very OT (sorry): MY personal story

[DOUGLAS ZWIEBEL]

This was originally posted (I don't remember where) in Sept 2001.  It
is my story.
de Doug KR2Q



Saturday, September 15, 2001:

I'm feeling very tired and very sad.  I have a splitting headache and
I feel like I've been run over by a truck.

Earlier today, I logged onto my AOL account.  I had a week's worth of
mail waiting for me.  K1AR sent me an "instant message."  John
mentioned that he had thought about me during this week of pain.  I
IM'ed John back and said I did not feel very talkative and I shut
down.  I was just looking for some place quiet.  But I guess that
everyone needs to talk, to learn, to share, and to find out.

If you are so inclined, here is my story.

As you may know, I work as an administrator at New York Presbyterian
Hospital.  Our two main locations are the Columbia Presbyterian
Medical Center on 168th street on the west side (Ft. Washington Ave. –
my usual location) and our New York Hospital/Cornell Medical Center on
68th street on the east side (York Ave).  We are a huge operation with
nearly 2000 beds between both centers.

Just before 9am on Tuesday, there was lots of grapevine conversation
with people running up and downs the halls.  A WTC tower was on fire.
Because of the height of our buildings uptown, we have a line-of-sight
view of the Empire State Building as well as the twin towers to the
south.  Yes, we watched it all happen.  At around 9am the hospital's
overhead PA announced that we were now in Disaster Status – nobody
(employees and medical staff) could leave the job.  We all took out
our 2-inch thick disaster manuals and started reading.

As the horror unfolded, things really geared up.  The overhead PA
never stopped.  Surgeons to assemble in location A, surgical residents
in location B, Medical residents to C.  Nurse Practioners and
Physician Assistants were next called.  One by one, each clinical area
was assembled and, as I later learned, was shipped out to lower
Manhattan.

Our telephones were out, our pagers were out, and external Email was
out (the email server is located in lower Manhattan).  Even our
cell-phones were useless (dead or busy signal).  By working my way
over the remaining internal network to the Columbia University
network, I was able to remotely access my AOL email (text version
only).  I sent my wife the information that I felt she needed to
have…I'm okay – don't expect to see me tonight.  I actually got a
reply from her.  I had a connection to the outside.

As the day wore on, the PA quieted down.  The police were clearing all
parked cars from the streets and avenues surrounding our facility
(several city blocks) to make way for the expected parade of
ambulances.  At some point, it became obvious that the George
Washington Bridge was closed (I can see it right outside my office
window, just 10 blocks to the north).  It was strange.

Somewhere between 1 and 2pm, I walked out to the front of the Milstein
Hospital Building (where my office is located).  It was surreal.  It
was a beautiful day – blue skies, no clouds, warm and sunny, and very
quiet with almost nobody on the streets.  Yet, when I turned to the
south, looking down Ft. Washington Avenue, I could easily see the huge
mountain of white smoke filling lower Manhattan where the twin towers
had been.  Looking northward again, it was so peaceful.  After 10
minutes of fresh air, I went back inside, somewhat refreshed but still
in total disbelief.

As the day wore on, it was eerily quiet.  At around 3pm the calm was
temporarily shattered as some ambulances showed up – but that was it.
We were then told that we should expect lots of action around 5pm.
But still just lots of sitting and waiting and almost nothing.  At
around 7pm, the second Disaster Meeting was called.  It was becoming
clear that the number of patients (those needing care) was going to be
small.  The non-clinical staff were released.  Of course, there were
no trains/subways, no buses, the bridges and tunnels all still closed.
 The GWB had been opened earlier, but due a bomb threat (and I
understand that the van and passengers with bomb materials was taken
into custody), it was again closed.  But I did make it home that
night.  Walking through the door, my 11-year-old daughter jumped on me
and gave me the biggest and longest hug of her life.  There were lots
of tears.  My wife and 13 year old daughter were both more subdued.

Wednesday saw access to Manhattan closed down except for key personnel
(rescue, police, fire, medical, etc.).  I was to meet the hospital
shuttle in a parking lot in Englewood, NJ.  I live about 40 miles west
of the city.  Englewood is just a couple miles west of the city.  All
the main highways (80, 46, 3) were barricaded many miles west of the
GW bridge.  So once I was forced to exit off of interstate 80, I had
to find my way on back streets in towns I had never before been in.  I
just kept steering towards the sun.  And it worked.  I found my way to
the parking area and the hospital bus was waiting there.

When the bus filled to capacity, we left.  We had to clear three
police checkpoints to get near the bridge.  The first, to simply get
back on a closed highway.  The second was to get on a ramp to access
the bridge area.  The final checkpoint, just before we looped down
onto the bridge itself, drove home the reality of the situation.
Everyone had to present his or her hospital ID.  There were dogs and
someone checked under the bus with a mirror.  As we approached the
bridge, the massive "traffic condition" sign (you can see them all
along Route 80 and the NJ Turnpike), read "George Washing Bridge
Closed.  State of Emergency."  And beyond the sign was an empty
bridge, except for police and emergency vehicles.

As we rolled onto the bridge, someone in the bus said, "Say a pray"
which was intended for us to get safely across.  Nobody thought about
"us" in another 10 seconds.  Soon, we could see all of Manhattan.
Where the WTC towers had been was now a mountain of white smoke, still
huge and very productive.  We were effectively alone at center-span.
The Hudson River had no commercial traffic.  Instead, the river was
dotted with Coast Guard vessels of all shapes and sizes.  Nobody said
a word the entire trip.  As we cleared the bridge and got onto the
ramp for the West Side Highway, I was still surprised at the complete
lack of any other moving vehicles.  This ramp and highway are usually
packed at this hour…bumper to bumper traffic – and now, nothing.  The
last several minutes felt like I must have been in a movie.  This
couldn't possibly be real.

At 8:30am, there was another Disaster Meeting at the hospital.
Besides the praise for reacting as trained, we were told that this was
essentially a case of getting dressed up for the prom but your date
never arrives.  We simply were not going to play a major role, as
there were simply not that many survivors.  There are about 170
hospitals in NYC, but the three major facilities in lower Manhattan
(Bellvue, NYU, and Saint Vincents) were able to handle most of it on
their own.  Very few patients were admitted – most were what we call
"treat and release" – minor stuff that is handled in the ED (ER).

I have 268 staff in my department.  About every 5th person seems to
know someone involved in the disaster.
1. One guy's wife worked in the basement – she got out okay but it
took 6 hours to find out.
2. A manager's roommate works 2 blocks from the WTC.  She showed up at
3pm totally hysterical and covered in the white "fallout."  The
manager drove her home to Wisconsin the next day.
3. My department's system administrator had a friend who worked on the
80-something floor.  He overslept and missed his train from Long
Island.
4. Another person's brother-in-law works in tower two.  He is a
maintenance type.  He and another were assigned to the basement that
day.  The other five were assigned to the 77th floor.  He is alive –
they are still missing.

The stories go on and on.  Many small miracles.  It is a very small world.

Our facility lost five ambulances (destroyed in the collapses) and we
lost two EMTs.

I must say that we have not been very productive at work.  The
elective surgeries are again being scheduled and processed and we've
been told to "get back to normal" as a sign of strength to the poor,
empty souls who did this thing.  But it is very difficult.  Most
everyone in our facility walks around with blank faces and hollow
eyes.  We cry often.  We really wanted more patients – more survivors.

We had numerous prayer sessions on Friday for all denominations.  The
multi-denominational services had a priest, two ministers, an imam, a
rabbi, and a lay person.  It was held in our Columbia University
Medical School alumni auditorium (huge auditorium).  Because of excess
demand, they had to schedule additional services.

I recall the Oklahoma City bombing.  I felt sad then too.  But there
can be no empathy, no sorrow equal to when it happens in your town.
I'm sure everyone everywhere is upset and saddened, but the pain I
feel is beyond words.  I see it and feel it every day.  It is right in
my face and there is no escape.

Time heals all wounds.  I sure hope so.

Go out today and hug your kids and loved ones.  Life is so tenuous –
don't take it for granted.
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