Unstable - II

The lights have come back on. "Is the generator working?" "No, it's not just the emergency lights that are on!" The main power to the hospital from the utility company has come back on as we are gathering from all over the hospital. We crowd into the board room that has functioned as our Incident Command Center since Thursday, but it is not as crowded as usual. Many of the nursing leaders are still in the heart hospital, stabilizing patients and settling their staff.

We wait a few minutes, and the CEO comes into the room. He has just gotten off the phone with the city, and they tell him that power has indeed been restored, but the grid is still unstable. As they bring up other parts of Houston, it is causing problems which could shut us down again. The backup generator for our sister facility in Texas City, (which is under National Guard control because it has no water and suffered some structural damage, so was therefore evacuated), has already been deployed to our hospital. Until it can be brought online, it is not safe to keep our Telemetry patients in the main hospital, and the decision has been made to evacuate them from our building. Helicopters and ambulances are on their way. We will bring the patients down from the sixth floor, through the Emergency Department, load them on their transportation and keep only the least sick patients in the building.

Getting the patients evacuated quickly is critical, so "non-essential" employees will be stationed at each floor to keep everyone but evacuating patients and nurses off the elevators until the patients are gone. I spend the next hour standing in an empty hallway by the second floor elevator bank sending weary housekeepers and wary visitors to the nearest stairwell, which not 30 minutes earlier had been occupied by miracle workers and angels.

Standing alone in that hall I start to feel heavy. It's very hard to be cheerful to the few people who come by. I try, but sense that it's not believable. Tired. Feeling stupid standing here keeping people off an elevator. Non-essential indeed.

Evacuation goes off without a hitch, unless you count the patients complaining they don't want to go to another hospital, we've treated them wonderfully. "Please let me stay." I hear from our Rehab Director that all the babies are doing as well as they had been before the evacuation. I wonder - if they survive the first weeks of their lives will they ever again face so much danger?

The day shift is rotating off, so it's time to help find beds for everyone to get some needed sleep. Walking back and forth, from the main hospital to the heart hospital. My feet hurt, my knee hurts. I can't process everything that has gone on, it's too much, I can only do one thing. I do my task. Think. I can do one more thing. Done. Think. Do. Then think again.

Ten o'clock. The generator is connected and we have stationed the clinical staff in the patients' rooms so we can test to make sure it works. Only one way to do that, and it's to disconnect from city power and run the hospital on generator power. If the generator fails to power the hospital, we will switch back to city power. But the grid is so unstable, switching back on might cause the power to fail. We have no choice.

10:15. The lights flicker, but stay on. Radio crackles, "Generator's running. Let's give 'er thirty minutes." I sit in the Command Center, with about five others. The chairs are leather with tall backs. Heaviness again. Waiting. Thirty minutes. Someone sets a sandwich in front of me. Dinner. I eat.

10:50. The Director of Engineering walks into the Command Center. "We're back on main power. Generator's good." No cheering, just relief. He sits down at the other end of the table, with the CEO and CFO. They talk, smile. They did it. Saved a hospital, saved the patients. Bravado. Alpha males. They seem very far away. With main power and generator backup, the crisis has passed. Directors come in to sign out of the building for the night. I'd planned on staying, but need to be away from this place. I check in with my boss. "It's past curfew - take this letter so the police won't hassle you." I take the letter and walk to my car.

No street lights are on. No traffic lights. Maybe ten cars between the hospital and our house. I want to be stopped. Want to show someone my letter, so they can see that the Chief of the Emergency Management Division of the Texas Department of Public Safety bears witness to the fact that I am "an emergency responder or emergency team member". "What do you do at the hospital," he would ask. "I hold a flashlight and keep people off elevators," I'd say.

Our street is dark but humming with the sound of generators. I walk to the back door, go in, walk upstairs to the phone that works and call Shelley, even though it is close to midnight. We talk. She's saying, "I'm sorry, Baby. I'm so sorry." Why does she keeps asking me to repeat things - says I'm not making sense? Heavy. "Goodnight." One thing - more damn stairs. One thing - brush my teeth. One thing - open the window. Nothing left - bed.

It's hot. I lay on top of the sheets. Non-essential. Heavy. I feel a cool breeze on my back. Pull the sheet up over me. My watch alarm starts to beep. It's six o'clock.