Oct. 17, 2024
Three Highs and a Low: Lessons From the Chaos of Hurricane Helene
By Shannon Dowler, M.D., C.P.E., FAAFP
AAFP Board Member
When I saw that my flights home from the Congress of Delegates meeting in Arizona were canceled late last month, it was with the anxious knowledge that my octogenarian mom and my niece, a college sophomore, were managing my house, chickens, goats, cats and dogs roughly 1,900 miles away in North Carolina. Hurricane Helene was barreling into the United States, abruptly shutting down communication between the Southeastern states and the rest of the country.
After a 30-hour sojourn in a rental car from Phoenix to Marshall, N.C., my husband and I crossed the last bridge into North Carolina at almost midnight Friday shortly before it, too, was flooded by the raging Nolichucky River. Dodging limbs, leaves and debris over curvy back mountain roads known only to locals, we made it home, desperately afraid of what we would find.
Miraculously, our house still stood on the dark and silent mountain. Other than a few downed trees, the property was untouched by the storms that had ravaged an entire region.
Hurricane Disaster Relief
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We had no electricity or water, though, and I had a rental car to return, so my mom and I braved the crazy roads to get to the airport. A drive that normally takes one hour stretched closer to three. Eventually I returned Mom to her retirement community, which we discovered also lacked power and water. The house she had moved from less than a year ago on the Swannanoa River had literally washed away the night before.
The hurricane also had cut off electricity and water to the local café that my sister and brother-in-law had recently opened. But the disaster had also left hundreds of motorists stuck nearby on Interstate 26. Blocked from going on or turning around, some sat on that highway for 36 hours, unable to count on working gas stations, traffic lights, cell phones or even news updates.
So, our community made sure that those stranded drivers and many other people could count on us.
We quickly set up a generator at the café, and established first aid and emergency supply stations in the garage next door with donations from generous neighbors from across the Southeast. Every day for three weeks we offered assistance. And every day, cars and trucks — many with out-of-state plates — stopped to ask what we needed and stock our shelves; whenever those shelves emptied, the kindness of strangers refilled them.
Sometimes this kindness came in the form of a local octogenarian who transported supplies from the fairgrounds working off a handwritten list of “wishes.” Sometimes it came in the form of families, churches or college groups who struck out on their own with the mission to serve.
There are a few things I learned from my deeply rural, intensely private and proud Appalachian community through this crisis that could help inform inevitable future crises. Our country is not prepared for widespread rural devastation, so anything we can learn in the midst of this chaos is valuable. I will frame these lessons learned as three highs and a low.
High: Giving. There are no limits to the lengths people will go to support each other — neighbor to neighbor, community to community, state to state. Giving people permission to take supplies to neighbors in need meant they could contribute to the response and extend the great big hug the rest of the country offered to western North Carolina.
Low: Grim. The chaos of the response is hard to describe. The inability to communicate using the tools we usually rely on was, in a word, devastating. Undoubtedly, the response was limited by political tensions as we approach a highly contentious election; misinformation abounded and it was often about things that distracted us from the true narrative. While our state emergency operations stood ready to deploy resources, some local governments were disinclined to encourage involvement. While the federal government stood ready to do the same, some local communities who most needed the support rallied against the outpouring of assistance. While many who were not directly impacted by the devastation hoarded supplies, it was incredibly difficult to reach those who most needed resources. In a word, the broader response has felt chaotic, inefficient and ineffective.
High: Growth. There is a tremendous desire — perhaps need — for people to give in order to receive. As I ran the donation site, I initially turned away used goods because we were not equipped to manage the volume of one-off donations. After a while, I realized that folks were not going to leave our “store” with the things they and their neighbors needed unless they could contribute. I learned to accept worn shoes, partially used cleaning supplies and unscheduled volunteers in order to allow them the permission they needed to receive help themselves. To do otherwise would be offensive.
High: Grace. I have gotten to better know the insulated and rural community I have lived in for five years on a much different level. I have been emotionally supported by people that I did not even know cared. I have been allowed to give back and fill my cup, the survivor’s guilt easing with every bag I filled with food, paper products or cleaning supplies, and with each worn-out pair of boots I gracefully accepted from strangers.
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