NOTES FROM HURRICANE KATRINA

We head out at 6:00 A.M. on August 31.

There are four of us from the Santa Cruz Red Cross Chapter who are heading for the airport on assignment for Hurricane Katrina. There has been little time to get ready since I got the call yesterday while New Orleans was filling up with water. I knew that a lot of people would be needed so I decided that sooner would be better than later, and agreed to go out into the unknown of this disaster right away..

I am riding with three other women who all serve in different functions. One runs kitchens, one drives Emergency Response Vehicles, and one runs shelters. I am the only mental health responder here thus far. The adrenalin that accompanies the rush to get mentally and physically ready is apparent in all of us. No one slept much last night. The conversation is urgent and covers all of the information that each of us has gathered to date. At the airport our Red Cross identification is drawing attention, and people are already saying thank you. I am a bit uncomfortable with all of this and find myself shying away from it in the ladies restroom.

We are flying into Houston where we will be assigned to regions. That is all we know. The Marriott Hotel next to the airport is the Houston central headquarters, so it is a short walk from the baggage area to the ballroom where everyone is arriving. I am surprised to see so many people here already. There are probably already two or three hundred folks milling around, standing in lines getting ID, The sight of cots and blankets heaped up to one side of the room along with hundreds of suitcases, backpacks and sleeping bags is an indicator that we may not have hotel rooms tonight.

The woman who is obviously in charge of this room has the voice and demeanor of a top sergeant, and orders that we "Listen Up" as she begins to brief us on this assignment. We are told to expect anything and everything. We may encounter dead people, dead animals, snakes, bugs, little or no water, lack of power, contamination, and minimum sleeping accommodations. She then adds "If you think this will get to you, go home now. Otherwise, if you stay, Suck It Up!" She is clearly warning us that she is not sure what's ahead either and she is going to err on the side of the worst scenario just in case. I am wondering what constitutes "mental health" in a situation like this, and think to myself that a little bit crazy may be the way to survive.

Before the night is over, we are told that 500 busses are leaving New Orleans , and the Superdome, for the Houston Astrodome, and that some of us will be sent there to provide for their arrival. Since FEMA is running the show there, it is decided that 75 Red Cross will assist in any way they can through the night. The rest of us will be assigned to Louisiana, and have to travel to Baton Rouge tomorrow.

We are lucky enough to get hotel rooms tonight, but have to be back at 7a.m. to get our orders.

September 1, 2005

I am assigned to a "feeding team" of four. The primary concern at the beginning of a disaster is shelter and feeding, and there are no mental health teams formed yet as I am to find out. The others in my car are also serving other than their usual functions. The other woman has been on the accounting and computer training component of the Red Cross for a number of years, One of the men serves on every board and official committee in his home town in Washington State, but comes away with the Red Cross to drive an ERV and set up feeding. The other man is retired and plans to do the same. We have a five hour trip ahead of us, and find ourselves enjoying the conversations as we journey through Texas on our way to Baton Rouge.

We are learning the tricks of the disaster response teams who are first responders. Disinfectant wipes, Vicks for under your nose to cover the smells of death, Deet bug spray to put on your collars, cuffs, and hair to keep your skin from absorbing the poison. The deeper we go, the more I realize that we are quite dependent on each other, and need to learn as much as we can. We have just passed a sign on the road that says "Gator Junction"-1 Mile. Then comes "Turtle Bayou"-five miles. I can take my pick of reptiles. The man driving my car keeps saying "Was that a dead snake I just saw on the road?" After the third time he says it, I realize he is as deadly afraid of snakes as I am and is already looking everywhere for them. Beaumont Texas has a Babe Didrickson Museum, and I am relieved to know I am with a couple of people who are old enough to even remember who she is.

The sky darkens and dumps rain on us in buckets. We make a WalMart stop where we stock up on bedding, assorted sprays, maps, but find ourselves engaged in many conversations with people who are already looking for shelters, wanting to contribute, asking for assistance for someone. It is beastly hot outside, and now after the rain, the humidity makes our clothes damp and everything sticks to our bodies. I take five minutes to talk to my son in Portland who is wishing me well and sending me love. Sometimes cell phones are my lifeline.

On the other side of the road we see long lines of buses of evacuees heading toward Houston with police escorts. On our side of the highway there are signs telling us that Hiway 10 is closed on the other side of Baton Rouge, and the main road into New Orleans is no longer viable for general use. We share this road with parades of army vehicles, rescue groups, heavy equipment, and armored cars, all headed into the New Orleans area. The countryside is lush, green, and we can see the bayous through the trees on our right stretching as far as we can see. It is eerie to see the tree stumps protruding through the steam and water, We discuss the differences between alligators and crocodiles as if knowing that will keep us safer!

We stop for our first Cajun meal in a little town just before Baton Rouge. It is obviously owned by a Cajun woman who has taken great care to keep its local flavor. Thousands of business cards, Mardi Gras beads, and Christmas lights adorn the low ceiling. The room is huge and it almost takes a flashlight to make out the menus in the dark. I feel confident that I can eat gumbo since I've eaten it before at home in California, but I am ill prepared for the chicken livers (I hope) and other unknowns that are included. I bravely eat it with lots of the rice they serve alongside, but for the next two days I discover that, despite my French Canadian great-grandmother, I am no Cajun in constitution.

In the Broadmoor Methodist Church, 9:00 P.M.

The city has run out of rooms, and we got here too late to even qualify for a cot so we're making do with our floor mats from Walmart, pillows donated by the church, and the recently purchased cotton blanket. This place is teeming with humanity taking care of each other, and we are from all over the US. Rumors abound. "Separated children in shelters, hysterical parents in other shelters, gangs, shootings. Did you read tonight's paper?" I just miss the orientation on the four kinds of poisonous snakes and other wildlife running amok as a result of the floods. I'm not quite ready to face that possibility, so I avoid the guy who is talking about it.

The good women of this church have filled tables with home-baked cookies, brownies, cupcakes, sugar, sugar everywhere. It's too easy to pick something up without thinking, but my Cajun dinner is haunting me and I refrain. We run on so much adrenalin anyway, that the addition of sugary food gives me an unpleasant edge that I can't readily get rid of.

In Red Cross Headquarters at 7:00 a.m. September 2, 2005 Baton Rouge Louisiana

This place is already steamy hot, and full of people (my guess, 75-100), and crackling with the edgy energy that a disaster of this magnitude brings. We are all damp and wrinkled from sleeping in our clothes. Feeling essential helps keep away the fear and discomfort.

There are tables with computers, telephones, papers. People are huddled in conversation and there is a constant stream of new arrivals coming in for their assignments. This "War Room" has large bulletin boards in the back covered with yellow post-its. Each yellow post-it represents a shelter in Louisiana. There are probably 150 of them so far. Most of these shelters are staffed by Red Cross people. The center of the room is filled with mail containers, one for each shelter, where messages are shuttled back and forth by car. Yesterday was the first day that power and cell phone service was restored to Baton Rouge. Up until then they were running this place without it.

Lee, my daughter, is at home watching the news. Of course she is seeing the worst, newsworthy pictures, and is worried. I want to reassure her, but I am also realistic enough to know I don't know much yet. I take comfort in knowing there is safety in numbers, and plan to ask to work with my friends that I came with. That may or may not work out since I'm not sure anyone knows how we'll be organized yet.

There is a mental health component and the lead has called a meeting for the few of us who are here. We are being sent to shelters, and so far there are crises that determine just which one we'll be sent to. The one thing I thought I didn't want to do, I get to do. Someone hands me a set of keys to a rental car, and assigns me two others to drive to the Cajundome in Lafayette Louisiana about an hour away. The dome is a huge sports arena on the campus of the University of Louisiana. It is connected to the Civic Center Building, and we soon find out that both buildings are being used for the arriving victims of this awful event. As we arrive we see the food preparation trailers are cordoned off in the back with yellow police tape. Men in yellow shirts are everywhere, working in the food trailers and putting together other equipment.

We are told that Laura Bush is inside, so will be limited to where we can go until she leaves. Armed men in uniform stand at the ready, posted at intervals all around the outside of the dome.

Families are camped in every conceivable nook and cranny, in the hallways and walkways surrounding the building, around the snack bars, and on almost every square inch of the arena floor. I look up and see them camped in the seats as well. It is a sea of people, almost all are black people-only occasionally do I see a white person sitting on a cot, just waiting like all the rest. Families, kids, old people, babies, the ill, the angry, the hopeful, all rest together on their cots and mattresses and wait, and wait, and wait. In the center of the arena suspended high above the crowd, the huge TV monitors play CNN constantly. A loudspeaker incessantly calls out the names of those that people are trying to find, instructing them to meet someone under the American Flag.

This shelter is growing rapidly, and by the time we arrive in early afternoon, the census is 5800 and growing. In the parking lot of the dome there are hundreds of police. Before we leave to secure our motel rooms, I am asked to come to a man who has just been informed that his wife and children are gone, and a goodbye letter from his wife has just been read to him. He is lying on the floor, writhing from side to side as he cries out. A young woman also comes who is a psychologist, and she is able to reach him enough to take him to a back room where he can have some privacy. I am grateful for her command of the situation and make a graceful exit.

Rooms are impossible to find. All that are left are in an old, old motel in a little town 45 miles away to the South. We head through the sugar cane fields, stop for quick showers, then turn right around and head back to work until nearly midnight on our first day. One of the towns we pass through is New Iberia, and I remember the historical name of the town that was created at the time of the freeing of the slaves.

Saturday, September 3, 2005

The dome has been locked down because more buses are arriving, and there is no more room right now. National Guardsmen surround the building along with police. The census has grown to nearly 7000. As the buses are refused, there is worry that there will be trouble. No one can come in or go out. People are lined up outside the entrance, waiting in the heat to come in. I find an old man sitting on a chair inside looking at the outside and rubbing his head. He tells me that his nephew had hit him when the family was outside near their car, but that now half of the family is locked out and now he is locked in. I ask if he feels safe enough, and he says "yes", he just wants them all to be together again.

There is no lunch today so I eat the first bologna and white bread sandwich I've had in years. They have called for us to go out and talk to the crowd because they are restless, hot, and hungry. I go out and the people begin to crowd up to ask questions. I take inquiries, get diapers, arrange for food and water, crackers for a diabetic, encourage them to drink water and stay hydrated while they wait.

In the afternoon a woman has been found both carrying and high on Valium and Methadone. She can barely stand up, and is being taken by the police. There is a lot of drug dealing going on in the parking lots, and now people are being found with it on them inside. My friend Joe, who is the Children's' Services representative, has her two boys with him up in our area on the second floor. They sit in chairs in a small cubicle we have managed to create with curtains. I see the older one wiping his eyes and find some Kleenex for him. He tells me that the family was planning to move to Texas, but now his mother has "screwed" up and he has to go to foster care. He cries and blows his nose and I can see he's not able to talk anymore just yet.

The younger boy, a ten year old, just stares at his shoes. I ask his name and he repeats it over and over until I get it right. I then find the pack of cards that Lenny gave me before I left and ask him if he knows any games. He says he knows tricks and proceeds to occupy himself showing me how little I know about card tricks. He beats me over and over again. He doesn't want to talk about what is happening, but he knows. He entrusts the pack of cards to his mother's boyfriend for safekeeping before he has to leave.

My legs ache from going up and down the cement stairs to other sleeping areas. Several Times daily I climb to the second and third floors on either a scouting journey, to check on specific families, or to reach people in the seating area of the inside arena. I notice that after a few days, I can do it without thinking so hard about it. Since most of the volunteers are old enough to take time off to come, we are getting the workouts that we just keep promising ourselves at home.

After four nights of commuting from Lafayette to Baldwin in the pitch dark, and one night trying to find my way out of the back roads of the cane fields, I give up my single hot motel shower for the confines of the Dome where there is an empty press box with a sofa in it. It's two extra hours of sleep that I desperately need, and my lead has shown me how to get into the locker room showers after hours. Two other women join me there where we look out onto the crowded floor of the Dome. The older one, Marjorie (82), has begun to talk about herself, and tells me she has just celebrated her 50th year with the Red Cross doing disaster work. She adds that at home she leads college tour groups to Europe, and in her spare time plays the snare drums. I am utterly impressed. The younger one is on her first Red Cross assignment, and comes with a long list of credentials including a book she is writing about disaster response for the university class she teaches. She is having a difficult period of adjustment since she has discovered the Red Cross policy of expecting each person to leave their titles at the door and just work together to provide what's needed in the job they're assigned. She is lively and animated and the Dome residents take to her quickly. I can see that she is slowly adjusting to a different way of seeing this disaster. What I privately think is that we provide "family" in the way families shelter and care for each other with whatever they have when the need arises. There is no class distinction-just humans being family for their fellow humans. It works out to be a good way to live with others, and especially those who are as devastated as these folks are.

September 7-13, 2005

The days and nights are beginning to blur and run together in this little city within the confines of a sports arena. The only daylight shows through a few high windows in the dome where we can see the tops of trees. Mostly we live in fluorescent light. The mental health area has been moved to the first floor where we are sharing space with the nurses and few doctors who are handling all of the medical issues now. The steady parade of the "main street" of our surreal city is in front of us all of the time. We see the new arrivals as they are ushered through the security police who surround the front entrance. Cameras, knives, sharp instruments of any kind have been confiscated until everyone leaves. Those of us who are now living here have had to improvise ways to keep our belongings with us. At night restless teenagers walk in packs up and down this thruway, hats set at an angle, strutting and posturing, and I think silently "Trouble looking for somewhere to happen". It is difficult to imagine being trapped with this many others, unsure of what's ahead, and completely dependent, without being amazed at the reasonable coexistence that we have here (for the most part).

One night a gospel choir comes to sing outdoors between the two shelter buildings. With them is a jazz trumpeter and a singer/piano player, both from New Orleans and presently homeless. The crowd is alive with joy, and as one woman put it, "they're just singin' and praisin." At the back a small woman in a green visor, purple shirt, and with a purple umbrella open and high above her head, twirls and dips with the music, oblivious to the rest of us. It is clear that this is the thing she thought she had lost, and she is ecstatic. So are we because so much has been so sad up until now.'

In the next few days I will be confronted with so many situations and people in crisis. There is a young mother who has not yet found any of her young children including a newborn. She is suicidal and has stopped eating. Joe, the family services man, and I spend two days convincing her that she must be strong and together for them when they are found, and she rallies. I quietly do a lot of praying that they will be found.

We secure a bike from a sporting goods store for a man who has found a job but has no way to get there. We make a private bedroom suite out of an office for a seventeen-year- old who has a three-day-old infant and has had a C-section. The hospital is so full they cannot keep her, and she insists on being with her family in the shelter. We move an older couple who are taking care of their 45-year-old retarded son, and who cannot keep his older siblings from taking his SSI money from him. The residents are stealing from each other in the night, so that we have to advise people on how to keep their few possessions in their possession. We look for the only brothers of a man who is bedridden with kidney problems and gout. There is no one without need of some kind.

Two days before I am to leave, I begin making travel arrangements. I realize that by the time I am home a week, none of the people I am working with will be here either, and that the stories will change as the days pass. I ride back to Baton Rouge with the man that we helped to set up 500 cots the day after we arrived. He is a retired UPS driver who goes out on disaster assignment as an ongoing part of his retirement plan. He compares hurricane assignments as we journey back on the road with more heavy equipment, mobile homes, soldiers, police cars-and probably dead snakes.

We stop for gasoline and find a lot of the pumps shut down. I am wondering how much gas costs at home by this time. In the airport there are a many people rotating out from two weeks in the disaster. I talk to two FEMA men and mention that I heard their boss got fired. They tell me he was just a scapegoat, but when I tell them where I'm from they ask me if I'm one of those Santa Cruz liberals they've heard about. Then I find myself sitting next to one of the officers in the Army unit that has been doing search and rescue work in New Orleans. He begins to talk, and talk, and talk. I realize that as an officer, he has held a lot back, so welcomes a chance to spill his guts. He is especially distressed over the orders that his units could not pick up the dead. We talk for nearly an hour before our plane takes off.

Now, at home, I dream about the shelter and ordering new drapes for the windows. The salesperson in the dream tells me that the fabric I have chosen is way too expensive. I say "Show it to me anyway". I can't even imagine what that's all about!

Sincerely,
DB