“They called it the Pile.” Sherry shifted a bit, and drifted back pensively, trying to articulate those dark memories of the chaotic aftermath. “One fire chief had just returned to the safe point from the pile. He was dirty-faced, and seemed so tired.” Slouched in a chair, and postured like a battered marionette, “He looked over to us, and said wearily, ‘I do this because it’s my job…but you…give up your lives to help strangers…’” Sherry paused to collect herself. “He started crying. All of us workers exchanged glances, and wept.”  It was such a poignant moment. “I don’t like talking about this. It is too sad.”

“The construction workers assigned to recovery and cleanup were obviously traumatized, but as men, they hid it, just zoned out, and focused on the job. They wouldn’t keep their heavy duty masks on, because it was such a hot September day-all that sweat-they couldn’t even see to drive. Now the men are starting to get sick-from all of the dust, and those caustic fumes from the smoldering pile.” Hypnotically, in a near suspended state of disbelief, she recalled “the (smell of) fuel, the burning metal, the… bodies. It gets in your head…(you) can’t get rid of it.”

As part of the Red Cross Mental Health National Disaster Team, Sherry Brown was dispatched to the World Trade Center site, with a mandate to provide crisis management counseling support. “Actually, you do whatever is necessary (to help).” This meant that she listened to the traumatic stories of the survivors, the helpers, and referred those who were ‘losing it’ to appropriate agencies, and unloaded supplies.

Sherry went to find the Southern Baptists, to get assistance for the old lady who witnessed the atrocity first-hand. Sherry’s face brightened. “The Southern Baptists are angels. They come to every disaster and bring huge kitchens to cook up big meals for everyone”. A Baptist cleaning detail was soon dispatched to the old lady’s apartment. “The workers swept up every bit of dust in that apartment. They took all the books off her shelves and cleaned them.”

a glimpse

Sharon “Sherry” Brown explained that LCSW stands for “Licensed Clinical Social Worker”. It was right after marriage that she graduated from SUNY Albany with a Masters degree in social work. Early job assignments took her through the slums of Schenectady, tending to the varied needs of the underprivileged. It was there that she was nearly raped. While trying to help one family manage an issue, the parents asked her to baby-sit for their small child. A male friend who lived with the troubled family in the very same apartment made strong, threatening overtures to her that were extremely intimidating. Due to “circumstance and opportunity, I was in big trouble”, she recalled. Fortunately, she made it out unscathed. “Did you ever follow up on that, like press charges?” I asked. Sherry did not do so, accepting that it was part of the job risk, and most likely, not provable in a “she said/he said” contested venue. It was a valuable learning experience that she could rely on for future reference.

Four years after the 9/11 tragedy, again with the Red Cross Mental Health Disaster Team, Sherry was dispatched to the Magnolia State, for hurricane relief. Her curious eyes surveyed the landscape. It was a mire of gnarled trees which appeared like a ready-made backdrop for a horror movie. But reality was already a horror film in itself, and she had a part in it. Reliving the disaster, Sherry talked of the disaster, Reliving the disaster, Sherry talked of the bodies rolling in, and the barbed wire that kept you out.  She mentioned a friend who had been to the Indonesia tsunami disaster, and had compared it to the devastation at the Katrina site.

Sherry described what are improbable scenarios during normal times: big gambling boats tossed clear of the docks, now land-locked on the highway; tree limbs and massive heaps of rubbish stacked two stories high, capped precariously by a teetering Hertz rental truck; a stark metal-frame, the mere skeletal outline of a hotel that once stood there; a car thrust by wave power, driven halfway through a brick wall.

a glimpse

Mississippi is a long way from Sherry’s birthplace of Taylor, Pa., and further removed from her present home in Clifton Park, N.Y. Life came unraveled not long after 9/11, and before Katrina. Her parents’ house exploded as a result of an undetectable natural gas leak. “You couldn’t smell it, even though it was all through the house.” One flip of a light switch, and the blast knocked mom unconscious. Sherry’s father had to carry her mother to safety, despite his stunned and disoriented state. They were spared. Physically.   Seven years later, Sherry’s dad has Parkinson’s disease. “He is maintaining”, and mom has Alzheimer’s. “She doesn’t recognize me. She likes to be with me, though.” Sherry added, “I enjoy the good times, try to ignore the decline, because (you) can’t do anything about it”. I reflected on her trailing words, that if you won’t help yourself, then what good are you to others?

RED CROSS RULE: During travel through a disaster area,
there will be no “windows up, air conditioning on.”
If they’re hot, you’re hot.

“They notice the little things. Just show a little compassion, and those people are so grateful”. Those same hurricane victims, a grandma, one young couple, an older teenager, and a small child, did notice how one official State truck, in an observational capacity, drove right past them, ignoring them, everyone inside looking cool, comfortable, and well protected from the stifling heat and malodorous air. Indifference. The huddled group of victims similarly noticed a difference, in the demeanor of Sherry and crew. “You stopped!” they spoke in unison, and thanked the relief workers for taking the time to comfort and listen to them.

People, shocked and disoriented, needed so much help that was delayed or non-existent. “There were a lot of angry people, upset, and hurting. At one shelter, a hastily converted old age home, there were no facilities to clean up.” The people were getting lice. There were invasions of people looking for a meal and a place to stay. They just could not be accommodated. One desperate person had to have food, so he pulled a knife. This altercation would normally be handled by the local police, but the force was depleted due to the breadth of the tragedy. A police dog handler was dispatched first, then a S.W.A.T. team was called in. “They locked the place up for the night. The next day, a Chinook helicopter was sent in to drop food and water.”

RED CROSS RULE: Upon return from the disaster site,
there will be a debriefing for relief workers.

a glimpse

Sherry clasped the chrome travel mug like a hand warmer, and responded to my question about career choice. “I guess I was always a caretaker”. She recounted a youthful past, when she often looked after her younger brother. “So it seems to make sense that I chose this profession.” Actually, the “best four years of her life” were spent working in the mental health field, caring for brain-injured youths in a Niskayuna, NY, healthcare setting. “Yes, I always had this great interest in working with people, studying the mind, the brain, and motivation.”

Sherry had to trudge through the catastrophe, fulfill her critical role, and emerge intact to return to private practice. I could picture her engaged in self-talk, the kind that sustains, encourages, and deals with the realities:

One needs to stay focused on the tasks at hand, and to remain grounded in faith and resolve. Then one goes home again.  Even after the initial work is done, and once time and distance widen the gap between the onset and the aftermath, the sights, smells, adnd sounds linger like a nightmare hangover.  One more chapter in the plight of Sherry and caregivers versus nature’s wrath.

Epilogue

Sherry, a helping angel, like the Southern Baptists she described, is a role model and inspiration for college students. She completed her masters degree, and aspired to a career that answered the call of the inner self. Her job is challenging, rewarding, and has value beyond the four walls of her clinical practice. Her empathy for, and commitment to, victims of larger than life disasters, exemplifies a selfless and enviable devotion to humankind. As counselor, Sharon Brown, LCSW, embraces her own pragmatic philosophy: bad things happen, life is unfair, and you can choose how to respond. Despite her exposure to so much tragedy, Sherry fondly embraces each fleeting family moment with joy and optimism. Whether caring for her new granddaughter, or anticipating her daughter’s imminent marriage, Sherry celebrates the joy of simplicity, and the little victories in the face of looming setbacks. The path to healing is rough and unsteady. But somehow, one must move on, “otherwise, what good are you to others?”