They broke a window and got on the third
floor and then the roof. Once the kids were stable, Val and her boyfriend got
back in the water to try to make it to her parents house. Her kids made it out
to Baton Rouge, but they had not been heard from. So who cared about my house?
I just wanted Val to be safe.
Thursday morning there was another excuse and new priority. All of the troops
that everyone had been waiting for were finally arriving. Our departure would be
delayed until they were all delivered to the Dome and again we were promised
the next chopper after that was accomplished. The emotional exhaustion was
causing the staff to crack. The employee with the injured arm was insisting on
leaving by foot with a plan to walk to Metairie. We were led off the heli-pad
and shoved in a corner of the parking lot to wait. We had no food or water, but
we were near our cars and could take refuge in them. Some of us tried to sleep,
only to be awakened by dreams that we were never getting out. One of staff woke
yelling, "don't leave me".
All of the troops were transported before noon. Now we were presented with a new
excuse. There were four van loads of special needs patients brought in from the
Convention Center and they were being given priority. We were told again that we
would go next. Two more employees left the group, deciding to take their chances
of walking out of the Dome into the unknown rather than stay around for more
excuses and delays.
Our destination was Baton Rouge. We were finally called to go to the heliport.
As we lined up, the pilot approached and asked us where we wanted to go. He said
he could take us to Baton Rouge. We all said we wanted to go to "Baton Rouge"
except for our so-called leader, who said it would be okay if they just took us
to Kenner and we could catch a bus. We nearly rioted. We demanded to go to Baton
Rouge. As we flew over the city, our hearts broke. Most of us wept all of the
way to Baton Rouge. But when we got there, we found out that Val had been
rescued and she and Mike were in Houston. All was good again. Screw the house.
When we got to Baton Rouge, I took off to rent a car. I got the last one at the
airport. Before picking up Angela and Diane to catch quick showers at LSU, I was
supposed to get us some stuff. Walking into Wal-Mart was overwhelming. I stunk
and looked really bad. I couldn't focus and didn't know where to start. I
settled on underwear. But the entire supply of Wal-Mart underwear was gone. The
evacuees bought all of it. They bought all of the razors, too. I wandered around
and left. At the LSU rec center, there were donated items and we made do. We
were getting good at it. We had showers. Nothing else mattered. I had fungus
all over my water logged feet and my shoes had to be tossed. I was bruised,
scraped and swollen. We went to Walgreens just as it closed to buy flip flops. I
took Diane to Vacherie and Angela to Gramercy, south of Baton Rouge, and then I
headed North, toward Marksville to see Roger.
It was the first time that I had been alone in 5 days. I was overwhelmed. So
much so, that as I entered Livonia, Louisiana at 2:00 a.m., I didn't see that
the speed limit had decreased. It was not so bad that I was stopped for
speeding, because I was, but the jerk officer decided to seize my driver's
license! I explained to him that the address on the license was under water,
that I had been working in the Dome and that, without my license, I could not
get airline tickets or hotel rooms. I told him I was a state employee and an
attorney and that there was no way I would skip out on his ticket. I offered to
pay the ticket or post a bond if I could just have my license back. I begged. It
was the last straw. After losing everything else, I couldn't believe he was
taking one of my keys to survival. I cried. I asked him if there was any
discretion. He said it was "his policy" and that the only persons that could
overrule him were the chief and the mayor, both of whom would be out until
Tuesday since it was Labor Day weekend. I took the ticket and got back in the
car.
When I got to Marksville at 3:00 a.m., I remembered that I didn't have Roger's
new address since he had just moved up there. I found a Marksville police
officer and gave her a shor t version of the story. She led me to the station
and I slept in the car in the lot. I sort of slept. I wrote notes for this. I
wrote lists of things I needed to remember to do. I dozed. At 7:00 a.m., I
called Joy and found Roger, who came and met me.
After talking with them for a while and making sure Roger was stable, I left for
my friend, Linda's, house in Hineston, Louisiana, about 40 more miles away. It
had become a private evacuation center for seven women fleeing New Orleans. They
took very good care of me. A few friends and co-workers were still missing.
Linda had me talk to the Sheriff of Rapides Parish about my license. He was
outraged and is tying to get my license back. Eventually, I calmed down and got
my first eight hours of sleep in days.
The next morning, I took back roads through central Louisiana and Arkansas into
Little Rock to avoid any gas supply problems. There were none, as long as I had
money. I couldn't believe how normal it seemed everywhere else. I remembered
waking up on the walkway between the Dome and Arena, with the moldy Plaza Tower
in the background, and thinking that I had arrived on another planet. Now it
seemed like it was just a bad dream. I headed to Iowa. I spent the night with my
aunt and uncle's family near St. Louis. I got up early and kept going.
All along the way, I was touched by relief efforts large and small. I stopped to
talk to some kids in Illinois who were selling lemonade to raise money for the
Katrina victims. Outside the town where
my cousin lives, there is a sign that says, "We did not feel the wind, we did
not feel the rain, but we feel your pain." I was not surprised to find that my
friends had started a massive e-mail campaign to keep up with the attempts to
escape the Dome. They called themselves "FOS", friends of sherry, and it finally
explained how I was getting text messages from one friend about another friend
that I didn't even know she knew. I thought I had hallucinated from the Arena
fumes.
When I got to my hometown, they had started a fund drive in my name. It's a
strange feeling to see my own picture on the side of a collection can. And I'm
on the front page of the newspaper. I talked to the health class at the high
school today and will do the same tomorrow. They had lots of questions. I got my
tuberculosis and hepatitis tests. I got a tetanus shot. I got money from the Red
Cross to buy new non-fungus filled shoes.
Next Tuesday, I'm on the local radio station. Then, despite all of the love,
attention and support, I'm leaving here next Tuesday or Wednesday, tentatively
for Columbus, Atlanta, maybe Florida if it's hurricane free. I'm reacting to
being cooped up at the Dome, so you may find me on your doorstep, still a bit
dazed, but otherwise fine. I'm passing time to the end of the month when I can
really see my house. I saw a picture on the internet today and it looked better
than Thursday's fly over. At least I can see the whole roof and the roof of my
next door neighbor's SUV now. That's a good sign.
By Sherry Watters
Phyllis E. Mann
Post Office Box 705
Alexandria, LA 71309
(318) 448-0000
FAX (318) 448-2250
e-mail: phyllis@kricket.net
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