Aftermath

The little far-Northeastern North Carolina town where I work was battered for well over 24 hours (from late last Friday night until the wee hours of Sunday morning) with sheets of rain and screaming wind.  Irene's eye passed just to our East, so we saw no relief during the onslaught.  If anything, apart from when the eyewall was passing, the back-end of the storm seemed far worse than the front (I think that was about the shift in wind direction).

Trees are down everywhere.  We had what I would categorize as mild-to-moderate flooding for this part of the world (the weathermen have joked that we're no longer in a drought).  It was not Floyd.  It was not Isabel.  But's that's only because we were dry-as-a-bone.  At least one local bridge is out.  Local farmers took a massive hit - particularly those growing corn, cotton and/or tobacco.  Peanuts and soybeans fared better.

The hospital took a nasty licking to its infrastructure (water damage mostly), but went on generator power about mid-day Saturday and, like the Energizer Bunny kept right on ticking.  The computers slowed (and remain very temperamental), but never went completely down (we had prepared for paper-charts - I was actually looking forward to that - one giant checkmark down the page, a signature and you're done).  The LDRP nursing staff was amazing (the weekend staff basically roomed in) - but of course, they've done this before.  We did have one "hurricane baby".

I rode the storm out at my apartment - about two miles and one creek from the hospital - electing to stay with my terrified animals - venturing out only to attend the aforementioned delivery very early on Saturday morning, and to do nursery rounds (we had several babies/their families in-house). 

Amazingly, I had power and even cable TV until about 8 PM Saturday night - when everything went out all at once.  But it was all back on by early Sunday morning.  The nurses wryly tell me it's because I'm on the same line/grid as the local funeral home. 

Some of my colleagues are still without power.  At night, there is the constant hum of generators in the distance.

Hospital executives threw a little post-hurricane party for the staff earlier this week.  Hot-dogs and hamburgers and beach-music in the courtyard.  It was thoughtful - and nice.  

The hospital maintenance crew deserves medals and $20 Walmart gift cards.  It's just my opinion, if any executives are reading this subversive little blog:)

It wasn't just the Outer Banks that got slammed.  Inland towns like Bath and Belhaven and New Bern took a vicious pummeling.  It's kind of surreal to hear people talk about the damage there now. . . as the weekend prior, Mama had accompanied my Aunts and Uncles to a family reunion in Bath/Belhaven.  And, by all accounts, it was an absolutely perfect weekend - the calm before the storm.

One of our anesthesiologists (a "traveller", like me) makes her permanent home on the sound side of one of our more Southern beaches - she plans to retire there.  She was off-call, and had thought about riding out the storm.  She laughed as she told me that she had expected local authorities to close the bridges/access roads . . . and was able to shrug of being told, "You will be on your own if you stay". 

But when they shut off the water and sewer, it was time to leave;)  Her home survived the storm with minimal damage.

The thing is, Irene was "just" a Category 1 storm (for those now sneering and spitting at the National Hurricane Center, I would rather forecasters over-predict than under-estimate).  And she pretty much shut the eastern seaboard down for two days.  The catastrophic damage in Vermont echos of the hurting that Hurricanes Frances and Ivan put on the N.C. Mountains in 2004.  What if Miss Irene had been the Category 2 or 3 monster she was originally feared to be? 

Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.  Get something in-between.

Folks here are holding their breaths over Katia - now lumbering through the Atlantic.

The people of Eastern North Carolina are a hardy lot.  Storms come and storms go.  Big rivers crest and recede. Land literally shifts under their feet. Beaches drift and homes disappear.  But these folks pick-up, clean-up and keep moving forward . . . without a lot of hand-holding from "our federal family" (cringe, choke, gag).  To-be-sure there will be Federal disaster-relief and money coming in (Governor Bev is all over it), but this ain't New Orleans, and nobody is waiting to be rescued - or blaming whoever happens to be occupying the White House.

(President Obama can take his photo-ops in Vermont.  No biggie.)

One resident of Hatteras Island said, "It's the price of living in paradise".

And on that note, I have one thing to say to anyone bitching about re-building Highway 12 (again).

If you've ever visited North Carolina's beaches and barrier islands and harbor towns/communities - some of them older than the state/country itself . . . stocked with ancient families who are far from "rich" . . . if you've ever enjoyed even one single day or night in paradise, put on your pirate panties, SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP. 

OF COURSE, the road needs to be rebuilt - for as long as we can do it - even if it's just dirt and gravel.

In the meantime, it sure would be cool to come up with alteratives . . . like shoring up our ferry system.  We also need to have some serious conversations about what gets built on our very unique and fragile coastline.  How can we preserve what we have for as long as we can . . . and pass paradise on?

One thing is for sure:  The day of the four-story ocean-front McMansion needs to be OVER.