The floods came and we were not ready. Miles from the ocean, flanked by mountainous sentinels, we never thought to build an ark.
The skies darkened and the deluge commenced. Rapturous winds splintered ancient oaks and rent open the heavens. Barbarous gusts cleaved power lines, fractured telephone poles, brought a power grid to its knees. The lights went out in the west. Feeble candlelights flickered to life as the rivers swelled. Spilling over their banks, creeks transformed into churning, Amazonian serpents, devouring everything in their path. Mercilessly ravenous, the currents licked their way through the mountains, consuming entire towns, burying roads in debris. That perilous viscosity tore apart families, sank homes beneath the watery tumult, and choked out points of egress. Hillsides slid. Walls crumbled. Dreams dissolved. Hope drowned.
The torrent eventually slowed to a benign trickle, and the waters started to recede. As dawn’s light spooled over the horizon, beleaguered survivors stumbled through the detritus, searching for signs of life among the wreckage. Sanguine and haunting, the keening cries of victims began to echo out of the lonely void. Fists pounded against the weight of fragmented foundations, beating out the new tempo of survival. Vital and grating like the lusty wails of a newborn, these voices ruptured a community’s halcyon stupor. Tear-stained and hearts blazing, Asheville answered the call.
Our emergency department braced for its own deluge. The second wave. The forgotten war. Hospital resources stretched paper-thin even before this natural disaster, we stood resolute and braced for impact. The delirious and destitute began surging through our front doors. With lungs full of river water and limbs mangled by collapsed walls, they staggered in, seeking relief. With epicene generators and absentee Wi-Fi, we struggled to keep pace with the onslaught of need. Paper charts piled high and handwritten orders grew illegible. Tube stations lay paralyzed and blood samples congealed. Radiologists rushed between portable scanners, straining to make Byzantine decisions out of pixels on a tiny screen. With no running water, our operating rooms were rendered impotent, our dialysis suites forlorn. Waste marinated in putrid, unflushed toilets. Hands went unwashed.
As patients waited hours for open hospital beds, the bloody and forlorn begged for food and water. We had none. I emptied the last drops of my own water bottle into a paper cup for a frail old man, licking my parched lips with trepidation. My arms were bruised by the fevered grip of an insensate elderly woman who was struggling to wake from her harrowing, living nightmare. She described bodies left still and unclaimed in the streets, her entire family having drowned in front of her eyes. Her small grandson ripped from her grasp, leaving her shredded heart to disappear with him into that morbid night. As I stared into those despondent, Stygian eyes, I wondered if she would ever let go again. Those first few days dissolved into a blur of bloodshot eyes and empty hospital cots. Of stale energy drinks and tremulous hands. Of fraying empathy and weary souls. And then, in our darkest hour, help arrived.
Hope rang out in the cacophony of a convoy of supplies thundering up the interstate. The drone of salvation came roaring through the valleys in the form of National Guard helicopters. FEMA dropped jump-suited angels at our front door. The resounding thrum of chainsaws bespoke a community stirring to life. Perimeters were secured, tents were erected. A battle-worn physician leader snapped on a pair of gloves and gave the grave command: “OK people, let’s churn and burn.” Busloads of nurses crossed state lines, these fresh-faced saviors in wrinkled scrubs soberly accepting the torch from my valorous, sleep-deprived colleagues. Grim-faced security officers deftly staunched the flow of hate. Astute engineers repaired ruptured pipes and coaxed electrical circuits back to life. As the sun climbed higher and illuminated a chaotic new reality, we watched an army of volunteers materialize out of the mountain mists. Beaten, but not broken, grieving, but infinitely altruistic, they rose from the town’s ashes, ready to stoke the flames of faith.
Some say the floods were biblical. Sent by an avenging god to wipe out the hillbillies and heathens from our alpine homes. But god or satan, Zeus or Poseidon, El Niño or La Niña, Gaia or fate—they messed with the wrong people. Where you see rednecks, I see resilience. Where you see farmers, I see fortitude. Where you see infidels, I see survivors. For it will be the so-called hillbillies who have the tenacity to survive this apocalypse. The stalwart denizens of the Blue Ridge Mountains will rise and rebuild. They will reassemble dust into dreams, trash into treasure. Our sculptors will spin debris into art. Our musicians will write grief into melody. Our healers will stitch together broken hearts. Our builders will reconstruct our eden. Our leaders will shepherd us all to higher ground. And I implore you all to find that higher ground in your hearts. If you cannot donate love, donate nothing. Pointing fingers won’t rebuild bridges. Disparaging comments won’t resurrect the dead. Every life is worth saving. Every soul deserves salvation.
Regardless of country, culture, religion, or race, if your hand reaches out, mine will always be reaching back.
I stand with humanity.
Let’s find higher ground, together.
Victoria Goodheart is an emergency physician.
