And so, this week, I celebrate my Daughter's 8th birthday. I celebrate my 20th wedding anniversary. I spent it alone, in a trip across the country with my cello. In a different state, with people I've never met, doing something I only kinda sorta know how to do. How very unlike me! While I am fairly spontaneous, to the point where it drives my partner (in my medical practice) and husband insane, this is pretty over the top, even for ME. The journey here was equally as important as the destination.
I've spent the last 5 weeks of my life like much of us in Moore, Oklahoma, with the contents of our physical and/or emotional lives spilled throughout the state as if it had been poured out of a blender. Even chaotic by my standards, which for most equals a nuclear bomb. I started this summer blessed with the ability to upgrade my kitchen, for which I continue to be very grateful. I had also accepted an opportunity at another hospital and was in the process of moving my practice. I learned quickly that turning your house into a tornado in the middle of "storm season" was, well, unwise. In short, the house was an iatrogenic disaster (like sheet rock falling down wrecked), the old office was blown to smithereens, the new office had no furniture and minimal equipment, and all of my medical wordily goods were piled in about 4 boxes. Most of my photography that I've had hanging in my office for 8 years I left hanging in the old office until I could get my new office put together, and my intention was to come back for it. I was thrust into a hospital system with virtually no patient records (as they were also blown into confetti), that I was only remotely familiar with. In short, there was no sure footing anywhere I walked. At any time, and many times, I slipped off into the quicksand of despair and self pity. Of course, with one short look down the street, and a quick hum of the "count your blessings" song I learned as a child, I felt selfish and infantile for feeling anything at all.May 20, 2013. This was to be the end of a significant chapter of my life. It was my last day as a staff Ob/Gyn at the hospital that was my private practice nest for the last nearly 8 years. I knew that it was time to fly on my own, spread my wings and jump. I had a lump in my throat that morning thinking about all of the goodbyes that would be said to many people that I have loved dearly for 8 years. These folks saw me blossom from an overzealous new attending, to a confident staff physician. I had become the "doctor's doctor" for many physicians, and the doctor of most of the staff of that hospital. And my last day, I induced a patient of mine that was an employee. She wanted me to bring another beautiful soul to join their family. What an honor for me, truly.
My husband had mentioned that morning that the weather could become a significant issue later in the day. We had already spent the evening before (May 19th) in our neighbors underground shelter, and it was "tornado season", so this was surely not an unexpected way to spend an afternoon around here. However, something felt different that morning. My patient's nurse called me to ask if she could break my patient's water to facilitate a faster labor. My usual answer is an enthusiastic YES.
With a mouth full of toothpaste I grumbled half asleep, "No, let's wait and see if she is really in labor. Weather supposed to get bad. Just wait." I'm pretty sure that nurse thought I was still asleep. When I arrived in Labor and Delivery that morning, my patient was significantly dilated, so, we augmented her labor. It was a beautiful delivery, in one of my favorite rooms. I hugged my patient after delivery, choking back tears as many wonderful memories from that room flashed across my mind like a slide show. My patient asked me to take a picture with her beautifully perfect little boy.
After attempting to finish her post partum orders, I was surprised to find that the hospital had ejected me from the computer system. I so wanted my last day to be a celebration of nearly 8 years of beautiful miracles, and now it was poisoned with the hatred that had metastasized throughout that toxic hospital system. One of the nurses, seeing me fighting tears of anger, frustration, embarrassment, and grief put her arm around my neck and said, "Let's walk down this hall one last time, Fletch". With tears dripping off of my chin, I said "I'll be back." And one step at a time down the 'echo stairs', each shuffle of the clogs and each sniffle amplifying my solitude, I walked into my office. One last time.
I was trying to say goodbye to Becky, who has been "running my life" for nearly 8 years, but they were hurriedly trying to get everyone to the cafeteria. I had not heard sirens, I was looking out the windows (on the back side of the hospital) and the weather was clear as a bell. Becky grabbed my upper arms, squeezing them hard and said, "Go get your babies - go NOW. I love you, Fletch, but hurry." Her eyes were wide. She was scared. I was clueless. I was numb. I needed closure, but there was no time.
Once I arrived at school, the children were in the bathrooms, I found myself laying across a few first graders with sirens wailing, children wailing and teachers patting little tiny backs and saying "It's okay, we are safe here". The sirens stopped. I had my 3 kids all hand in hand and one of the teachers grabbed my upper arms (just like Becky had done 20 minutes before) and said, "You aren't taking the kids home?" Her eyes were filled with fear while her voice was as calm as I've ever hear it. I assured her we would go directly home and underground, which we did.
My neighbor was unusually nervous as she literally screamed to me, "Get in here, forget the cello, I'm saving your babies - HURRY." The door latched and then...
NO, it does not sound like a freight train. It sounded like the loudest thunder you've ever heard, and the underground trembled, as if it were an earthquake. Jonah was under my legs (we were on a bench) and Jake and Jordan were under each arm as we waited. It got quieter, finally. The sirens stopped. I peeked out the top and said, "Hey, the trampoline is still here! I think we can get out!" My neighbor thought she heard the wind getting louder again. I thought it was just some debris she was hearing until she grabbed the back of my shirt and dragging me back down she said, "Kim, it's not over. The sirens are gone. " By the time the third latch clicked, the monster was back.
And now, finally it's eerily quiet. Not really raining, but little thumps of debris falling around us, and confetti falling out of the sky as if we were at the Macy's New year's parade. Cautiously stepping out, our houses were standing. And they were covered with a swirly icing that would make Martha Stewart proud. The kids emerged wide-eyed at the confetti falling. My neighbor and I walked briskly to the end of her driveway. 5 houses away from ours, it was utter and complete devastation. We collapsed into each others arms briefly, then I realized that my son's best friend was about 7 houses away. I hugged my kids and said, "We are safe, I love you, but I have to go help other people right now."
And with one foot in front of the other, I walked door to door to check on neighbors, first to Ashlei and her two sweet boys that my son loves so. Then, to the elderly people next door to them, then across the street, one step at a time. I walked over what remained of peoples lives. I walked over "live" wires, still buzzing with the pulse of life and arcing in mid air, I was nauseated with the smell of gas lines that were pouring gas out with such pressure you could hear it hissing angrily. I stepped over teddy bears, school pictures, love letters, a wedding flute broken in half, honestly, most of what I saw wasn't even recognizable ... and with one foot in front of the other, staring straight at the ground I trudged onward. I couldn't look up, I didn't want to see it. And, furthermore, I had to watch for the hot wires at my every step. And I missed one.
Stuck. An unimaginable magnetic, electric, numbing buzz filled my right leg, all the way to my hip. I tried to yell to the brave young man, Adam, who walked with me that first 1/2 mile to help and nothing came out. My eyes were wide with wonder, fear, filling with tears of pain and with some superhuman strength, I reached out to some unknown person (I didn't look above their hips) and he grabbed me and pulled that foot in front of the other. After a brief moment the next foot moved and I was off to find the next house that needed someone hauled out. By this time, Adam had ventured into a cul de sac, and I was with Moore Police Dept. We found a house collapsed, except for a a bathroom door frame and a bathtub with seven (yes, 7!) grown adults crawling out, one foot in front of the other.
I saw the place I called home for 8 years destroyed. I saw nurses, emerging from the Warren theatre, covered in debris, and then, I saw my (physician practice) partner emerge from the rubble. I thought she had gone home. I had received word before I left that she was moving her car (to avoid hail), seeing one more patient and getting home. I needed to feel her face, she needed to feel mine. I needed to see her eyes, touch her hands. I've been her fiercely protective momma bear for more than 8 years, but I was home with my own babies, this time.
She and I surveyed the medical damage, with our "doctor brain" engaged, and when there was nothing left for a couple of Ob/Gyns do to, hand in hand at first, and then one foot in front of the other, we walked to the next street, where her husband was waiting for us. Muddy, shaken, broken, and truly emotionally vacant we entered his new truck. While I remain intensely grateful for a place to rest, not his truck or anything else was moving.
Then announcement was made that if you weren't "home" or in a safe place by night fall, you would be gathered and taken to the Moore high school. All my kids knew was that "mommy was going to help people", my mobile phone had died, (not like we had any coverage anyway) and this nightmare of a day was being quickly swallowed by the silent velvet shroud of grief that had poured over my little city. I had to get home. I needed to see my children's eyes more than I needed to breathe.
And so, now with a significant limp, I started the walk back home. A fairly long walk but, not an unreasonable one , except that all landmarks were gone, there were no street lights, no street signs, and no homes. I kicked a horse leg off of me. I tried to help a dog in a tree, but there was still a live wire and it was severely injured, and I couldn't get up there. The scream of that dog in pain will never leave me. And yet, I walked. I didn't know if I was going in the right direction, but I kept moving, and while I took a long and painful way home, keeping going was all I had. One foot in front of the other, one street at a time. I heard a girl crying in the distance and I yelled to her. She had found the remnant of a tree and had slumped at the bottom of it. While she had a small piece of metal sticking out of her leg, she wasn't crying about that. She wanted to go HOME.
She lived in the neighborhood next to mine. As I helped her up, cleaned up her leg we walked hand in hand until we found the pond at Windemere. We were almost there, keep walking, just keep moving.
May 21st, the children woke up vehemently begging to go to school. Of course, Moore public schools were closed, but our Catholic school was not. My kids needed to to see their friends, and that their teachers and school were ok. We were unaware at this time of the horror that had occurred at both the Briarwood and Plaza Towers schools. While I didn't want to let my children out of my sight, I knew that they needed normalcy. By the time Chris attempted to get back home, the National guard had arrived and blocked the two entrances into the neighborhood. "No one in, no one out". With guns strapped to their chests, tanks at the entrances and FEMA lights blasting on our street, I paced. From the few texts that I was getting I had heard that Chris was going to park about 1.5 miles away and sneak through the wooded area behind the house to get to me, and that one of my dear friend's daughter was missing.
It took most of the day to get the kids to school and to get Chris back home. Thankfully, one of my son's friends mother offered to take all of my children home with her to Norman until we could get out. While I wanted to have my babies in sight, they didn't need to see the front 1/3 of our neighborhood destroyed, soldiers marching in the streets, the continuous helicopters buzzing our back yard incessantly, and watching their mother slump to the ground in my own daughter's bedroom in utter disbelief with the news that my friend's daughter had become an angel that fateful day. As is the case with most of my patients, but especially the ones that I recruit to work in my office, they become family. I held onto Chris' neck as I lost all ability to even hold my body weight as I collapsed into sobs thinking about the picture that used to hang in my office lab with that sweet little girl's sparkling eyes and infectious smile that pierced your soul with joy.
I wanted my kids to come home. I wanted my friend's kids to come home, all of them. I wanted her to have a home to come home to. As the texts started rolling in, I was getting word of the number of my close friends that lost everything they had. I was clueless as to the extent of the damage because we had no power, no cable and spotty (at best) cell coverage.
Eventually, we were able to leave. But that first day, I couldn't. I sat stunned on my couch, unable to get up and face the unimaginable chaos that was now my little town. I knew I had a funeral coming up, I knew I had babies to deliver, I knew I had an office full of people that needed to tell their stories, I knew I needed to be their rock. I knew that just like that fateful day, with my leg stuck, if I could just reach out enough to get to Chris, he could pull me up. And he did. And one step at a time we walked out that door, together, tears rolling down my cheeks with confusion, grief and fear. The next day, with one foot in front of the other, I went to work. I heard the stories, I held my patients, I delivered babies, I delivered boxes of clothes and I watched everyone, step by step clear the chaos. I watched in amazement as every single church in Moore had free food, water, clothes and shelter. I watched faith mobilize. I watched my own faith revive, my hope for humanity was blossoming thru the twisted metal. Every weekend, droves of people from all over the United States came, to help us.
Some of the first people that we met cleaning up our neighborhood drove to help us were from Boston and the FDNY.
I just left a string camp last week. I drove. I needed the open road to clear my mind of the physical and emotional clutter that has remained for the last 2 months. It was most definitely not the easiest path to get to Rochester.
The path may not always be sunny and beautiful, but just keep moving. You often learn more on the journey than you do at the destination. I've learned more about the resilience of the human spirit, the generosity of others, the true love of Christianity, the power of nature, and that the power of love can overcome the the pain of life. But this doesn't happen while we stand still. Reach out and move forward, one step at a time.
