Chaos Came Calling
May 10th, 2003, approximately 9:55 PM, a voice of shock and panic crackles through the radio. “AMT, I am declaring a mass casualty, condition red. It’s gone! It’s all gone!”
For the past several hours, I’ve been monitoring the radar and the changing weather conditions. The forecast is favorable for severe weather and the conditions are growing more and more ominous. Pressure systems, humidity and super cells are aligning and the results promise to be catastrophic.
Just then, my pager goes off. The message reads, “MCI – Condition Red. All available Paramedics and EMTs report for immediate assignments.” I am already dressed in my uniform pants and my shirt is nearby, because I was anticipating weather related issues.
A million things begin to flood my mind as I finish dressing and gather my gear. The potential for severe weather is not over and I have a family to consider. My not even one-month-old son has just gotten home from the neonatal intensive care unit after being born prematurely. My wife is recovering from an emergency appendectomy and then there is always my two-year-old son. Should I leave them alone, unprotected and uncared for? My wife assures me that saving lives is what the priority should be and, despite the fear that I can hear in her voice and see on her face, she kisses me and tells me to go.
I pull out of my driveway, my mind still racing. What do I remember about mass casualty incidents? The red tags are for what kind of patient and the green is for what kind? Oh my God, what if I have to use the black tags? My thoughts continue. What kind of equipment should I grab? Oxygen, we’ll need as much oxygen as we can take. Spine boards, C-collars, and straps; there could be hundreds of traumatic injuries. Gloves, we’ll need boxes of gloves to examine and treat hundreds of patients.
I arrive at headquarters and am paired with the first person who walks in. Wow, am I relieved. It’s Jenny Flemming, a veteran supervisor who is a gem to work with. She has been through MCIs before and I’ll be able to follow her lead. She confirms the need for the stuff I’ve already been inventorying in my mind. Pick up our radios, grab the keys to the ambulance and out the door we go.
South Pekin is a small rural town nestled in Tazewell County, mostly a lot of farmland. Lower income people live in this area. Population of around 1200 with about 400 homes; it’s a town where everyone knows each other and the one gas station in town is the place to hang out.
As we race to the scene, we encounter a surprising amount of traffic. Scanner chasers, I like to call them. People have left the relative safety of their homes and have started to drive to the storm stricken area to see firsthand the devastation reported. It’s slowing our progress. After all, it normally only takes about 15 minutes to get from the Peoria HQ to the South Pekin area and tonight is definitely not normal. “Do you see that power cable in the middle of the road? We’ll have to find another road to take us there.” I exclaim to Jenny. “Hey, watch out for that huge limb in the road. Oh my God, is that a car sitting in the top of that tree? It is! It’s a red car and it is sitting in that tree.”
The devastation is real. It’s right in front of us. You can plainly see the path this quarter-mile wide F3 tornado has blazed. It plunged down from the heavens and carelessly, flippantly razed the earth for nearly three miles. This violently rotating column of air produced 200 mph winds that made fun of the landscape and structures that people called their homes. This community will never be the same again.
The staging area for our medical response will be the community’s school. This school, I estimate, is probably only 150-200 feet from the destruction path of the storm and yet, remarkably, is undamaged. More than twenty of our ambulances will eventually respond to this scene.
There are no immediate injuries or at most very minor ones. The feeling of helplessness as we wait for the fire search and rescue teams to enter the scene and sift through the debris is suffocating. Time seems to stand still in these moments. Adrenaline courses through my body and there is no immediate outlet.
Someone in the distance yells, “Medic!?” Finally, now I can contribute to the effort. A survivor has stepped on a nail in her attempt to exit her now leveled home. All this destruction and my contribution is going to be for someone who steps on a nail? I look at this patient and realize for the first time that her injuries are much deeper: psychological shock. This person’s only physical injury is minor, but the expression on her face is telling.
Emergency vehicles as far as the eye can see, yet the radio traffic is strangely calm. Who is in charge of this scene? An altercation between a state police officer and the fire chief ensues. Precedent clearly shows that the fire chief is the final authority in this kind of scene. We rehearse for large-scale incidents regularly, yet no one seems to know who’s in charge.
One thing is for sure, our agency is here for the medical aspect only and our command structure is solid. Is that the EMS medical director? What is he doing here and why did he just take the Medical Incident Command vest from our administrator? He’s a physician and, while uniquely qualified to treat patients, has no practical experience in field operations.
Residents begin to stumble out of the carnage that was once their homes, seeking someone to help them make sense of all this. People wrapped in blankets, carrying their children, and helping their elderly. I think to myself, where are we going to put all of these people? Has anybody contacted the American Red Cross yet? Great idea, lets take them into the school and line the hallways. At least that will bring them out of the elements and under a roof.
Has anyone thought about how we’re going to transport any of these people to wherever it is we’re going to take them? Just then, out of nowhere and as if by an act of God, a school bus comes down the road. An off duty bus driver has heard the news on the radio and thought he might be able to help by bringing his bus in.
What??? There is no drinking water? The town’s water supply is compromised and there is no electricity to pump the water. The workers need to stay hydrated. The victims need water. Someone says, “I know the manager of a bottled water company.” Twenty minutes later, three delivery trucks full of bottled water arrives.
In the midst of the chaos, it is a surprisingly surreal scene. Everyone’s training, the advanced planning and preparation, and the logistics all find their place with relative ease. A fresh new perspective on all those drills and all that boring training we’re required to participate in is coming into realization. I’m glad I paid attention.
In all we treat only twenty-three people. None have serious traumatic injuries. The worst patient I’ve seen is a bad breather secondary to a chronic respiratory condition. The response effort is unparalleled by anything else in my personal experience throughout my EMS career.
Eventually, the residents of South Pekin relocate for the clean-up phase of this disaster. Those that can’t find assistance from family and friends are bussed to area hotels and receive assistance from the American Red Cross, the Salvation Army, and numerous faith based organizations. The resolve of a displaced people is strong and South Pekin will be again. Companies, non-profit agencies, and neighboring communities donate equipment, time, money, materials, and other necessities and the rebuilding of homes and lives continues. The night chaos came calling is long and difficult, but the recognition of unity is evident. There will be scars, but there will not be defeat.
For the past several hours, I’ve been monitoring the radar and the changing weather conditions. The forecast is favorable for severe weather and the conditions are growing more and more ominous. Pressure systems, humidity and super cells are aligning and the results promise to be catastrophic.
Just then, my pager goes off. The message reads, “MCI – Condition Red. All available Paramedics and EMTs report for immediate assignments.” I am already dressed in my uniform pants and my shirt is nearby, because I was anticipating weather related issues.
A million things begin to flood my mind as I finish dressing and gather my gear. The potential for severe weather is not over and I have a family to consider. My not even one-month-old son has just gotten home from the neonatal intensive care unit after being born prematurely. My wife is recovering from an emergency appendectomy and then there is always my two-year-old son. Should I leave them alone, unprotected and uncared for? My wife assures me that saving lives is what the priority should be and, despite the fear that I can hear in her voice and see on her face, she kisses me and tells me to go.
I pull out of my driveway, my mind still racing. What do I remember about mass casualty incidents? The red tags are for what kind of patient and the green is for what kind? Oh my God, what if I have to use the black tags? My thoughts continue. What kind of equipment should I grab? Oxygen, we’ll need as much oxygen as we can take. Spine boards, C-collars, and straps; there could be hundreds of traumatic injuries. Gloves, we’ll need boxes of gloves to examine and treat hundreds of patients.
I arrive at headquarters and am paired with the first person who walks in. Wow, am I relieved. It’s Jenny Flemming, a veteran supervisor who is a gem to work with. She has been through MCIs before and I’ll be able to follow her lead. She confirms the need for the stuff I’ve already been inventorying in my mind. Pick up our radios, grab the keys to the ambulance and out the door we go.
South Pekin is a small rural town nestled in Tazewell County, mostly a lot of farmland. Lower income people live in this area. Population of around 1200 with about 400 homes; it’s a town where everyone knows each other and the one gas station in town is the place to hang out.
As we race to the scene, we encounter a surprising amount of traffic. Scanner chasers, I like to call them. People have left the relative safety of their homes and have started to drive to the storm stricken area to see firsthand the devastation reported. It’s slowing our progress. After all, it normally only takes about 15 minutes to get from the Peoria HQ to the South Pekin area and tonight is definitely not normal. “Do you see that power cable in the middle of the road? We’ll have to find another road to take us there.” I exclaim to Jenny. “Hey, watch out for that huge limb in the road. Oh my God, is that a car sitting in the top of that tree? It is! It’s a red car and it is sitting in that tree.”
The devastation is real. It’s right in front of us. You can plainly see the path this quarter-mile wide F3 tornado has blazed. It plunged down from the heavens and carelessly, flippantly razed the earth for nearly three miles. This violently rotating column of air produced 200 mph winds that made fun of the landscape and structures that people called their homes. This community will never be the same again.
The staging area for our medical response will be the community’s school. This school, I estimate, is probably only 150-200 feet from the destruction path of the storm and yet, remarkably, is undamaged. More than twenty of our ambulances will eventually respond to this scene.
There are no immediate injuries or at most very minor ones. The feeling of helplessness as we wait for the fire search and rescue teams to enter the scene and sift through the debris is suffocating. Time seems to stand still in these moments. Adrenaline courses through my body and there is no immediate outlet.
Someone in the distance yells, “Medic!?” Finally, now I can contribute to the effort. A survivor has stepped on a nail in her attempt to exit her now leveled home. All this destruction and my contribution is going to be for someone who steps on a nail? I look at this patient and realize for the first time that her injuries are much deeper: psychological shock. This person’s only physical injury is minor, but the expression on her face is telling.
Emergency vehicles as far as the eye can see, yet the radio traffic is strangely calm. Who is in charge of this scene? An altercation between a state police officer and the fire chief ensues. Precedent clearly shows that the fire chief is the final authority in this kind of scene. We rehearse for large-scale incidents regularly, yet no one seems to know who’s in charge.
One thing is for sure, our agency is here for the medical aspect only and our command structure is solid. Is that the EMS medical director? What is he doing here and why did he just take the Medical Incident Command vest from our administrator? He’s a physician and, while uniquely qualified to treat patients, has no practical experience in field operations.
Residents begin to stumble out of the carnage that was once their homes, seeking someone to help them make sense of all this. People wrapped in blankets, carrying their children, and helping their elderly. I think to myself, where are we going to put all of these people? Has anybody contacted the American Red Cross yet? Great idea, lets take them into the school and line the hallways. At least that will bring them out of the elements and under a roof.
Has anyone thought about how we’re going to transport any of these people to wherever it is we’re going to take them? Just then, out of nowhere and as if by an act of God, a school bus comes down the road. An off duty bus driver has heard the news on the radio and thought he might be able to help by bringing his bus in.
What??? There is no drinking water? The town’s water supply is compromised and there is no electricity to pump the water. The workers need to stay hydrated. The victims need water. Someone says, “I know the manager of a bottled water company.” Twenty minutes later, three delivery trucks full of bottled water arrives.
In the midst of the chaos, it is a surprisingly surreal scene. Everyone’s training, the advanced planning and preparation, and the logistics all find their place with relative ease. A fresh new perspective on all those drills and all that boring training we’re required to participate in is coming into realization. I’m glad I paid attention.
In all we treat only twenty-three people. None have serious traumatic injuries. The worst patient I’ve seen is a bad breather secondary to a chronic respiratory condition. The response effort is unparalleled by anything else in my personal experience throughout my EMS career.
Eventually, the residents of South Pekin relocate for the clean-up phase of this disaster. Those that can’t find assistance from family and friends are bussed to area hotels and receive assistance from the American Red Cross, the Salvation Army, and numerous faith based organizations. The resolve of a displaced people is strong and South Pekin will be again. Companies, non-profit agencies, and neighboring communities donate equipment, time, money, materials, and other necessities and the rebuilding of homes and lives continues. The night chaos came calling is long and difficult, but the recognition of unity is evident. There will be scars, but there will not be defeat.
Labels: Essay
posted by Troy at 9:30 AM
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