Almeda Fire 4 - The First Steps to Normal
Throughout the weekend there has been varying but better information. At this point the national guard is here. They've closed down the five main entrances into Phoenix. The walking path through Colver Park that we all have been using have both barricades and Orange webbed fencing blocking the way. Everything is lit up at night.
There are reports of people being caught as they try to get in, or as they're wandering around town. Residents are able to get into their house, provided it is still standing, with an escort by the police from the nearby sports complex.
Somehow, miraculously, power is back on. No...not miraculously, but by the around-the-clock work of the Pacific Power Linemen and their crews. We were told there were over 300 poles down between Ashland's transfer station and Talent. There are similar percentages between Talent and Phoenix, and Phoenix to Medford...and it's odd. The power poles are not burned to a crisp. For the most part they have been burned most of the way through in the bottom 10 feet, and the tops are untouched. During and after the fire they've simple fallen as dominoes between the wind and the weight of the pole.
The fire was moving fast enough, and burning hot enough, that the rest of the pole never caught. So...new poles everywhere, transfer of transformers and wire, and a huge amount of new material brought in. We expected 2-4 weeks based on initial estimates. They returned power to the majority of the area within 6 days!
One on hand it feels a tiny thing, but it is huge: the beginnings of a semblance of normalcy, the ability to start to light up our town against looting, the initial sign that we are still here, still alive, and still able to rebuild despite traveling through the utter destruction day after day.
Monday rolls around. Andi and I start to face the reality of returning to work. It starts to beg the question, "how does one work to take care of others when in some ways your own life is hanging on threads that you feel could break at any moment?" It's both a joy and frustration in medicine. We are able to do so much good in big and small ways throughout our work.
..but how do we go about taking care of ourselves and shielding ourselves when necessary? Where do we set our lines for our own self-preservation. So I call into work and in the ensuing conversation I am reminded yet again why I already love my company, why I trust them when they say something will be done, and how apparent it is that above all they put individual and our company culture of taking care of each other while taking care of our valley, first.
Our manager's very first thought is, "Do you even need to come in, or do you need time to deal with your own stuff first...we can figure out ways to take care of both you and your patients in the short term?" But, we both need some semblance of normalcy and I feel it would be best for both of us to get back into things at least partly. For my schedule we're going to ask two people if they would be willing to shift their appointment time by one day. It will spread out my load and as a bonus give me more time that next day that I could spend with them, as I have a much more open schedule. For my wife, we're simply going to do a temporary schedule of every other appointment slot blocked. It will give people to process and work through the extra trauma we're going through: provider, patient, and staff. It will allow the company to both take care of the patients who have just lost everything and are trying to figure out how to cope, and take care of the provider who has the much larger burden set upon her, while also still being displaced with out home being in an evacuation level 3 area and spot fires continuing to pop up. A deep breath...one hurdle down.
Then...clothes. We have no work clothes. I do have my work shoes but at this point they're trashed from fighting fires that first night, and from all the following aspects this last almost week. Andi and I head down to the cellular fields to see if it's still possible to get in. We have heard something about car stickers that will let you past the barricades.
It's getting towards 5pm and we know it's iffy if we can make it in time. I swing us into Les Schwab's parking lot and run through the hedge to talk to the organizers who hopefully have information. Andi gives Eve a call to see if she knows any other options or has any other information. From the organizers, we are both too late and our house is in the wrong area. The passes are solely for apartment complexes on 99 just south of S. Stage road. Returning to the parking lot there is an OSP cruiser sitting there. I walk up to ask a question but see him talking on the phone so I turn back to my car. Then moments later he drives up, "can I help you with something?" He introduces himself, Damion Hillyer. We will later find out that he is Senior Trooper Damion Hillyer and that he is just returning back to duty after a brief couple days of downtime and just came on duty.
I explain what's going on, and that my wife and I are medical professionals trying to return to clinic tomorrow. We were in our house previously but never thought to grab work clothes, just clothes for working around the farm. We're trying to figure out options. "Well, I can't escort you in at this point. I don't have orders yet though so if you're willing to hop in my car I can drive you there." He stashes his spare tire beside our car and we hop in. It is, by far, the most uncomfortable seat I have ever imagined in my life: molded plastic buckets with extra space behind the back (confirmed to be there for cuffed hands behind the back), and the seat is so narrow that even I, who isn't a skinny tweaker, has difficulty fitting and am a bit to one side. I understand why the back of the car is like this - I've heard way too many messy stories from friends on the various forces - but it's a completely different experience being there. Andi and I both joke that this is our first, and last time, we will be in the back of a police cruiser.
As we started into town and I gave directions to our place. At one point Officer Hillyer turned around, "I've got Eve on the phone and she's checking in on you guys." I sat there surprised, then realized Andi and Eve were still texting back and forth. Eve had asked who we were riding with and, knowing Damion, called him directly as we're being shuttled along.
We get to our place. Normally patrols in get 10-15 minutes to grab what then need. Damion tells us to take our time. As we're finishing up I offer him tomatoes and cucumbers from our garden. He laughs, "We have the largest garden ever at our place, thank you, but we're overflowing." Is there anything I can do as thanks? "Just please don't defund us..."
It hangs there, followed by, "I'm not for defunding the police, at all. Thank you for everything you do."
Small world, and small valley moments like this, are awesome. They help us remember that within all the junk that is currently going on, we're all part of the same community. They bring to mind that we all must take care of each other whether we agree or disagree with what the person next to us is saying. They help us connect with the person who moments before was a random stranger, and now is part of a known circle. Defunding the police...no. Reorganizing, bringing in higher initial education requirements, bringing our police force to the same level as nursing, for example, in terms of education, responsibility, continuing education, mental health training and de-escalation...I am all for that as is every officer I've talked to who is a personal friend or acquaintance. We have to look past where police started and look to where they are, and then figure out how to make the profession within society better. Constantly striving for improvement, to be better, to serve better. Police, fire, medical, government, individual - everyone.
Tomorrow we return to patients, to taking care of others and hanging our own personal grief, trauma, and issues up at the door when we walk into the clinic. We figure out those small spaces after a visit when we have a couple moments before the next, where we can grieve for a moment for our valley and everyone affected, and for our patients who have lost so much more than we can imagine right now.
