training

Posted September 7th, 2005 by Michelle

It’s so nice to be back in my sweet little house, the crickets chanting outside, the wind chimes softly knocking, my cat determined to share my lap with my computer. I’ve had a recurring selfish thought this last week, one that plagues me all the time: I’m so glad my mother wasn’t in New Orleans. I’m so glad my mom wasn’t stuck on a third floor somewhere, somewhere where she might have had to swim in that foul water, where the National Guard might have been shooting in the air above her head, where she might have been left for days and days without food, water, or anyone watching out for her. It keeps me up at night, thinking that that life could have just as easily have been ours, and I’m just so relieved that my mother isn’t in the teeming masses of suffering. Of course, people far worse off than she, people with greater ailments and even greater heartbreaks are among those who lost homes and families and their lives. Which is why it is a selfish thought. But I still have it.

I made myself dinner with tomatoes and herbs from my garden, and on my muted TV, Blake is crushing Agassi. So normal and peaceful, and I’m enjoying every second of it. Last night when I checked into the crappy Travelodge, I got that slipping feeling, that knowledge that things are shifting, and it almost would have made more sense if I had been deployed straight from my nine-hour training day. Instead, I fought Interstate 80 back to this part of the world, and I have eight days until my phone is supposed to ring.

The day began with all 200 of us hopefuls filling out our DSHR forms en masse. The Red Cross was using the auditorium and facilities of the Blue Diamond headquarters in Sacramento as a staging ground for this batch of trainees. Blue Diamond, apparently, is a major nut operation. As in, little edible bits from trees, not imbalanced folks. The facility was beautiful although the air conditioning was perilously high, and there were six or seven instructors walking all of us through the process. The first hour seemed rather disorganized, and we soon found out why. I’d been wondering why there were so many men milling about in extraordinarily expensive suits, and why a photographer was testing the lights, when one of the instructors introduced the CEO of Blue Diamond, who in turn introduced the CEO of the Sacramento Red Cross, who, in turn, with much fanfare, introduced the governor of California. That’s right, the Governator came striding out with those crazy white perfect teeth and even I found myself on my feet, clapping, not because I approve of anything he’s done, but because he’s HOT! I admit it. What can you do.

I don’t much remember what he said, other than how proud he was of us, and how proud he is of California’s response to Katrina, and how thankful he was that all of us were taking time out of our lives to go help those in need. And then he came across the front row where I (yes, dorkus majorus) was sitting, and shook our hands. He has big hands. But he’s shorter than you think.
The rest of the day was not quite as exciting; indeed, I’d forgotten how droll Red Cross training videos are. One of them had footage from about 1983, or somewhere near the time that the movie Valley Girl was out, and there was upturned collars and terrible hair to prove it. Clearly that wasn’t what we were there to learn, but these videos didn’t really come close to the true nature of what disaster staging grounds really look and feel like. On the video, everyone was busy, but no one was freaking out, no one was giving up, no one was furious, no one was throwing things, no one was bawling, no one was literally holding someone else up. I know they don’t want to scare anyone. And maybe the idea is that you give people the basic tools they’ll need to be successful in a situation, and the rest of it- the hard stuff- they figure out in the moment. But I still had trouble paying attention and staying focused, particularly since I really wanted a nap.

We all had to be screened by a nurse, and mine was delighted to see all the “no’s” checked on my form when it asked about health problems. I thought of Ian’s kidney stones, Sean’s knee, and my mom’s eyes, and it reminded me how lucky I am to be able to do this work. As the nurse went through my previous disaster experience, she looked at me and said, “There is a very good chance that you will be deployed and you will reach a staging ground where you have more experience than your supervisor. You may have better solutions to problems. You’ll have to find a diplomatic way to make your voice heard, and if you feel you are hitting a brick wall, find a way around it, and get the job done.” “I direct a small arts non-profit,” I said. “I got that part covered.”

Back in group, we discussed the kinds of things we need to bring: insect repellent with at least 26% Deet; waterproof boots; raingear; photocopies of all our insurance information and certification cards; no shorts, no tank tops; and clothes for three days only. A sheet and a light blanket. Earplugs and eyemasks for sleeping in the same room as 10,000 other people. All in all, only what will fit in a carry-on bag, and only what we can carry on our backs. And only what we are utterly willing to lose, get stolen, or get destroyed. We need to be prepared for twelve-hour shifts, limited access to showers, cots if we are lucky. I have much of what I need, although I’ve started a small list of things I need to buy or borrow.

And now, I wait. The forms we filled out in the morning were in Kentucky by the end of lunchtime where they are currently being entered into the database. The folks who can be deployed immediately will get a call sometime in the next 24-72 hours and will be deployed within 48 hours of that phone call. I can’t go until after the 16th, which is the night of my organization’s biggest annual event. So come the morning of the 15th, I’ll start waiting for my call, which will come at any time after that, to get my deployment date and time, which could be within hours, or within days. I just won’t know a thing until I get that call. Apparently everyone’s possible deployment date is in the computer, and each new day, flags appear in the system and those folks get called and deployed. Every single one of us will go as, simply, “Mass Care”, and once we are down there, we will find out where we fit. And where is “down there”? No telling. At this point, I could end up in Florida, Mississippi, New York, Texas, Washington D.C.- or Louisiana. I could end up at any one of hundreds of staging grounds across numerous states. I could be deployed to Houston where I’ll wait for two days before being sent to my final destination. There is just no telling.

But until that date, until I get that phone call, I have an entire organization to fund. And to that end, for my big meeting tomorrow, it’s bedtime.