"Hi All,
"I am now in what I refer to as "the zone" (the "disaster
zone" that is). My basecamp is Waveland, Mississippi - the spot where Hurricane Katrina
made her dramatic and devastating entrance into so many lives. I have now been in the zone a
little over 24 hours. It has been an eventful 24. This place is unlike anything I have ever
known, any place I have ever gone, or anything I have ever seen. The devastation here is complete;
that can not be overstated. Yesterday, I stood on the street shown by so many networks - a street
where not one, single home remains. It is overwhelming to see homes (and lives) so utterly and
completely shattered. It is one pile of rubble after another - literally nothing remaining.
This is a place of choas - cars atop cars still where they landed that awful day; piles upon
piles of debri (furniture, roofs, trees, and so much more) close by the side of roads and streets
- too much to be removed at this point. It is a place of waiting - long lines for food, ice,
and water; longer lines for FEMA information, city permits, and aide. It is a place of dodging
debri and the massive machines that are attempting to painstakingly remove it. It is a place
of people - victims and those who are here to help them - government, non-governmental agencies,
churches, Red Cross, Salvation Army, and on and on.
"And yet, in spite of all this Circque de Soaide, there is a rhythm to life
in the zone. I arrived last yesterday afternoon (after wasting most of Sunday bobbing-and-weaving
to avoid one tornado after another). I talked with many people along the way to determine where
the clinics might be and was told there was a free clinic at "the old train depot."
I walked in to find a private healthcare system from Virginia that has set-up a free clinic
here for as long as needed. It is hot here (110 degrees today and very humid) and the old depot
has air conditioning and communications (the Army Corp of Engineers has their offices here as
well.) I was told I could crash inside the depot instead of camping in my SUV (my plan) to avoid
the oppressive heat. So, last night, I lay my sleeping bag on a table and went to sleep. Folks
came in and out through the night - always something happening; but, I slept - until the Army
guys arrived at 0530. (This is one of so many reasons I never joined-up!)
"So, I started my day with what was supposed to be a quiet walk - and encountered
the first of many heartaches this day. I met my first Katrina stray - a beautiful yellow lab
who clearly has been loved and had a home at one time. With an SUV fully stocked of food for
people and animals as well as clothes and medicines and first aide supplies, I ran back, filled
a Ziploc bag with dog food, and fed my first stray. She, like all the dogs that lived through
that hellish night, are skiddish; so, I left the food and headed back to the clinic. I came
here to find the "hidden folks" - those deep in the woods and back waters that could
not come out for services. After chatting-up the Corp of Engineers guys and the Park Service
folks, I had an idea of where to go - deep in the "piney woods" - literally. I drove
from Waveland and turned off the main highway, took a long, sandy, rutty, dirt road surrounded
by massive shattered pine trees, and suddenly began to see what was once homes and communities.
Homes twisted into hideous shapes, roofs in places they don't belong, cars nose down in the
middle of houses, boats where boats do not belong (like in the front door of a battered church)
- and, among all this devastation, I began to notice signs of life. There are people "camping"
in the midst of this hell because they have nowhere else to go. This is their home. I stopped
everywhere I saw any sign of life (like a tent in the front yard) and yelled hello and identified
myself as a nurse. Little by little, clusters of people began to emerge. And, I began to do
what I came here to do - I cleaned and bandaged cuts; I distributed bread, and peanut butter
and jelly; I gave clothes to a young mother of two who has virtually no personal belongings
now; I emptied dog and cat food into quart-size ziploc bags; and, of course, I gave-out cases
of liquid gold here - water. We've heard so much about the "death toll" from Katrina;
but, there is a "life toll" as well and I saw it today. Deeply moved, I returned to
the clinic and told the nurses about what I had found. We put together a team and returned to
the woods where they gave over 20 shots for Hepatitis A (the water here is contaminated - dangerous
to drink or use at all) and Tetanus. I will return there tomorrow morning.
"It is different here in ways words alone can not describe. I am taking many,
many photos that will hopefully speak for themselves. There are thousands of individuals, citizens,
neighbors, who will never know life as it was before. There are lost animals and traumatized
adults and children surviving in conditions most of us can not even begin to imagine. The currency
here is water and ice and MREs with the occassional hot meal from an aide organization. The
game is still survival even though it has been almost a month since this nightmare started.
This is the zone - the war zone of Katrina - and the casuality count goes higher each day that
even one of these folks has to scrape and scratch to survive. My job is to make certain that
at least for a few weeks, they know that one nurse from NY will make certain they do not scrape
and scratch alone. I have to get some sleep now - tonight, it will come on a cot graciously
offered by the Army Corp of Engineers. And, tomorrow, I will go back into the woods, bandage
some more cuts, hug some more shoulders, look into some more weary eyes. It will be just another
day in the zone.
"Until next time,
Ang"
