Joplin’s Survivors Have a Rougher Road Ahead Than Some Know

 

The degree of death and destruction in the city of Joplin, Missouri has some media people speculating about the amount of time it will take for the citizens to recover.  That discussion is usually geared to the rebuilding aspect of recovery, the time and resources it will take to restore the physical elements.

My thoughts went immediately to the people I see wandering zombie-like among the detritus left by a tornado of historic proportions.  While the death toll climbs, so does the trauma experienced by those who rode out the storm and managed to survive.  The recovery for them will take years as they will most assuredly suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It has been said that winning a lottery isn’t always a total blessing.  All too often the elation felt upon learning of one’s win is soon replaced by headaches on a grander scale than could ever be imagined.  

I won a lottery once, but it wasn’t for piles of cash.  It was in 1989, when I was working in San Francisco.  The San Francisco Giants were meeting up with the mob across the Bay, the Oakland As.  The All Bay Area World Series would be played entirely “at home” for us, so I entered the ticket lottery with little hope of breaking my personal losing streak.  When I actually won, I was not only beside myself with excitement, but also the object of sudden affection from friends I hadn’t known I had the day before.

On October 17, 1989 my friend and co-worker Kathi was the beneficiary of my ticket largesse.  We took a city bus to what was then called Candlestick Park, made our way to our seats in the upper deck and settled in.  We decided to go to the concession stand before the game started.  I didn’t want to miss one pitch of the game.  When I stood up from my seat I saw that most of the 60,000 or so seats in the stadium were already filled, the crowd buzzing in anticipation.  

“This would be a terrible time to have an earthquake,” I said to Kathi.  She agreed and looked around. It was 80º and muggy.  Earthquake weather.

We were standing in a hot dog line not five minutes later when it started.  I felt suddenly nauseated before I became aware of the floor moving beneath my feet.  The Loma Prieta Earthquake began and it rumbled violently for nearly 20 seconds that felt like forever.  Grown men were screaming and so was I.  I was sure I was going to die and my thoughts went immediately to my college-aged son who was not with me.  Then I prayed for a swift and relatively painless death.  It was 5:04 p.m.

Instead of dying, I was in for a harrowing and dangerous journey from the darkened and strangely silent stadium to my home in the East Bay.  The entire city was dark, except for the flames in the distance.  The sound of sirens began to pierce the silence eventually.  Street gangs filled the streets to take advantage of the darkness.  Someone fired a bullet into the side of the NBC-TV luxury bus on which we had finagled a ride.  When we reached downtown San Francisco, we had to walk in the blindness to find our generator-powered office lobby.  After commandeering a company fleet car, I had to drive some 70 miles out of my way because the Bay Bridge, my normal span across the frigid bay, had collapsed during the temblor.  I arrived home at 1:30 a.m. to find my son pacing the floor with worry.  He was shaken but fine and the house was intact.  I had been crying off and on for more than eight hours straight, but now I sobbed with relief.

For two solid months, I couldn’t utter a single word without a trembling voice.  I suffered bouts of uncontrollable and unpredictable crying and I never wanted to leave the house.  Eventually, the symptoms subsided and I thought I was back to normal.  However, I have never since entered a stadium of any kind without wondering if something horrible would happen while I was there. 

All was well until the 1996 Summer Olympic Games.  By then I had relocated to Atlanta and was working again in AT&T Public Relations.  Although my specialty was Community Relations, all PR employees were required to staff the press room at the AT+T sponsored Global Olympic Village.  I had just completed a 12-hour shift in the stifling heat of the un-air-conditioned lower level offices when Eric Rudolph detonated the nail bomb that killed and maimed people who were standing in front of the stage where ribbon ceremonies were held.  I had already left the area and was not aware of the bombing until I got home.

As if someone pushed a button, every symptom of PTSD I had suffered in the aftermath of the 1989 earthquake in San Francisco descended at once.  The trembling voice, the stammering, the tears and the fear.  It was seven years after the fact. 

If my own experience with disaster is any indication, the people of Joplin will need lots of help to not only rebuild the city itself, but also to return to some semblance of their former selves.  I feel for them deeply.

Photo by Ryan Harper for Christian Post