By Michael Groetsch
I wake and stare at the digital clock that pulsates on the
nightstand. It is 5:55 in the morning and my wife Barbara
lies sleeping beside me. For a moment, just a moment, I
imagine that I’m lying warm in my bed at home. I gather my
thoughts, however, to the reality that we are still in a
small hotel room surrounded by personal clutter. Our
luggage, clothes, food and other necessities leave little
room for movement. Our pets, Weasel, Wicket, Georgie Girl,
Marilyn and Monroe who fled the storm with us seem confused
by their strange surroundings. At least they are safe. Had
we left them behind, they may have perished.
Within minutes, Barbara awakens and we begin to discuss our
plight. It has been three days since we fled our home near
New Orleans to escape the wrath of Hurricane Katrina. We
left everything behind but essentials. The notion that we
may not be able to return for weeks, perhaps months, is
becoming frighteningly apparent. We may not be allowed home
for Christmas. We may no longer have a home. The thought of
living in such uncertainty is daunting. The realization that
the storm has changed our lives forever careens through my
thoughts like a speeding freight train. But we are not alone
in our plight. Millions of storm refuges throughout the
southern coastline share our questionable fate.
We may be considered among the lucky ones. While our family
shares the comforts of a nice hotel, other evacuees sleep in
truck stops, rest areas, and open spaces. In cities like New
Orleans, Bay St. Louis, Gulfport, and Biloxi, many victims
no longer have the ability to feel pain. They have been
found bloated and floating in the floodwaters of Katrina.
Others lie decaying within piles of storm debris soon to be
unearthed. Governor Haley of Mississippi currently places
the number of fatalities in his state at 110. Nearly
three-dozen residents are said to have perished in a
beachfront complex. Only time will reveal the truth. Logic
suggests that the death toll in Mississippi will be much
higher. The dead can’t speak until they are found. In a
thirty-mile stretch of coastal Highway 90, it is reported
that 80% of all structures have been completely destroyed.
The twin bridges that cross the Bay are gone. Much of Biloxi
has been reduced to nothing more than a town of concrete
slabs, debris, and steps to nowhere.
It is 7:00 A.M. My son Justin and his fiancée Jessica come
into our room to share dismal news. Using a computer and
satellite imagery, they have determined that the new home
they bought several months ago is probably flooded. An
aerial view of their neighborhood shows that it is
completely surrounded by water. It also reveals several
uncontrolled fires in the same area. They are to be married
in four months. Wedding gifts and furniture still sit in
boxes waiting to be opened. It is likely that everything has
been ruined. They may have to start their married life over
before it even begins.
Justin and Jessica’s home is only two miles from our own. My
wife and I also have several pieces of rental property in
the immediate area. Our business may have been destroyed as
well. Upon evacuation, it was discovered that we, like so
many others, were grossly under-insured. If a levee break
has occurred in our neighborhood, we are financially ruined.
We will have lost everything. To determine if there is still
electricity going into my neighborhood, Justin dials our
home number on his cell phone and seems concerned at what he
hears. I grab the phone and place it to my ear. Although my
answering machine has been activated, the sound of wind and
water can be heard in the background. The thought that the
roof of our home may be gone is unnerving. My mind rambles
to my deceased mother’s picture that sits on my desk. Why
didn’t I take it with me?
My wife and I are in our late fifties. We are too old to
re-build our lives. How will we pay our bills? How will we
find new jobs? Will we ever see our old friends and
neighbors again? What does the future hold for my children?
Will they have jobs when they return? Will they have a home?
I suddenly break down as my son and wife tries to calm me.
After regaining my composure, we console one another.
At 1:00 P.M., I sit in the hotel lobby to watch the
afternoon news. Although the lobby is crowded with people,
it seems empty. CNN reports that the conditions in New
Orleans have deteriorated to Third World status. My city has
become an urban Bangladesh. It has the potential to become
Armageddon. Mayor Ray Nagin releases a statement that
hundreds or perhaps thousands of people are dead. A
professor at Louisiana State University places the potential
number of fatalities in the tens of thousands. A reporter is
asked to share anything positive but remains almost
speechless. Another tries to describe what she sees, but
breaks down into tears. Until this time I have never seen a
news reporter cry. In the last two days, I’ve seen three.
While many have died in the floodwaters, some have been
crushed by fallen buildings and trees uprooted by the fury
of Hurricane Katrina. Others will die from a toxic gumbo
brewed in water contaminated by the combination of waste,
oil, garbage, and the corpses of animals and rodents. The
images that I see on CNN are surreal. They are
incomprehensible scenes that our worst nightmares would
hesitate to reveal. It is a nightmare that is being staged
in my hometown. As a news helicopter flies over the court
building in which I am employed, I am astounded to see that
it’s partially immersed under a sea of water.
The news cameras show thousands of people walking aimlessly
through cluttered streets in search of survival. I witness
men, women, and children screaming from the windows of
buildings hoping to be rescued from conditions that may kill
them before help arrives. The roofs of homes rise from the
floodwaters like schools of sharks in search of prey. Many
structures have been reduced to empty shells. So are the
hearts of those caught within the midst of this calamity. As
the camera from a helicopter scans an area of which I am
familiar, it reveals that the city morgue is also submerged.
The dead have died a second time.
A young daughter cries for help because her critically ill
mother is dying from a lack of dialysis. A frail elderly
man, shirtless and weak is airlifted from the balcony of a
building by a black hawk helicopter. Infants are transferred
from specialized medical facilities that have been reduced
to primitive conditions common to MASH units in war zones.
Patients with critical conditions will die. Babies with
special needs may perish. Survivors and families will mourn.
A news anchor reports that civil unrest is rapidly spreading
to epidemic proportions. There has been a total breakdown
within the city’s infrastructure. As a result, there are no
means of social control. Anarchy is rapidly becoming
apparent in the streets of New Orleans. There is an
unconfirmed report of an uprising in the Orleans Parish
Prison that allowed inmates to escape into the shadows of
city streets. A Wal-Mart near the river has been broken
into by scores of thieves who have pilfered its gun
department of automatic weapons. Lawlessness within the city
has become the norm. People smash the windows and doors of
businesses and steal its contents. Addicts and thugs break
into pharmacies and hospitals in search of drugs. One man
runs from a store with a case of beer. Another dances in the
street with a shopping cart filled with clothes, tennis
shoes and wine. A police officer points a rifle at a man who
smiles and walks away. Another officer is shot in the face
as he chases a man who breaks into a nearby building. Small
gangs of hoodlums stalk the troubled streets. They know that
they cannot be stopped. Many are new to lawlessness. Others
are seasoned veterans. Some are convicts that have nothing
to lose. President Bush declares Marshall Law. I contemplate
why it took so long.
A camera turns its eye on the chaos that continues to unfold
on the streets. People rise from sewers in search of dry
ground like rodents forced from their homes. A body bag lies
on a curbside like packaged debris. Near the New Orleans
Convention Center, a building often filled with festive
activities, thousands of victims crowd the sidewalks and cry
for help that doesn’t come. Hoards of elderly men and women
bake in a heat that threatens them with dehydration. A lone
nurse does everything that she can do, but without supplies
and support staff, she can do little. On the outside of the
Convention Center near a cargo door, two bodies sit wrapped
in sun bleached blankets. One is propped up on a wheelchair
with a name- tag attached to its handle. The second is bound
tightly with rope and lies several feet away. A young woman,
her face burned by an unforgiving sun, clutches a baby and
screams that the child won’t rouse. The small body appears
limp and unresponsive to prompts. Like those covered by
blankets, it appears that the baby is dead.
On the high-rise Interstate that snakes through the city and
around the Superdome, thousands of refugees appearing
stunned and confused, stand in 95 degree heat with no where
to go. Near the far side of the Interstate lies the body of
an elderly man who fell victim to the elements. His corpse
straddles the curb and appears as a stray dog killed by a
careless motorist. He is left unattended by those who walk
pass. They are focused on their own survival. They no longer
have time for the dead.
The scenes on the evening news become tragically redundant.
The New Orleans Yacht Club is engulfed in flames. The roof
of the Superdome is peeled away like a discarded sardine
can. Cars sit crushed by fallen buildings. Affluent looking
people push shopping carts down littered filled streets.
People are rescued by helicopter from rooftops surrounded by
rapidly stagnating water. People in medical distress are
transferred to medically distressed hospitals. Looters run
from stores with items that belong to others. Boaters float
down streets that have been reduced to rivers. People plead
for help but there is no one to help them. I feel that I’m
looking into the window of hell.
The repetition of such scenes, however, is overshadowed by
reports that conditions are growing worse. Two levees that
have been breached continue to spill waters from the gulf
and lake into the city. The water levels in New Orleans are
rapidly rising in neighborhoods that were thought to have
survived the worst. It is estimated that 80% of the city is
under water. A stiff wind blows whitecaps down the streets.
Fires are raging everywhere. The city is burning and high
water has made it impossible to respond.
As I turn to CBS News, they present another perspective of
what Hurricane Katrina has done to our city. An aerial view
of Tad Gormley Stadium, a football arena in City Park where
I attended a Beatle concert in the 1960’s, resembles a giant
fish bowl filled with water. The majestic oaks that surround
the stadium are submerged under a sea of black murky water.
The ecological devastation of our park is unimaginable.
While it’s natural beauty and wildlife may emerge in someone
else’s lifetime, it has forever disappeared from ours. City
Park and its stadium are not the only near-by treasures that
have been destroyed. Many above ground tombs, indigenous to
the cemeteries of New Orleans, have also been victimized by
the floodwaters. As a helicopter flies above Lake Lawn and
Greenwood Cemeteries, the camera reflects a scene that seems
inconceivable. Graveyards that stretch for miles along the
Interstate 10 appear to be under ten- feet of water. My
mother and grandmother are buried in Greenwood. The rest of
my family is buried in Lake Lawn.
In the late afternoon, Air Force One flies over New Orleans
and the surrounding area to view the horrific damage.
President Bush, appearing somber and affected by what he
sees, states that “This is the worst national disaster in
the history of the United States.” His statement is
extraordinary because it has occurred both in my lifetime
and in my hometown. This is New Orleans’s 9-11. It will be
recorded in history books that our great grandchildren and
their children’s children will never fully comprehend.
Although I have read about the tragedies of other people’s
lifetimes, I could not feel their pain. I feel it now. Life
as we know it will never be the same.
It is nearly midnight and I am exhausted by the stress of
the day. I speak by cell phone with Paul. He is a paramedic
currently doing rescue work in the New Orleans area. Along
with other first responders, he is currently housed in a
hospital surrounded by several feet of water. As we discuss
the problem of looting, he confesses that in some cases, the
rescuers have become the looters. They break the windows of
grocery stores and shops to survive. Food and water have
become prized commodities. Earlier in the day, he tells me
that he recovered three bodies lying on the lawns of their
home. He tells me that he didn’t have time to find out their
names.
Paul explains that levee breaks in New Orleans continue to
hamper rescue efforts and people are becoming more
desperate. He has been told that a nearby levee is beginning
to seep water. Jefferson Parish, immediately west of New
Orleans, is now threatened with catastrophic flooding. Paul
tells me that evacuees who have made it out of the hardest
hit areas of the city are being brought to Interstate10 for
the purpose of triage. The evacuees will be placed on buses
and transferred to locations in Dallas and Houston. The
Governor of Texas has extended his hand and stated that “ By
the grace of God, it wasn’t us.”
After twenty-six years living in our home, every room stores
a memory. It is the home in which we raised four sons. The
chair in which Barbara rocked and cuddled them sits in the
corner of our bedroom. It is where the intangible memories
that we left behind hopefully await our return. It is where
our beloved pets that passed away over the years are buried.
A tombstone with our cat’s name, Bright-Eyes, marks his
grave near the goldfish pond. I sat there and cried the
evening before I fled the storm. Paul promises that he will
try to reach us tomorrow and share the fate of our precious
home. I pray that our memories have not been erased by
nature like a mountainous landscape beneath volcanic ash.
It is getting very late. Barbara and I visit our sons on the
first floor of the hotel. We want them to know how much they
are loved. We want them to know that there is a future.
After taking a brief walk with our dog Wicket, we return to
our room and retire for the evening. It’s been a long day.
It’s going to be a longer week. As I turn off the light and
lie next to my wife, her scent provides me comfort. The
white noise of the air- conditioner is soothing. Morning
will come all too soon.