When It Rains It Pours
Everyone has heard the saying, “when it rains it pours”, well I recently lived that saying. A few weeks ago, I was invited by the Brain Injury Association of America to speak at a conference in Minneapolis, MN where their partner Abbott was sharing their new blood test that rapidly assesses concussions. I was offered this opportunity in late September, and Paula Eichholz (from the BIAA) moved quickly to book my travel accommodations. This was about a week before Hurricane Helene made landfall on Florida's Gulf Coast and well before anyone could have predicted the devastation that would come to Western North Carolina. The storm moved quickly north to the seemingly safe Blue Ridge mountains the next day where my husband and I were among those residents who were told to shelter in place as opposed to evacuate.
We reside in Arden, NC, a few miles away from Asheville and less than one mile from the French Broad River.
Early the next morning, while standing by the glass French doors of our porch, my husband heard a tree coming down. I pulled out my iPhone and hit record in time to capture several more trees crashing down in between us and our neighbor's yard. We quickly closed the door and moved down to the basement where we stayed for the next several hours losing both power and internet service. I could no longer send or receive text messages and felt totally isolated, which was terrifying. The Wi-Fi signal was replaced with an “SOS” message that remained on our phones for several days.
Thanks to my husband, we have a generator which kicked on automatically. We heard wind howling outside and rain relentlessly pelting our metal roof. Time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once. Every now and then the little boy in my husband couldn't help but pop his head outside of our basement door where he watched trees bend at unnatural angles and the rain fell horizontally. I stared at my blank iPhone screen, trying over and over to communicate with anyone.
Eventually the rain died down enough that we felt it was safe to emerge from the basement. We were some of the lucky ones, as our home did not sustain any structural damage that we could tell. Immediately I began reviewing an imaginary to-do list in my head:
• Do we have enough food? Check.
• Do we have enough water? Check.
• Do we have enough fuel? Check.
• Are our family, friends, and neighbors safe? No idea.
With no internet or Wi-Fi service, the only thing we thought we could do was walk our neighborhood which we discovered many others were also doing. The home directly next to ours is where an older widow lives alone and we sadly discovered one of the trees I recorded coming down, landed on her garage. It lay, stretched across her front porch like a huge wooden mote blocking our path. I fought my way through the limbs to reach her front door where I knocked furiously but there was no response. That's when I noticed the neighbor who lived on the other side of her home walking with a cup of coffee towards the side door and I was relieved when I saw her emerge. She allowed me to take photos of the Audi and Porsche that were buried by rubble inside her garage.
Elsi’s garage
Seeing the simple, kind gesture of my neighbor inspired me to brew a few thermoses of coffee that I distributed to other neighbors who were still without power. On the third day, one woman began to cry, and said this was the first cup of coffee she's had since Helene arrived. I was invited into the homes of people I may otherwise have not connected with.
My husband suggested we try to find a local radio channel on our car radio, and that's how we discovered the Buncombe County Emergency Broadcasts that aired at 10 AM and 4 PM daily. Local authorities advised residents to stay off the roads, which we mostly did. Out of curiosity, we finally tried to exit Ashley Woods Park and found we were trapped in our community by flood water one direction and downed power lines in the other.
The soundtrack of our neighborhood became the roar of chainsaws, which could be heard floating on every breeze in all directions. Eventually, we also began to hear the thwomp of search and rescue helicopters landing at the nearby airport. A local friend was able to hitchhike the short ride (but long walk) to our home where she unloaded her refrigerator contents into ours and was able to charge her phone. We enjoyed a spontaneous slumber party, and cooked meals together family style.
As the days plodded on, I began to think about my presentation for Abbott and wonder if I would be able to get out and make it to Minneapolis for the conference after all. When I began to notice a few passenger planes in the sky, my optimism soared. With a renewed sense of possibility, I turned my attention to figuring out how to get the talk I prepared off of my laptop and onto my iPad. A local friend mentioned she found a “hot spot” on the side of the road near her home, so I brought both devices with me and sat waiting for something to occur. Suddenly and magically my phone came back to life! Dings, tweets, and buzzes filled my ears as I reconnected with the outside world.
One text chain I was eager to reconnect with was to Peter and Paula from the BIAA. I learned that my 7 AM flight was cancelled, and I was rebooked for the next flight at 11 AM. This would mean that I had an extremely tight connection in Charlotte, and when I shared my concern with the American Airlines flight attendant Ms. Outlaw just before take-off, she generously reseated me from the last row to Row 8, which was directly behind first class. I slipped my carryon under the seat in front of me, then we waited. And waited. And waited on the tarmac in Asheville. I texted updates to my BIAA colleagues, and they kept track of my ever-changing flight information. I landed nearly an hour late. While taxiing to our gate, I changed out of my heels and into better running shoes. My husband sent me a screen grab of the Charlotte airport map, which I memorized: take a right, another right, a third right, then straight ahead towards Terminal A.
The website said to would be an 18-minute walk, so with my luggage on my back, I ran like the wind to catch the connection that was on the opposite side of the airport. My lungs were exploding, and I gasped for air as I approached an empty gate. Of all the delayed American Airline flights that day, I was crushed to find my connection was one of the few that took off on time. The less-than-sympathetic agent invited me to sit and catch my breath as he rebooked me for a flight that landed at 5 PM. After a 30-minute taxi ride to the hotel, the event would almost be over.
So, Paula pivoted and asked me to locate a quiet space in the Charlotte Airport to record a Zoom that could be played in my absence. I found a hushed hallway, where we captured my talk on the first take. Since I had a bit of time to kill, I filled my water bottle and treated myself to a manicure. My shoulders, thighs and calves began to ache as if I were training for a marathon, and my “Hurricane Hair” looked even more dreadful.
News of Hurricane Helene flashed across TV monitors throughout the airport, and I was even more heartbroken by the devastating images that I was seeing for the first time. I stood in shocked silence at an Irish pub inside the airport and was approached by a bartender who asked if I needed anything. As my eyes filled with tears, I pointed to the screen and responded that I had just come from there.
The next flight that brought me to Minneapolis was short, and there was not enough time to take a desperately needed nap. I passed through its airport like a zombie and made my way to a taxi queue. The driver listened quietly as I prayed with my prayer partner, and he texted me his mobile number, so I’d have a ride back to the airport the next day.
When I finally arrived at the Embassy Suites, I forgot to slip back into my heels and walked lifelessly from the lobby into the meeting room where a few dozen medical professionals and nurses stayed behind to give me a standing ovation. This is when I met Peter for the first time. Someone lifted my luggage from my shoulders and someone else ordered me an Old Fashioned.
While plates were being cleared around me, I made my way to the buffet table and piled food onto mine. Peter let me catch my breath before introducing me to Mr. Carlton, the Abbott host who had invited us to speak. I pulled the host aside and eagerly shared the final points of my talk, which thanked partners like Abbott for shining a light on this invisible injury and for making meaningful impacts on the front line of emergency care.
I passed out some business cards, and was introduced to a few of the attendees, but I don’t really recall much about these details. After what felt like one of the longest day of my life, I checked into my room, took my first hot shower in many days, plugged in my iPhone charger, and passed out. I took another hot shower before checking out of the hotel early the next morning. I was in the state for less than 18 hours. I learned later that due to technical difficulties, BIAA was unable to share my recorded talk after all.
This overnight whirlwind proved to me that I am more resilient than perhaps I previously gave myself credit for. A few of the folks I met the night before suggested that maybe I could speak at their conferences, and I hope a few of those opportunities might come to pass.