Inspire, Winter 2005

so the next question was where to do the procedure. When the main hospital generators went out, there had been a frantic search for a mobile diesel-powered generator to maintain power to the ventilators and other equipment that was sustaining patients in the ICU on the second floor. The decision was made to perform the C-section in one of the ICU rooms, where at least there was a window to let in some of the angry, strange daylight. An incredible amount of creativity and ingenuity went into preparing an inpatient room to become an operating room. During this time I went about making preparations for surgery. The electronic medication cart couldn’t be opened to retrieve the pre-operative meds, extra meds to have on hand in case of hemorrhage or any reactions to anesthesia, and meds for pain control after surgery, as well as baby medications. The guy who stocks the medication cart had to be tracked down in a five-story hospital that didn’t have any power or capability for communication. The one drawer he was unable to open was the one containing the narcotic medications — which includes all those needed for pain control. A runner went to the next floor up to beg for morphine while I wrestled with pliers to open the other med drawers. The medication situation mostly solved, I grabbed the rest of my pre-operative paperwork, supplies, and a helping hand to hold the flashlight so I could prep Jill for surgery. She had been under another nurse’s care, so this was my first time meeting her. Understandably, she was anxious, but as we chatted and I did my tasks we both tried to laugh away some of the nervousness. She was amazing. I told her I’d see her right after the surgery, as I couldn’t be in the room with her. She was accompanied off through the heavy, black hallways to the ICU. I followed a few minutes later, but the first sight of people in scrubs seemed to stop me dead in my tracks. I felt like I watched the next half hour or so from a place outside my body. There were voices around me, with snippets of conversation accented by flashlight beams. I heard myself call out Jill’s health information to the anesthesia providers. I watched my hands relinquish my precious cache of medications and then catch up on paperwork that was damp and flimsy. I felt myself move out of the way of the dizzying camera flashes. I can’t imagine how Jill felt in this chaos. A circle of doctors with orange masks, headlamps, and gloved hands surrounded the blue field while a wall of people in green scrubs formed a backdrop around the doctors. On the outer edge of this scene was light from seven flashlights. When I turned back to the darkness of the rest of the ICU, that picture was still in my eyes. Slowly they adjusted again to the darkness and I became aware again of the noise, the movement, and the task at hand. Within minutes we heard a baby’s cry, and the chatter was replaced with cheers and more camera flashes. It was around 3:30 p.m., and Hurricane Katrina had just been one-upped by an even more powerful, awesome event: the birth of a beautiful, healthy baby girl. Following the hurricane, Leah continued to work at a temporary tent hospital where they provided basic medical care to the personnel and families still on the base and emergent cases from the community. During this time, she contracted bacterial pneumonia and became one of those cared for. Because their Biloxi hospital won’t be re-opened for a year, the Air Force has relocated Leah to Italy. She can be reached at s1256738@alumni.cedarville.edu . It was around 3:30 p.m., and Hurricane Katrina had just been one-upped by an even more powerful, awesome event: the birth of a beautiful, healthy baby girl. Inspire 27