May 16, 2008 12:57 pm
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Breathe in, breathe out.
It’s been a little more than a week since the power of nature cut a devastating path through our area, killing 23 people, injuring hundreds and destroying homes and lives — all in the matter of minutes.
And, I’m still shaking.
It’s not the little pieces of glass that I keep finding in my purse that bother me.
It’s not the cuts and bruises on my back or the fact that my SUV looks like it was hit by a bomb. No, that’s not what’s weighing on my mind.
Nor am I that bothered by the tree that fell on my house in Carthage, while I was out driving about a quarter of a mile from Iris Road in Newton County. Or even the fact that most of my appliances were fried when the power lines were snapped away from the weather head.
No, I am more than happy to be alive to deal with those annoyances.
What I can’t get out of my mind is the vision of a dark wall — a mixture of dust and rain — that faced us as we came up over the hill. I can’t forget the screams of my 10-year-old nephew or the sight of my sister covering him with her body.
I keep hearing the sound of debris pounding the side of my vehicle. And the roar — yes, it sounds like a freight train — overhead.
Days have passed and I’m still holding my breath — much the same way I did about 6 p.m., May 10, while I was waiting for the huge tree, or someone’s tractor or farm truck to end my life along with the lives of my sister and nephew.
We were airborne for a bit, but settled into a ditch — right across from a mobile home that literally exploded before our eyes.
Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. My nephew’s face was covered in blood, but as we wiped away his tears, we discovered the wounds were superficial. We shook out the glass and looked for a way out. Sheet metal, boards, and the flue from the mobile home blocked my door, but we crawled out the other door and in amazement realized that we had little more than cuts.
We looked toward the place where the mobile home once sat. It was gone.
The last thing I will never be able to forget was the sight of the woman lying in the ditch with her husband bent over her. She died later that night.
It probably happened over the course of two or three minutes. And, I keep wondering if I had slammed into reverse, could I have simply become an observer rather than a participant? But, no, I later realized that would have been tragic, as huge trees fell across the roadway blocking the road.
Minutes before I had traveled Highway 43 and turned right onto Iris Road, the area where 14 people died. I picked up my sister and nephew and was heading back the way I had come. Funny, how minutes — even seconds — are critical in life. I wish now I had stopped at my sister’s bathroom.
My story is just one of hundreds — and certainly pales in comparison to those survivors we interviewed last week who lost everything they had. And in some cases, lost everyone they truly loved.
On Monday, as I helped the newsroom compile a list of those who had died, what was surreal became even more real.
I am having a hard time feeling safe, but those who have had similar experiences tell me that time will help. I hope so.
For now, I’m just taking life one breath at a time.
Carol Stark is editor of The Joplin Globe. Address correspondence to her, c/o The Joplin Globe, P.O. Box 7, Joplin, Mo. 64802 or e-mail cstark@joplinglobe.com.
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