THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SATURDAY, June 4, 1994 TAG: 9406070528
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: By Shirley Beatty Leafe, Special to The Daily Break
DATELINE: 940604 LENGTH: Long
Fortunately, the auto was a well-built Russian Volga, so the roof did not collapse. Unfortunately, there were no rear seat belts, so we were tossed about like the numbered balls in a bingo caller's basket. Three of us were able to walk away.
I was the fourth.
The impact had popped out the rear window, and my husband was able to snake his way out. The driver of the car walked away uninjured. The woman in the front seat got out and came to try to assist me. My husband reentered through the back window and dragged me out.
I found myself lying on my back on the ground 6,500 miles from home in a country whose language I could not understand, whose society and culture were mysteries to me, and where time has stood still for 40 years. The date was June 3, 1992, and the place was Kaliningrad, Russia.
But let me start at the beginning.
\ THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS
On May 29, 1992, a group of local citizens left Norfolk, Va., on a goodwill trip to Kaliningrad, Russia, Norfolk's newest sister city. We were 22 in all: educators, shippers, hospital administrators and city officials. I accompanied my husband, Joe, who was then the mayor of Norfolk. Our goal was to lay groundwork for exchange programs with schools and medical facilities, and to develop business opportunities.
Kaliningrad is not the easiest spot to get to. It sits on the Baltic Sea, and is actually separated from the rest of Russia by Lithuania and Poland. As Russia's only western ice-free port, it is important to the military and is still carefully guarded - and not just by the Russians. We had to fly first into Hamburg, Germany, then into Gdansk, Poland, and then travel by bus over a circuitous route to a border crossing that the Poles determined. The Polish guards were stern and overbearing, and delayed us with paperwork and telephone calls requesting additional approval for our visit.
At one point, I found myself wishing they would deny us exit from Poland so that we could turn around and forget it. Looking back, that would have been a great favor.
Once in Kaliningrad, we were warmly welcomed and began a hectic four-day visit. University leaders led our educators to their schools, a doctor took our medical directors to hospitals, shippers visited shipyards and city officials visited with their counterparts. Spouses were taken on a city tour, to museums and to shops.
It was a busy city, but one in which time has stood still. For years, the government poured funds into the military but neglected the country's infrastructure. A people who had lived their whole lives in a controlled environment suddenly found themselves struggling with newfound freedom, out-of-control inflation, and shortages of the basic necessities of life.
Clearly, without help from the free world, Russia will not survive its rocky road to democracy and free enterprise.
On the fourth and final day of our visit, my husband Joe, city clerk Breck Daughtrey and I were escorted to the naval headquarters in Kaliningrad. We met with the admiral in charge of the Russian Baltic fleet, concluded our official call and were directed into vans to proceed to the Baltijsk Naval Base. We were the first U.S. citizens to visit the strategic base.
On the way to Baltijsk, we were joined by Mayor Vitali Shipov and his wife, and I was asked to leave the van and ride with them. They were anxious to practice English and felt more comfortable with me in the informal privacy of their car. As we sped along a narrow country road I clutched a hand grip above the door, and I vividly remember laughing at the violent jostling. I shall never again find such a ride funny.
That hurried ride set the tone for the rest of the day. After the base visit - in which a vice admiral regaled us with stories but made clear the military's unhappiness with the changing political situation - we rushed back to Kaliningrad City Hall and then on to a resort area on the Kurshkaya Spit, located between the Baltic Sea and the Baltic Sound.
Then we rushed off again, heading back to the city to freshen up for a farewell dinner. I joined Joe in the car of councilwoman Dr. Nadezhda I. Lazareva, and our driver took off down the winding road, leading our little caravan of official cars and bus. Before we had gone very far, the mayor's car passed ours, and our driver increased speed to keep up. Then he lost control - I still don't know why, other than we were simply driving too fast - and our nightmare began.
\ THE LONG NIGHT, AND A NIGHTINGALE
I remember losing hold of the hand grip and as we overturned, bouncing about the auto. I briefly lost consciousness and came to as my husband called to me, but I could not lift myself. He grasped me under my arms and pulled me out, laying me on the ground beside the upside-down vehicle, which was steadily leaking fuel. Joe seemed unhurt, although he developed a deep bruise on his left shoulder as well as numerous bumps and contusions. The council chairwoman Lazareva sustained a head injury and was resting against a tree as we waited for help.
Fortunately, the bus behind us carried the medical contingent, including Dr. Velvil Davidovich Mirochnich, a Russian physician and member of the Kaliningrad City Council. I would come to know him as Dr. Willi. First at my side was Angela Scott, a vice president at Norfolk's DePaul Medical Center. She is a nurse and immediately asked some vital questions. It was a great comfort to hear her reassuring words as a radiating pain shot down my left arm and as my middle finger, index finger and thumb went numb. Angela eased my immediate fear of a spinal injury by suggesting I might be suffering a shock to my body comparable to a stubbed toe.
At this point, my concern focused on the language barrier I would encounter with Russian medical personnel. I could not describe where I hurt, nor would I be able to understand any directions they might give me. Our interpreters from Norfolk Public Schools, former Moscow residents Ann and Greg Rolbin, volunteered to accompany me in the emergency vehicle that had been summoned.
My next thought was that I might have a broken collar bone and that my injury would be quickly repaired and that Joe would want to continue our planned trip to Germany and France. I called to him and said I wanted to go home instead.
Little did I know how difficult ``going home'' would be.
An hour passed before the emergency vehicle arrived, and with it came the stark reality of Russian medicine. The ambulance was a covered pick-up truck with a canvas stretcher on the floor. A bench was on each side of the bed of the truck for additional passengers. At Angela and Dr. Willi's urging to protect my spine, I was carefully lifted onto the stretcher and into the vehicle. I suffered my greatest pain at that time, and the attendant gave me a shot of morphine. Dr. Willi directed the driver to pass two local hospitals and continue to Kaliningrad Regional Hospital, the best equipped trauma center in the area. I believe Dr. Willi had correctly suspected my injuries were far more serious than I had imagined, and he wanted me to have the advantage of a CT scanner. His wisdom and concern saved my life.
The trip to the hospital took another hour, and it was approximately 8 p.m. when we arrived. I was still conscious, and vividly recall being placed on a gurney and rushed into the emergency clinic. Three white-coated men were conversing rapidly in Russian, and depression swept over me as I thought not only am I hurt, but these people seem to be mad at me. I closed my eyes and did not consciously open them again for more than 12 hours.
Angela, Breck and Mike Keating, a vice president with Sentara Norfolk General Hospital, felt the need to call home for medical expertise. But hospitals are not the only part of Russia poorly equipped - they knew that only three outside telephone lines were available in all of Kaliningrad, a shock in this busy city of 400,000 people. They asked to be driven to the office of Yuri Matochkin, chairman of the oblast (similar to the governor of a U.S. state), who had an outside line.
Keating made the call to Sentara at about 11 p.m., or 4 p.m. Norfolk time, and within an hour the call was returned by Dr. L.D. Britt, medical director of the shock trauma center. Britt's first suggestion was to get to Hamburg, Germany, where he knew there was an excellent orthopedic trauma hospital. He even knew of a physician there who might be able to come to Russia if I could not be moved. That possibility was quickly dashed when Joe learned that German flights could not cross Polish air space without time-consuming bureaucratic maneuvers.
But a seed of hope was planted.
Upon learning of the numbness in my fingers, Dr. Britt decided to consult Dr. Jerry O. Penix, a local neurosurgeon. While we waited for the return call, a Russian physician reported the results of the CT scan to Joe. The scanner was antiquated, but it definitely indicated an epidural hematoma: a large blood clot located between my skull and brain.
The Russian physicians urged Joe to give his consent for immediate brain surgery, but Joe wanted to speak with Dr. Penix in hopes of some alternative to surgery. The Russians brought the X-rays, and even to Joe's untrained eye it was clear that I faced a critical situation.
It was now midnight in Kaliningrad, and as Joe struggled with the decision Dr. Penix called. He agreed that I must have the surgery as soon as possible, and he asked if he could speak with the neurosurgeon in attendance. She spoke no English, so through an interpreter Dr. Penix asked if it was possible to drill holes in my skull to relieve the blood clot, as opposed to a total craniotomy. The answer was no, the clot was already too large and was growing rapidly. A few other details were exchanged, and Dr. Penix assured Joe that the neurosurgeon appeared competent.
They shaved my head.
I must pause a bit to describe the horror I felt upon discovering this. My first conscious moment the following day found me slowly running my right hand up my neck to touch the gauze dressing on my clean-shaven head. I couldn't believe anything could have required such a drastic measure and later blurted out to Joe: ``What did they do to my hair!''
Joe responded patiently, in a precise, measured whisper: ``They saved your life, be quiet.'' I never again questioned the decision.
It was 2 a.m. Thursday, June 4, 1992, that I had brain surgery in the Kaliningrad Regional Hospital. In attendance were a neurosurgeon, cardiologist and two anesthesiologists.
As I was taken to the operating room, Joe was driven to Mr. Matochkin's office to telephone our family. Because of Joe's position as mayor, and because the medical community had been informed of the accident, it was imperative to reach family members before the media did.
He called our eldest daughter, Julie, who is a practicing physician in Norfolk. The time was shortly after 8 p.m. in Virginia, and after numerous questions Julie took control of family notification. She contacted our daughter Laurie, an elementary school teacher in Norfolk Public Schools, and together they left a message for our youngest daughter, Amy, who is an attorney in Washington, D.C. My parents live in western Pennsylvania, and our daughters chose not to shock them with a phone call. Instead asked a cousin who is a nurse to go to my parents' home and break the news as gently as possible. Laurie drove to notify and comfort Joe's mother in Norfolk.
Julie also called our pastor, Dr. James Cobb of First Lutheran Church in Norfolk, and asked for prayers on our behalf. He shared my plight with choir members who were rehearsing, and they became the first of countless churches and synagogues from Hampton Roads and beyond to raise petitions to the Lord and send us well wishes. I know that I was in God's hands from the first moment of the accident, and I shall be eternally grateful for the strength and deliverance He provided my family and me.
Joe returned to the hospital where he found a lot of company, both American and Russian, for the remainder of the operation. The mood was heavy with anxiety, and prayers were offered. As the first gray light of dawn became visible, the sweet song of a bird wafted through the open window of the office, and Angela Scott of DePaul asked what kind of bird they were hearing. The response was, ``it is a nightingale, and that is a very good omen.''
In the writings of both Hans Christian Andersen and the Persian poets of old, the nightingale is the harbinger of hope. And the nightingale sang!
\ THE MORNING AFTER. . . AND LAUGHTER
Shortly after 4 a.m. Thursday, my neurosurgeon reported to Joe that the surgery was successful and he could see me briefly as I was regaining consciousness. He found me still and peaceful, though as yet uncommunicative. My incision was a partial craniotomy, rather like a flapped patch, as they had found the skull fracture was small. The removal of the hematoma was complete. The incision was closed with cotton sutures, almost unheard of in the United States today.
But relief and joy buoyed Joe and our friends and a new day dawned with a new set of goals. At this point, Joe and I later agreed, we joined in an unspoken pact to somehow simply ``go home.''
Joe began that day with a 5 a.m. call to Julie with the good news of successful surgery. It was 10 p.m. in Norfolk, and shortly after Amy returned Julie's call. She accepted the news uneasily but felt very reassured by Julie's composure. The next morning, however, she rethought the situation and called Laurie, who was still beside herself. Amy calmly asked if I was really OK, and Laurie shouted, ``They've cut off the top of Mother's head!'' Needless to say, Amy lost it. We have looked back on several of these exchanges since my recovery and laughed and laughed. That laughter has been therapeutic for all of us.
The following day, as our daughters were bombarded by questions from the media and Norfolk City Hall, they decided they needed to join us. But soon they realized it was more practical for only one to make the trip, and Julie's medical expertise qualified her as the ``designated daughter.''
Back in Russia, my earliest recollections after surgery were being naked in a bed, under a sheet in the corner of a very large room, the Intensive Care Unit. I took a step back in time as I looked around and saw a metal cabinet of World War II vintage, with a glass wire-mesh door. It was virtually empty, a clear example of Russia's lack of basic medical supplies.
Across the room and to my left were three men in beds. As I looked to the far corner in front of me, two young women in white uniforms sat at a desk. As I earlier commented, my first movement was my right hand to my head. I was somewhat nauseated and uncomfortable but not in great pain. I had a cervical neck collar in case of neck damage (the unclear X-rays had only shown three of the cervical vertebrae, and they were OK). I had no lines for monitoring purposes, not even a blood pressure cuff. At my movement, one of the nurses came to my side and, speaking in Russian, seemed to ask what I needed. I needed to go to the bathroom, but I had no way to communicate that to her. Suddenly, one of the men across the room shouted something to her in Russian, and then in English to me, that he knew what I was saying. It was very reassuring to know that someone could understand English. The nurse brought a bed pan, which I was unable to use, and we had to rely on a small rubber catheter throughout my stay.
By 11 a.m., Joe had slept a few hours and returned to the hospital. After quieting my coiffure concern, he explained what had been done to me and assured me that Drs. Britt and Penix had concurred on the treatment. We were joined by my neurosurgeon. I remember her as a stocky woman, probably in her mid-50s. (I later learned this recollection was false, which I attribute to lingering anesthesia.) Her manner was brusque as she examined the drain that was still in my head and indicated it would soon be removed. That was the only time I recall seeing her. Her name was Dr. Galina Michailovna Lukomovich.
Joe saw me frequently, each time donning the required white coat and head covering that looked like a chef's hat. On one visit, several Russian officials accompanied him and said that under Russian law, I would have to remain hospitalized for at least two weeks. I became very upset at that suggestion, and Joe firmly told our hosts not to speak of that in front of me again, and that we probably would depart earlier than that. The subject was not pursued.
Julie had been keeping in touch with Joe and thought he would balk when she suggested joining us, but instead she heard, ``I think you'd better come.'' It is particularly poignant for me to relate that exchange. I don't believe our children ever saw their father in need of their help, and it only reinforced their deepest fears.
Joe had already begun to muster a plan of action to get us out of Russia and on to Hamburg, Germany, as Dr. Britt had suggested. An air evacuation by the Germans was deemed too difficult to arrange quickly. Joe heard from the U.S. Consul in St. Petersburg and later the U.S. Embassy in Moscow. They were in touch with the U.S. Embassy in Bonn, Germany, and their combined recommendation was that an air rescue group from Finland would be our best hope. The Finns had the air maps and permission to fly into Kaliningrad, speak the language and are familiar with the hospital procedures. It was mid-afternoon Friday when Joe spoke with a Finnish doctor who said he could pick us up in five hours.
Joe hung up the phone and dashed to his room to pack. Within a half-hour, he was again called to the phone. It was the flight planner for the rescue evacuation company requesting our American Express number. With that, he knew we were on our way.
I, however, was unaware. As the shadows of late afternoon crept through the windows of that enormous hospital room, I found myself lonely and apprehensive. A vivacious blonde woman in a white uniform appeared at my bedside with a paper-back in her hands. She perched on an empty bed and began to read in halting English from . . . a joke book.
She struggled with pronunciation, but her eyes would peer over the top of the book as she popped the punch line and awaited my reaction with merry anticipation. I laughed out loud and she laughed out loud. It was a wonderful, warm moment of compassion to have a Russian doctor, as I later learned, care enough to cheer me with humor.
As we were sharing our lighthearted time together, Joe learned that the rescue team was awaiting Moscow clearance before proceeding to Kaliningrad. The doctor on board also told him the hospital had not known of our plans to leave. Joe, expecting reluctance to discharge me, had reserved the news until we were actually committed to the trip. He never did seek clearance with the hospital bureaucracy, although city officials knew of our plans and helped us.
The air rescue team arrived about 9 p.m., and several Kaliningrad officials joined Joe as he proceeded to the hospital. I was still totally unaware of the plans as Joe, without donning the white coat or hat, rushed into the intensive care unit blurting out orders to get me into my nightgown and onto a gurney. It felt like a scene out of ``Mission Impossible.'' My joke-reading friend complied and joined in the race through the halls to the ambulance, which this time was provided with a mattress. A young man who was an interpreter and aide to Mayor Shipov rode in the ambulance with me. Joe followed in a car with Breck Daughtrey and two of Mr. Shipov's assistants. The mayor had been summoned to Moscow and was unable to say goodbye.
A small crowd was gathered on the apron of the airport runway to see us off. My stretcher was carefully lifted on board the small plane, and the doctor quickly took my vital signs and attached me to life support equipment. An IV was started and an oxygen mask was put in place. Our Russian friends were astounded at the speed with which our departure was arranged - indeed, that such measures could be mustered for individual citizens. We bid goodbye at 10 p.m. Friday, June 5, just 52 hours from the accident's first moment of impact.
We left Russia on a Citation II, a small twin engine jet airplane, attended by a Finnish physician, a medical assistant and two pilots. The flight to Hamburg, Germany, took 1 1/2 hours. We landed just before midnight and entered a world of state-of-the-art medicine.
But our journey was far from over.
\ TO HAMBURG FOR MORE SURGERY
We were met at the Hamburg airport by Dr. Peter Voeltz, Dr. Britt's friend, and the ambulance for Unfallkrankenhaus, which translates as accident hospital. After a brief encounter with German customs, I was moved into the ambulance, which was equipped with flashing lights inside and out, beepers and monitors of every imaginable description. I was placed on an air mattress that literally held my body above any bumps or jolts encountered by the rolling wheels of the vehicle.
It was a blessed release after the rudimentary medical resources in the emerging country of Russia. I had been given the best care they could offer - but our efforts to aid progress in health care cannot come soon enough.
While Dr. Voeltz settled Joe and Breck into a hotel, I was taken to the Intensive Care Unit, where I found English was spoken by many of the staff. I was weary from the trip, and Dr. Voeltz wanted to stabilize me overnight and run tests in the morning. I welcomed the efficient, sanitary surroundings and the competent proficiency of the professional care givers. I felt closer to home already.
That night Joe called Julie, who planned to fly to Washington, D.C., where Amy and her husband were trying to speed a passport request through approval. Once Julie arrived, Breck would take his leave to visit with a friend outside Hamburg. Again, I am grateful for the generous, unselfish acts of friends such as Breck (His German friend even sent flowers to me in the Hamburg hospital).
The next day started with numerous X-rays as well as a CT scan of my head and spine. I had only one brief difficult encounter. I am a bit claustrophobic, and the technicians who were directing the CT scan positioned me on a table and then left the room to operate the machine. As the table slid into the scanning tube, I began calling out for help. The two young women rushed back and proceeded to describe what was going to happen - in German.
I frantically gestured and a physician was summoned. He spoke English. I explained my fear and he explained their intention was to only scan me from the top of my head to my waist. We agreed, everyone smiled and the procedure continued.
Dr. Voeltz picked up Joe at his hotel about noon and explained what they had learned as he drove to the hospital. I had fractures of the sixth and seventh cervical vertebrae, with compression on the spinal cord. A neurosurgeon, Dr. Deitmar Wolte, met them at the hospital and discussed in detail what he recommended. Joe came to my intensive care room with the neurosurgeon and told me of the findings. The surgeon further emphasized that I should not be moved again. There was no choice but to forge ahead. I was prepped and at 4 p.m., Saturday, June 6, I was back in surgery.
Joe made numerous phone calls. He spoke with Dr. Penix to update him on my case and to bolster his own confidence after yet another tough decision. Dr. Penix spoke with the surgeon and reassured Joe the procedure was necessary. I know that Joe had the most difficult role in all of this turmoil: He had long, lonely moments to make decisions about my health, while I just went with the flow of the gurneys.
Joe then called Amy in Washington, where Julie was staying on her way to New York for the overseas flight. Joe shared the news that I was back in surgery to repair cervical damage. Amy - who is our lawyer, not our doctor - shouted back: ``Cervix? What did she do down there?'' Julie impatiently took the phone away from her and quickly got the story straight. That's another of our laughable moments we enjoy in times of remembering.
Julie left New York that night knowing only that I was back in surgery, and Joe met her at 8 a.m. Sunday in the Hamburg Airport. It was a happy greeting with happy news.
My surgery had taken two hours. The incision for the repair work was on the left side of the front of my neck, and it left about a three-inch scar. I also have a three-inch scar on my left hip, where they took bone to grind into a mortar to fuse the fractured vertebrae. In addition, a steel plate with four screws was attached to the bones to reinforce the mending. Once again, my life had been spared, and I was in recovery.
I had a very difficult time coming out of the anesthesia after this second surgery. I don't know whether this was because it was so soon after the first operation, or if it was just a difference in anesthesia, but I vividly recall feeling I was in a mass of yellow flowers and calling for Joe. I just couldn't get to him. I wonder if my mind was unconsciously alerting me to the need I had to keep my end of our unspoken bargain ``to go home.''
Julie arrived in the intensive care unit with Joe on Sunday morning. I was not a pretty sight. Until I thought I might look awful to her, I hadn't even asked to see a mirror. My face was swollen. I was bald and bandaged, my left eye was blackened and bloodshot and I was strapped into a soft neck collar. But to me, Julie's arrival was like a bugle call announcing the arrival of the cavalry. Everybody, if not cheering, was at least smiling. It was a great moment!
The doctors agreed that if no complications appeared, they would discharge me in five days, so contact with Norfolk City Hall increased. Our military friends with the U.S. Navy called City Manager Jim Oliver to offer assistance. Congressman Owen Pickett's office had been alerted to our problem, and Jeannie Evans, the congressman's administrative assistant/chief of staff was making additional travel suggestions. But Joe felt it was just too complicated and told Jim he would try to work through the commercial airlines.
Joe and Julie went to the airport and first spoke with Delta, our original carrier. Delta could accommodate a litter patient, but I would have to sit upright for take-off and landing. Joe made reservations for Thursday. He told Dr. Voeltz of the plan and received a firm veto of it.
The doctor suggested the German airline, Lufthansa, which would accommodate a litter by moving nine seats. The only requirement was that a physician flyn along. Julie was our physician, so Joe canceled Delta and made reservations with Lufthansa. Meanwhile, Dr. Voeltz advised Julie to review any procedures she might need to perform in case of an emergency in the air.
Meanwhile, Tuesday was quite pleasant for me. I had made friends with the staff, who loved practicing their conversational English and brought books for me to help them learn more. Julie had brought a Norfolk newspaper with a front page headline and story of our accident, and it was posted for all to see. I became somewhat of a celebrity, mainly because the story was above an article about President Bush. They thought that was really something special!
That night, Joe called the city manager in Norfolk and learned that Jeannie Evans had located the commanding general of army units in Europe. He happened to be at a conference in Williamsburg, Virginia. The general contacted his staff in Germany, and by 1 a.m. Wednesday plans were in place for a military evacuation plane to fly us out of Frankfurt and on to the U.S.
All we had to do was get to Frankfurt.
\ ON THE WAY HOME, TROUBLE ARISES
At 8 a.m. Wednesday, Joe and Julie arrived at the hospital with exciting news. The Lufthansa reservations had been cancelled. I was to be discharged and we were to be airlifted by helicopter at 10 a.m. to Landstuhl Army Regional Medical Center outside Frankfurt. The veranda off my room was a wonderful spot to watch for the incoming helicopter and we all waited and watched and watched and waited. Shortly after 2 p.m., we heard the sound we were expecting. The helicopter touched down just out of our viewing range, and very shortly, two medical corpsmen arrived at my door.
I was placed on a gurney and loaded into an ambulance for a short jaunt to a Blackhawk medical evacuation helicopter. The helicopter was equipped with slings for stretchers; Joe and Julie sat in the jump seats that would have been occupied by medical corpsmen in a battlefield setting.
The young corpsman who was to accompany me proudly announced that because mine was the only litter aboard, he had tilted the sling area so I could look out the window over my feet and see the countryside. As they slid me into position, I didn't have the heart to tell him that with only three inches above me to the ceiling, I could feel claustrophobic screams welling up inside me. I just closed my eyes and held tight. It was expected to be a three hour flight, and surely I could manage that. The noise was deafening so there was no need to try to talk.
About an hour into the flight, my corpsman tapped my shoulder. ``Are we there already?'' I asked hopefully. ``I'm sorry, Mrs. Leafe,'' he replied. ``One of our engines has overheated and we have to go down.''
Down we went. We landed at the airport in Hannover, Germany, almost one-third of the way between the port city of Hamburg and Frankfurt, which is in central Germany. I didn't see Joe or Julie until the helicopter stopped and the doors were opened. We were a sorry looking trio that straggled across the runway with our medical attendants. My stretcher was placed on a table in the airport dispensary, and one corpsman stayed with us while the remainder of the crew returned to their helicopter. A second helicopter had been requested, and it was hoped that our delay would be short.
Meanwhile, Julie decided that her patient needed a nutrition boost. So without telling anyone, she slipped out the dispensary door and across the runway to the main terminal. The doors were locked, but she pounded on one until a surprised airport worker opened it, and Julie inquired where she might find a snack bar. She doesn't speak German and the door opener did not speak English. But after some universal body language, she was pointed in the right direction.
While she was busily trying to identify the correct German coins for her purchases, she was surrounded by several airport security guards who were less than welcoming in their inquiries of who she was and where she came from. The language barriers were difficult, but Julie tried to explain. A passport was requested, but Joe had it. Julie decided to point out the evacuation helicopter, and asked everyone to step across the corridor to look out the window. The group moved to the window. The helicopter was no longer there. So Julie, panicking a bit, waved the group to the stairwell from whence she came. They all moved to the stairs, opened the doors and followed Julie to the dispensary. Joe and I were delighted to see her arrive, since we didn't know where she had gone. But the crowd she brought with her was not delighted. Joe scrambled to clear up the difficulty. They finally accepted the explanation, but several security guards stayed with us until the second helicopter left, some two hours later.
I greatly appreciated the crackers Julie had brought me, as I began to realize how drained I was. Joe and Julie were also paying the price of too little sleep and too-stretched nerves. After an uneventful final two hours, we arrived at Landstuhl about 7 p.m. We were exhausted. I was taken to the CT scanner for a routine study of my head and neck and then into the intensive care unit. It was a treat to be surrounded by U.S. citizens who spoke with U.S. accents. I slept knowing home was closer than ever.
Thursday and Friday were devoted to rest and recuperation. I had developed a urinary tract infection that required antibiotic treatment. My hemoglobin count had dropped alarmingly low and needed time to recover. Joe and Julie were also able to relax, for the first time in several days of intense anxiety. They even appreciated American food and viewing the one English-language TV channel beamed to European military personnel.
On Saturday, June 13, I was satisfactorily stabilized and discharged from the hospital in Landstuhl. A nurse was dispatched to accompany me, and once again I traveled by gurney to a bus and then the airport for one of two weekly medical evacuation flights.
We drove directly on to the airstrip to a waiting C-141 cargo plane, which was certainly not arranged for luxury accommodations. There were no windows, and the seating for upright passengers were two rows of five seats on each side. Our group consisted of eight litter patients and sevearl ambulatory patients, plus accompanying family members. My litter was the top bunk, so to speak, with a litter below me.
Our plane left Germany at noon. We were enroute 10 hours and arrived at Andrews Air Force Base in Washington, D.C., at 4 p.m., having gained six hours with time zone changes. An air ambulance from Sentara Norfolk General Hospital was awaiting us, and after one more hour in the air we landed at Norfolk International Airport, just ten days from the accident that had brought about this astounding experience.
A small party of city officials greeted our plane. They had to turn my stretcher sideways to fit through the aircraft's narrow doorway. Julie, ever diligent in the details of my care, shouted, ``Whatever you do, don't drop her now!'' Somehow that hadn't entered my mind, but it seemed fitting in light of some of our other predicaments.
The Norfolk Paramedic Service was also on hand and gently placed me in an ambulance, for what I hope will be my last ride in such a conveyance. It was a very short trip to Sentara Norfolk General Hospital, where stood my guardian angel, Dr. L.D. Britt. His smile lit up like a theater marquee, and we greeted each other like the dear friends we had become.
I was escorted through the halls to a lovely hospital room. And shortly thereafter came the most beautiful sight of all - my precious family arrived to surround me with a warmth I so nearly lost forever. Joe and Julie, with fatigue written all over them, were encircled by Laurie and Amy, Julie's husband Skip and Amy's husband Ed. It was a brief celebration, as everyone was worn out. We would have tomorrow, and the days after that, to catch up with our feelings of relief and gratitude.
\ HOME AT LAST, THANKS BE TO GOD
I was hospitalized only two days in Norfolk. All tests proved my condition satisfactory, and I was released to go home. It was a serene moment as Joe helped me from our car and I viewed the place I'd longed to see again. We had encountered difficulties beyond belief and yet we never lost hope, we never despaired. . . We had faith in God and He guided, led and protected us on our return.
Family and friends and people we may never meet continued to send cards, flowers and gifts of food. It was such a warm welcome, never to be forgotten.
In writing this account, I found memories both difficult and amusing. I have spent several months piecing together my recollections with those of my husband, members of our group on the visit with us and of my family and friends in Norfolk. This was our story.
It is now two years later. I am completely recovered. The index finger of my left hand remains numb, a small reminder of what might have resulted from my massive injuries. I am appreciative of each day, and I hope and pray to be an example of the indomitable spirit that life offers each of us, no matter what obstacles are placed before us.
I closed my original journal with a simple prayer I had learned in childhood. I would like to repeat that in closing this remembrance:
God is great, God is good, thanks be to God.
by CNB