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 Joplin

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masterindisguise
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PostSubject: Joplin   Wed May 25, 2011 8:29 am

I live about 10 miles north of Joplin and my roommate lived through the tornado. He was at work, it leveled the restaurant he worked at. His boss is a friend of mine and she and her husband survived by getting under their house. This year she has lost her mom, dad, job, home and vehicles. A lot of people have literally lost everything. Melissa, you live in Okla. so I know you know what it is like. Are you okay? You guys got it last night. It has been a wild ride this year with probably more on the way..
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masterindisguise
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PostSubject: Re: Joplin   Thu Jun 16, 2011 10:37 am

Well, Joplin is starting to get back on its feet. I can't tell you how touching it has been to see all the support from all across the country. From what I've heard the insurance companies have been really good about paying up and quickly. The housing market is on a definite upswing, forget finding a place to rent and it is now a sellers market for houses. I've heard some people with rental houses were kicking out their renters and selling the houses. The car market is doing well also, although individuals selling their old cars are asking ridiculous amounts. I've also heard some stories about looters also. How can anyone go and loot from people who have literally just lost everything? It boggles my mind. There have also been so many wonderful people helping and giving in any way they can. People who barely survived the tornado digging out and then running around digging out others. A lot are still experiencing PTSD. One thing I saw a lot of painted on the sides of destroyed buildings were the words "down but not out" . We will rebuild. I just hope they take a lesson of Greenburg, Kansas and rebuild in an environmentally responsible way.
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PostSubject: Re: Joplin   Thu Jun 16, 2011 10:40 am

Emergency Department
after May 22 tornado
View more photos from our Flickr
My name is Dr. Kevin Kikta, and I was one of two emergency room doctors who were on duty at St. Johnís Regional Medical Center in Joplin, MO on Sunday, May 22, 2011.
You never know that it will be the most important day of your life until the day is over. The day started like any other day for me: waking up, eating, going to the gym, showering, and going to my 4:00 pm ER shift. As I drove to the hospital I mentally prepared for my shift as I always do, but nothing could ever have prepared me for what was going to happen on this shift. Things were normal for the first hour and half. At approximately 5:30 pm we received a warning that a tornado had been spotted. Although I work in Joplin and went to medical school in Oklahoma, I live in New Jersey, and I have never seen or been in a tornado. I learned that a ďcode grayĒ was being called. We were to start bringing patients to safer spots within the ED and hospital.
At 5:42 pm a security guard yelled to everyone, ďTake cover! We are about to get hit by a tornado!Ē I ran with a pregnant RN, Shilo Cook, while others scattered to various places, to the only place that I was familiar with in the hospital without windows, a small doctorís office in the ED. Together, Shilo and I tremored and huddled under a desk. We heard a loud horrifying sound like a large locomotive ripping through the hospital. The whole hospital shook and vibrated as we heard glass shattering, light bulbs popping, walls collapsing, people screaming, the ceiling caving in above us, and water pipes breaking, showering water down on everything. We suffered this in complete darkness, unaware of anyone elseís status, worried, scared. We could feel a tight pressure in our heads as the tornado annihilated the hospital and the surrounding area. The whole process took about 45 seconds, but seemed like eternity. The hospital had just taken a direct hit from a category EF5 tornado.
Then it was over. Just 45 seconds. 45 long seconds. We looked at each other, terrified, and thanked God that we were alive. We didnít know, but hoped that it was safe enough to go back out to the ED, find the rest of the staff and patients, and assess our losses.
ďLike a bomb went off. Ē Thatís the only way that I can describe what we saw next. Patients were coming into the ED in droves. It was absolute, utter chaos. They were limping, bleeding, crying, terrified, with debris and glass sticking out of them, just thankful to be alive. The floor was covered with about 3 inches of water, there was no power, not even backup generators, rendering it completely dark and eerie in the ED. The frightening aroma of methane gas leaking from the broken gas lines permeated the air; we knew, but did not dare mention aloud, what that meant. I redoubled my pace.

We had to use flashlights to direct ourselves to the crying and wounded. Where did all the flashlights come from? Iíll never know, but immediately, and thankfully, my years of training in emergency procedures kicked in. There was no power, but our mental generators were up and running, and on high test adrenaline. We had no cell phone service in the first hour, so we were not even able to call for help and backup in the ED.


I remember a patient in his early 20ís gasping for breath, telling me that he was going to die. After a quick exam, I removed the large shard of glass from his back, made the clinical diagnosis of a pneumothorax (collapsed lung) and gathered supplies from wherever I could locate them to insert a thoracostomy tube in him. He was a trooper; Iíll never forget his courage. He allowed me to do this without any local anesthetic since none could be found. With his life threatening injuries I knew he was running out of time, and it had to be done. Quickly. Imagine my relief when I heard a big rush of air, and breath sounds again; fortunately, I was able to get him transported out. I immediately moved on to the next patient, an asthmatic in status asthmaticus. We didnít even have the option of trying a nebulizer treatment or steroids, but I was able to get him intubated using a flashlight that I held in my mouth. A small child of approximately 3-4 years of age was crying; he had a large avulsion of skin to his neck and spine. The gaping wound revealed his cervical spine and upper thoracic spine bones. I could actually count his vertebrae with my fingers. This was a child, his whole life ahead of him, suffering life threatening wounds in front of me, his eyes pleading me to help him.. We could not find any pediatric C collars in the darkness, and water from the shattered main pipes was once again showering down upon all of us. Fortunately, we were able to get him immobilized with towels, and start an IV with fluids and pain meds before shipping him out. We felt paralyzed and helpless ourselves. I didnít even know a lot of the RNís I was working with. They were from departments scattered all over the hospital. It didnít matter. We worked as a team, determined to save lives. There were no specialists available -- my orthopedist was trapped in the OR. We were it, and we knew we had to get patients out of the hospital as quickly as possible. As we were shuffling them out, the fire department showed up and helped us to evacuate. Together we worked furiously, motivated by the knowledge and fear that the methane leaks could cause the hospital could blow up at any minute.
Things were no better outside of the ED. I saw a man crushed under a large SUV, still alive, begging for help; another one was dead, impaled by a street sign through his chest. Wounded people were walking, staggering, all over, dazed and shocked. All around us was chaos, reminding me of scenes in a war movie, or newsreels from bombings in Bagdad. Except this was right in front of me and it had happened in just 45 seconds. My own car was blown away. Gone. Seemingly evaporated. We searched within a half mile radius later that night, but never found the car, only the littered, crumpled remains of former cars. And a John Deere tractor that had blown in from miles away.
Tragedy has a way of revealing human goodness. As I worked, surrounded by devastation and suffering, I realized I was not alone. The people of the community of Joplin were absolutely incredible. Within minutes of the horrific event, local residents showed up in pickups and sport utility vehicles, all offering to help transport the wounded to other facilities, including Freeman, the trauma center literally across the street. Ironically, it had sustained only minimal damage and was functioning (although Iím sure overwhelmed). I carried on, grateful for the help of the community.
Within hours I estimated that over 100 EMS units showed up from various towns, counties and four different states. Considering the circumstances, their response time was miraculous. Roads were blocked with downed utility lines, smashed up cars in piles, and they still made it through.
We continued to carry patients out of the hospital on anything that we could find: sheets, stretchers, broken doors, mattresses, wheelchairsóanything that could be used as a transport mechanism.
As I finished up what I could do at St Johnís, I walked with two RNís, Shilo Cook and Julie Vandorn, to a makeshift MASH center that was being set up miles away at Memorial Hall. We walked where flourishing neighborhoods once stood, astonished to see only the disastrous remains of flattened homes, body parts, and dead people everywhere. I saw a small dog just wimpering in circles over his master who was dead, unaware that his master would not ever play with him again. At one point we tended to a young woman who just stood crying over her dead mother who was crushed by her own home. The young woman covered her mother up with a blanket and then asked all of us, ďWhat should I do?Ē We had no answer for her, but silence and tears.
By this time news crews and photographers were starting to swarm around, and we were able to get a ride to Memorial Hall from another RN. The chaos was slightly more controlled at Memorial Hall. I was relieved to see many of my colleagues, doctors from every specialty, helping out. It was amazing to be able to see life again. It was also amazing to see how fast workers mobilized to set up this MASH unit under the circumstances. Supplies, food, drink, generators, exam tables, all were thereóexcept pharmaceutical pain meds. I sutured multiple lacerations, and splinted many fractures, including some open with bone exposed, and then intubated another patient with severe COPD, slightly better controlled conditions this time, but still less than optimal.
But we really needed pain meds. I managed to go back to the St Johnís with another physician, pharmacist, and a sheriffís officer. Luckily, security let us in to a highly guarded pharmacy to bring back a garbage bucket sized supply of pain meds.
At about midnight I walked around the parking lot of St. Johnís with local law enforcement officers looking for anyone who might be alive or trapped in crushed cars. They spray-painted ďXĒs on the fortunate vehicles that had been searched without finding anyone inside. The unfortunate vehicles wore ďXísĒ and sprayed-on numerals, indicating the number of dead inside, crushed in their cars, cars which now resembled flattened recycled aluminum cans the tornado had crumpled in her iron hands, an EF5 tornado, one of the worst in history, whipping through this quiet town with demonic strength. I continued back to Memorial hall into the early morning hours until my ER colleagues told me it was time for me to go home. I was completely exhausted. I had seen enough of my first tornado.
How can one describe these indescribable scenes of destruction? The next day I saw news coverage of this horrible, deadly tornado. It was excellent coverage, and Mike Bettes from the Weather Channel did a great job, but there is nothing that pictures and video can depict compared to seeing it in person. That video will play forever in my mind.
I would like to express my sincerest gratitude to everyone involved in helping during this nightmarish disaster. My fellow doctors, RNís, techs, and all of the staff from St. Johnís. I have worked at St Johnís for approximately 2 years, and I have always been proud to say that I was a physician at St Johnís in Joplin, MO. The smart, selfless and immediate response of the professionals and the community during this catastrophe proves to me that St Johnís and the surrounding community are special. I am beyond proud.
To the members of this community, the health care workers from states away, and especially Freeman Medical Center, I commend everyone on unselfishly coming together and giving 110% the way that you all did, even in your own time of need. St Johnís Regional Medical Center is gone, but her spirit and goodness lives on in each of you.
EMS, you should be proud of yourselves. You were all excellent, and did a great job despite incredible difficulties and against all odds
For all of the injured who I treated, although I do not remember your names (nor would I expect you to remember mine) I will never forget your faces. Iím glad that I was able to make a difference and help in the best way that I knew how, and hopefully give some of you a chance at rebuilding your lives again. For those whom I was not able to get to or treat, I apologize whole heartedly.
Last, but not least, thank you, and God bless you, Mercy/St Johnís for providing incredible care in good times and even more so, in times of the unthinkable, and for all the training that enabled us to be a team and treat the people and save lives.
Sincerely,
Kevin J. Kikta, DO
Department of Emergency Medicine
Mercy/St Johnís Regional Medical Center, Joplin, MO
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