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In the Midst of Katrina
by Kelly Armbrecht Perry '02

We were on the tarmac of the New Orleans international airport. I was doing my best to explain to my 5-year-old, parentless patient that he was going on the big helicopter and that I couldn't go with him. His parents evacuated before the storm, and I had not heard from them.

Less than an hour earlier, one of the day-shift nurses came in and said, "Y'all, get up. We are evacuating our patients, and we may have to go with them." We knew it was coming. Earlier that day in a meeting with the president and CEO, the staff learned that if an evacuation was to happen that it would be from within the hospital. We were told that we were not a priority and that no one was coming to help.

An intercom announcement asked for at least 30 volunteers to drive to the airport. I grabbed my patient and his chart and ran downstairs, where I found the 30-car convoy waiting for us. It was 98 degrees. We knew we had to make it to the airport by 7 p.m. It was 5:45 p.m.
Since generators were powering the hospital, we had watched TV and listened to the radio. We knew we were in danger and that just six blocks away looters had driven a forklift into a Walgreen's. There were only two roads out of town, and the fire department told us we would need a military escort to drive one of them because of the violence.

We traveled slowly through the debris-laden streets of Uptown, winding our way around downed power lines and 100-year-old oaks snapped in half. At first, we saw only a few people, some pushing grocery carts, and some carrying plastic bags full of belongings. They seemed lost. As we made our way closer to Interstate 10, we saw people grouped together by the hundreds, and then later by the thousands. One man tried to jump in front of our car. Another man in a minivan tried to drive into us. It was the end of the day and people were hungry, hot, and desperate. Our convoy made it through the water safely.

When we reached the helicopters, it was almost dark outside. Men and women in flight suits were everywhere. As I entered the rear of the helicopter, an opening big enough for a Hummer, a man with a clipboard was taking the names of patients. The engines were so loud that I had to have him look at the boy's ID wristband. I felt my little patient cling to me, and I felt the tears well up inside of me.

Inside the helicopter I did my best to give my report to the flight nurses. By this time, my patient was crying, I was trying to draw up his medicine, and there was a strange mist flowing from the ceiling. I could tell my patient was trying to tell me something, but all I could make out was the word "hurt." I told him, "I know it's very loud and scary, but it's not going to hurt." Then he yelled in frustration, "No! Are y'all gonna hurt? Are y'all gonna be OK?"

After the patients were safe in the hands of the flight crew, we made our way back to the hospital through the pitch-black streets of New Orleans. Along the way, we passed several police cars, and no one offered to escort us. At the main roadblock into the city, an official asked us what we were doing. We explained that we evacuated our patients and we needed to get back to Children's Hospital. He stared at us in amazement and said, "I hope y'all have guns, 'cause you're takin' your lives into your own hands."

By the grace of God, we made it back safely. At daybreak on Thursday, September 1, with our patients secure in Kansas City, the staff evacuated via the one dry road out of town.

Kelly Armbrecht Perry '02 is an acute care nurse at Children's Hospital of New Orleans. After evacuating, she and her husband traveled to Kansas City to visit her patients. At press time, they were living in her hometown, Madison, Ind., hoping to return soon to Louisiana.

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