First hand account of the days following HMCS Athabaskan's arrival in Haiti as witnessed by Preserver's Medical Officer Capt. Stecum.

MEDICAL RELIEF IN HAITI

A Canadian Navy Doctor’s Perspective

It is afternoon, the day after the 7.0 magnitude earthquake struck Haiti, my CO, Cdr Hugues Canuel, asks me if I am available to go with HMCS ATHABASKAN, in company with HMCS HALIFAX, as part of the Navy’s relief effort for the people of Haiti.  It’s going to be large, he says; I do not doubt him.  The next day we sail and after pushing hard to cover the roughly 2500 miles, we arrive in-theatre, in Baie du Port au Prince, off the coast, near Leogane, late on 18 Jan.

During the voyage down, we know that we might encounter some pretty shocking things and that the sailors need to be prepared for that eventuality.  So, without pulling any punches, I lay out, in graphic detail, just how bad it might be if we get involved in human remains recovery operations.  This has a strikingly-sobering effect on the ship’s company and we repeat the message to ensure that people are thinking about the worst and steeling themselves mentally and emotionally.

The last two days of the transit can not go by fast enough.  Despite the element of dread, everybody wants to simply just get there and get into it.  We assemble the shore teams on the flight deck in the pre-dawn hours of 19 Jan.  The 16-man teams are called Blue Jays, with Blue Jay 1 comprising command, medical, force-protection, and logistics elements, and Blue Jays 2 through 6 composed of operational elements to undertake whatever tasks might be assigned.

We arrive on shore, via RHIB and Zodiac, near the village of Ca Ira and then proceed to Leogane centre.  It is D+7 since the earthquake and the area appears to be still in shock.  There is widespread devastation of collapsed houses and buildings and we all note, from the piles of rubble, the number-one construction material of choice, the ubiquitous cinderblock.  Silently, I begin to curse it.

The local population is erecting makeshift shelters of scrap wood and corrugated iron, in the streets in front of their destroyed homes.  The roads are barely passable and there is no sign of local organizational elements or municipal services.  People are fending for themselves, and while food appears to be readily available, access to clean water looks pretty sketchy.

We arrive at our first medical care site, Cascos Blancos, the Argentine NGO group, comprising eight doctors.  They are overwhelmed by numbers of casualties with horrific injuries such as seven-day old festering wounds, large-bone fractures, and mangled appendages.  In a shelter for Pri-4 cases, those who are dead or beyond help, lay a young girl with a badly depressed skull fracture and luxated left globe.  My heart is in my throat.  The team is working valiantly in conditions that are essentially bush-medicine.  They have no surgical capacity and have exhausted their supply of plaster.  Fractures are being splinted with whatever materials can be found.

Shortly thereafter, we arrive at our second medical site, where a large maple-leaf flag is prominently displayed.  I’ve seen countless Canadian flags, but this one has a particularly stirring effect.  In a devastated land of chaos, grief, and loss, it lifts my spirits.  The Canadian Medical Assistance Teams (CMAT) group that is here comprises one orthopædic surgeon, one anæsthiologist, two GPs, two nurses, two paramedics, and two logistics and admin staff.  They are also overwhelmed, pressed by dwindling supplies, and already (after three days) feeling the strain of relentless medical demand.  But they appear to be extremely-well organized and are generating enormous throughput.  Their OR is going non-stop; everything is going non-stop!

My Med Tech, MCpl J-P Somerset, and I immediately get involved and I find myself continually switching between surgical and anæsthesiological assist.  J-P plunges into the absurdly large backlog of Pri-3 medical cases.  The rest of day, from mid-morning on, seems to instantaneously evaporate and, unbelievably, it is time to head back to the ship.  We are literally drenched in sweat, partially dehydrated, and, once we pause to reflect, spent.  But it is an enormously gratifying tired, one that is exchanged for a profound sense of doing good, for which there is not even a remotely close substitute.

Back on the mighty ATHABASKAN, after all is settled and made ready for the next day, I lie in my rack, sleep eluding me.  Despite being physically fatigued, my mind is still orbiting.  There is something profound and slightly out of reach about what I saw today.  I circle about my thoughts and then it comes to me.  It is the people, the countless people, of all ages, with shocking injuries (any one of which would have bypassed the waiting room in a Canadian ER).  They simply waited, despite enormous pain and suffering; they patiently waited, no complaining, no dramas, just waited, for seven days, to get some treatment.  This was it; their stoicism, in such awful adversity.  Their stoicism – profoundly, indelibly recorded; haunting.

R.E. Stecum

Capt

Medical Officer

HMCS PRESERVER

Embarked HMCS ATHABASKAN