Richard McGlaughlin Posted: Sat, Jan 30 2010
The Bahamas, and Haiti are beautiful to fly over- and these are the last beautiful pictures in this post, so proceed with a firm stomach, if at all.
I read Dennis H and Tim G's notes about single engine pistons, their limited payloads, and the long distances, and I understand and agree with the logic. But sensible though their advice is, it leaves out a piece of the puzzle, and I want to fill the picture in a bit.
I could not stand one more major media story, nor one more file photo of this catastrophe without doing something in a visceral way. I latched onto Bahamashabitat.org from a post on COPA and on AOPA, called John Armstrong Sat the 16th, and told him I thought I could borrow my friend's Baron I fly a good bit. He said come on, and THEN I checked with my friend- oops! He said no, they'll be taking an AK-47 to his plane, and concurrently David McCoy confirmed insurance over Haitian airspace was hopeless.
But I had the itch, and money and prayers and warm thoughts weren't going scratch it. John Armstrong was unreachable under a sea of emails and logistics, So...Cirrus it is, and I'll load it from my local hospitals- antibiotics, and IV fluids and tubing and casting materials and crutches, needles, syringes, scalpels and scrubs...a lot of them. Jeffa Ryan- corporate pilots can find space.
To FXE, then Nassau, then Cap Haitien was no problem. Had a little difficulty finding Pignon- they said follow the river, but not how far, but ultimately that was easy, too. Delivered the goods.
Fun part was over. Bahamashabitat now had enough twins for island freight hops, and turbines for passengers, they only needed singles for the Lauderdale-Nassau run. I had a decision to make. What the hell. I've worked in tough places before, Chaga's, and malaria, cholera epidemics and lepers and AIDS don't scare me.
On to les Cayes, to catch up with some missionaries I'd heard about run a hospital down there. 85 nm west of Port. No garmin data, not a problem, just draw the lat/longs off the WAC chart and go find it, they say it's nice.
And it is. The missionaries put me up, nice house, food, the works. Safe. And the hospital looked good- not Mayo good, but good for here.
The migration from Port au Prince was in full swing. They were swamped with injured patients- open fractures and burns infected for 10 days now. And this is where it gets tough. Everybody's hurting, and everyone has a story.
Fonten plays with his monkey- the surgeon gives every kid a toy, and the kid's a little too old for the monkey- maybe 10, and I walk past him into the hospital every day, steal his monkey, play with him, pretend the monkey only has one leg, like Fonten, and eventually ask him the only question that matters- what happened? He played in the basement with his sister Marie, waiting for Mama to finish dinner- and it was rocking, and Mama shouted "Get out", and I did, and the neighbor's wall fell on my leg. Gerard was hurt too- he was upstairs. What about Mama, what about Marie? And he cries a little and shakes his head.
His stump is healing nicely.
Up a tight spiral staircase, we come upon Germaine Daudier, a college student buried with her sociology class for 18 hours til they dragged her out. She has burns and fractures, but is more notable for tearing off her clothes and screaming. I can't calm her down.
The wards are open, 16 beds to a side, family at the bedside.
A couple beds down, Pastor Estras Mongrant had a wall fall on his hand- he barely got loose before the whole structure came down, but his diabetes is making the remnant heal slowly, and when I debride him he just prays louder, but he can't help screaming.
Dr Bill Ten Haaf will have to graft him soon, but we need to get the wound cleaned up, and that's hard on him.
On the opposite wall is Angelo CAery, stuck under a fallen roof for 2 days, now accompanied with his pretty young wife, and two kids.
Dr John Roberts, a long time annual Haiti volunteer, great horse sense, loves this guy, and wants to save his leg so badly he listens to the young wife, who says "Amputate? you might as well kill my family", and debrides him all week, his screams reverberating off the block walls. But Wednesday, we take him to the OR, and debride him deeply- dead to the bone- and just before I leave on Thursday, we take his leg above the knee. What else could we do?
Emile Gerestante is a 35 year old trucker- big guy- my kind of guy- fat and with profane friends come to tease him, feels like I'm back in Philly. His truck started to rattle and rock, and he jumped out and ran- then the building across the street smacked him down, two broken tib-fibs, open wounds. Believe he'll make it, but I like him too much to debride him- I make Roberts do it, try to get to the other side when he starts to scream.
And I found a soccer game. The only normal thing I saw in Haiti, though the pitch was a mess, with little grass, and softball sized rocks.
Back to work, with Ludgine Emile, cute little girl wearing everything she owns, sporting a pelvic fracture with open wounds, 10 hours buried with two dead strangers. Debriding her is the toughest of all, though she's nearly ready to graft, I can't get time for her on the schedule. The things we take for granted at home you have scrap away for here.....
It wasn't all awful- we delivered a couple babies. And slept them 3 to a bed, til big sister's knee wound heals.
And there was a moment destined to become COPA legend, when Pierre Redmond and Denise Kowal flew a Cirrus packed with supplies I'd requested all the way from Nevada! A photo here of Cirrus taking over the ramp at Les Cayes. I need to stand closer to Denise- she's very slimming, no?
And then done. Flew home through the Bahamas, where turquoise bleeds into indigo, and God's in His heaven, with no explaining to do.
And that work will continue, and Dr Ten Haaf is a prince among men, canny and cautious with a buck. So our money will be carefully spent, and I thank those who sent it, and encourage all to pitch in.
But an odd note.
Out of Exuma, I cruised into Fort Pierce, and at CBP an officious young young chippie with a Glock asked me for my customs sticker. I'd bought it just in time to leave, and had a receipt to prove it, but in the paper soufle that my cockpit gradually becomes on long trips, damned if I could find it. About my daughter's age, I guess, and she said, how do we know you're not just some rogue pilot?
And I started to cry, and I was back in third grade- could not stop. I didn't just embarrass myself, I think she was embarrassed too, and she finally just waved me on.
So this was alot harder than I thought, and we're back to Tim and Dennis- why not just send the money?
Well, of course, send the money. Send it to Dr Bill TenHaaf and his clinic.
But the heart has its reasons, which reason knows not. And these poor broken people need a voice. Who will speak for them?
We will.
COPA will.