Mel
About two hours later the phone rang.
“Hello?” I said, hoping for news of Brian.
“Is this Mel Birdwell?” the man’s voice asked on the other end.
“Yes, it is. Who is this?”
It seemed as if the man was taking forever to talk to me. I wanted to blurt out, “Do you know anything about my husband?” But I waited—afraid he did have news and that it wasn’t good.
Finally he said, “My name is Mark Ogletree. My wife, Natalie, was in the building with your husband, and she was praying with him. She’s been trying to contact you, but the phone lines have been jammed. She finally reached me and asked me to contact you.”
I held my breath for the news.
“Mel,” Mark continued, “your husband is on his way to Georgetown Hospital, and he’s alive.”
All of a sudden I felt as if God had turned my mourning into dancing, just as Psalm 30:11 talks about. The black cloud that had hung over me since I’d heard the Pentagon was hit had lifted. Brian was alive. I knew everything was going to be fine from that point on. Our lives would be back to normal.
I didn’t know at that moment what Pollyannaish thinking that was. I had no clue, no clue whatsoever, what kind of situation I was walking into.
Three
The Lone Casualty at Georgetown
Mel
I hung up the phone just as my friend Debbie arrived. Matt was returning from his walk as Debbie got there, so they entered the house together.
“Brian’s alive!” I yelled. “I just received a phone call that he’s being rushed to Georgetown University Hospital.” We were so excited, we were yelling and jumping up and down.
I grabbed the phone book, looked up the number for Georgetown, and called the emergency room. “My name is Mel Birdwell,” I said as soon as a nurse answered the phone. “I understand Lieutenant Colonel Birdwell has been brought to the emergency—”
“Yes, ma’am. Just a moment.” The nurse cut me off. “Let me get the attending physician for you.”
Within moments Dr. Michael Williams, the trauma surgeon, was on the phone. “Mrs. Birdwell. Yes, your husband is here, and he is alive. But he is very severely injured. He is badly burned, and he has a severe inhalation injury.”
Dr. Williams’s words meant nothing to me. At least not at that time when I was merely focusing on the fact that Brian was alive and the rest of it was all going to be fine.
“Mrs. Birdwell, you need to get here as quickly as you can,” Dr. Williams continued.
“Yes, of course. I’m leaving now,” I told him.
I hung up the phone and tried to figure out just how I was going to get there. I knew I couldn’t drive myself. For one thing, I had no clue where Georgetown was. For another, I knew I was not in any kind of mental condition to drive myself. If I drove, I figured I’d end up in the hospital right along with Brian—something we didn’t need.
I knew I couldn’t ask Debbie to drive me there because I really wanted her to stay with Matt. I didn’t want Matt to go with me to the hospital because I had no idea what I would find when I arrived at Georgetown. I wasn’t willing to expose my son, who was already dealing with his own intense emotions, to whatever I had to walk into. I certainly didn’t want to have to worry about Matt as well as Brian.
So although I felt horribly guilty for not being able to be with Matt at such a difficult time for him, I asked Debbie to take care of Matt for me. She agreed immediately. Then I told Matt that Debbie was going to stay with him while I went to the hospital—that his dad had been severely injured. Matt seemed okay about not going. I think he was glad to know his dad was alive—but also afraid of seeing his dad in whatever condition he was in.
That was one of the hardest things for me to do, as a mom: to show my child through my actions, I’ve got to choose your dad over you right now. Even though I knew Matt understood why he wasn’t going with me, I felt guilty leaving him behind.
The phone rang again. It was Major John Collison. I didn’t know who he was, so he introduced himself as a coworker of Brian’s. Then he told me he rode with Brian over to Georgetown Hospital. He said Brian was okay. And that when the nurse took off Brian’s ring, Brian asked him to give it to me.
I thanked him, glad to hear from a friend who had been there with Brian. I hung up and began to think through my options for transportation to the hospital. Then the phone rang yet again. This time it was Judith Rogers, a nurse from Georgetown. “Mrs. Birdwell, are you coming?”
I thought it was odd that she called so soon after I’d hung up with Dr. Williams. But I merely said, “I’m working as fast as I can to get there.”
“You’ve got to get here now,” she insisted. “He is very, very serious.”
I swallowed hard, terrified by her voice. “Okay. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”
That was probably the first really scary thing I understood. While Dr. Williams had said Brian was serious, I never imagined it was deathly serious. The doctor had just said to get there when I could. But then the nurse had phoned. . . .
I ran out of the house—I hadn’t taken a shower, brushed my teeth, or put on makeup yet that morning. I didn’t even bother to put on my shoes! I rushed to my neighbor Sara’s house to ask her husband to take me to the hospital. I couldn’t ask Sara because she was pregnant and was due in about nine more days.
When I got to Sara’s, she told me her husband, Stu, wasn’t home yet from work because the traffic was in a gridlock all over the city.
As I left her house, I wondered, What am I going to do?
Then, as I faced the opposite sidewalk I saw a soldier in a green camouflage uniform standing at the end of the street and talking on his cell phone. While I knew he and his family lived down there, I hadn’t met them yet. I ran to him and explained the situation. “My name is Mel. My husband, Brian, was badly injured at the Pentagon. They’ve taken him to Georgetown Hospital, and I have to get there. But I don’t know how to. Could you drive me?”
The neighbor introduced himself as John Miller, an Army sergeant major, and then said, “I don’t know how to get to Georgetown either, but yes, I will drive you. Go back to your house and put on your shoes, then meet me here. We’ll get you to Georgetown. Okay?”
I said okay and ran back to my house to fetch my shoes and to tell Matt I was leaving and would be back home that night. Then I asked Debbie, “Will you take him?”
“Absolutely. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take Matt home with me.” Then she turned to Matt and suggested, “Why don’t you get a change of clothes, so if you’re at my house overnight you’ll be set for tomorrow? We’ll take your school stuff with us in case you need to stay longer.”
When I tried to explain to Matt what was happening, he cut me off. “That’s okay, Mom. I understand.”
I put on my shoes, grabbed my purse and my cell phone, and ran out the door.
My neighbor John didn’t have a map of the area, so I ran back to my house, grabbed a map, and rushed out.
I was eager and anxious to get there. But we needed to stop and get gas before we could start for Georgetown. I could hear the clock ticking down in my mind.
The only thing I did know about getting to Georgetown was that we needed to take Route 66. John was driving up Route 1. I kept thinking, Oh my goodness, why is he going this way?
Fortunately John knew what he was doing because this route ended up being the way with the least traffic. On a normal day, going to Georgetown from our house would probably take about half an hour.
But on September 11 it took us two hours. The entire time we were listening to the radio to hear if any other terrorist action was taking place, or if there was any other news. There was so much misinformation—car bombs exploding, mass chaos, possible bombs throughout the DC area set to detonate.
What is going on? I kept wondering.
When we arrived at the intersection of Route 1 and Interstate 495, where you normally can see the DC sky
line, all I could see was the black smoke pouring from the Pentagon. I turned my head away. It was too much of a nightmare.
We kept listening to the radio as the news reporters announced the number of injuries and how many people had been taken to the different hospitals. I pricked up my ears when I heard them announce, “Georgetown University Hospital. One.” One? I thought. No way, that can’t be right. There’s no way there’s just one person there.
Panic set in. I wondered if Brian had died before I’d gotten there, so he wasn’t counted in the totals. Horrible thoughts raged in my brain—and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t control them. So I prayed. I silently willed every car to get out of our way. And I phoned Georgetown University Hospital every five minutes.
“How is he doing?” I’d ask.
They’d tell me the same things: “He’s okay. He’s intubated. He’s sedated. He’s fine.”
Yet Judith’s phone call made me not trust what the others were telling me. I was nervous, scared, and not very talkative. I just needed John to drive as quickly as he could. But the traffic was horrendous. It was as though we were sitting in a parking lot, the traffic was so gridlocked. There were several times I wanted to get out of the truck and start screaming, “Move it, people! My husband’s been hurt. Why aren’t you driving faster?” I wondered how they could be so passive when my world was falling apart.
Instead I prayed. Please, Lord, keep him alive. I realize what that nurse said, but please don’t let it be too serious.
I kept telling myself, He’s just going to be in the hospital a few days, and then he’ll be home and it will all be fine again.
But I also knew the reality: I had no idea what I’d be walking into at Georgetown. And for me, that was the worst. I’m a master control freak, and I had no control over this situation.
I kept calling my house to check the answering machine because I knew Brian’s family was going to call, and I’d not had the presence of mind to give them my cell phone number.
Finally, after two long hours, we made it to the Francis Scott Key Bridge—the bridge that connects Virginia and Washington DC. It’s the way to Georgetown from Virginia. It would have been the same bridge Brian took to get to the hospital from the Pentagon.
Just as we arrived at the bridge, we encountered another huge traffic backup. Cars were lined up on Route 66 on the exit ramp to the bridge.
“What is taking so long?” I wondered aloud. We moved maybe a quarter of a mile in ten or fifteen minutes. I thought, I can’t do this anymore.
We finally reached a place where we could see that the authorities were not letting any traffic into DC. They were allowing cars to cross out of DC and into Virginia but not the other way—which was the way I had to go. So I turned to John and said, “I’m just going to get out and run the rest of the way. Thanks for bringing me. I’ll worry later about how I’m going to get home tonight.”
I hopped out of his truck and took off running toward the entrance of the bridge, where a police officer was directing traffic and keeping cars from crossing. I went straight up to him and explained, “My husband was injured at the Pentagon, and he’s at Georgetown. I don’t know how to get there from here.”
“Cross the bridge,” he said. “There’s a police officer at the other end. Get him to call a DC police car for you, and he’ll take you the rest of the way.” I said okay and took off running again.
I’m not a strong runner, so trying to get there quickly was a challenge. Plus I was crying, so it was hard to breathe. I ended up having to stop halfway across the bridge because I thought I was going to have a heart attack. The bridge is about a quarter of a mile across, but it seemed like fifteen miles across to me.
At that point I was so irrational that my mind started playing tricks on me. I started to freak out. I’m going to die on Key Bridge, trying to get to the hospital, and Matthew’s not going to have either parent. We’re both going to die, and he’s going to have nobody. While I was clasping my side and struggling to breathe, I turned toward the direction of the Pentagon. I could still see the thick plumes of black smoke rising in the midafternoon sky. I couldn’t take it—I began shaking, hyperventilating, and screaming out in anguish. I took off running again, still in pain and sobbing the whole way as I darted against the flow of people exiting into Virginia.
Finally I made it across the bridge and found the police officer. I explained the situation to him. But he announced, “There’s not a DC police officer available for me to call. You’re going to have to walk the rest of the way.”
“How do I get there?” I asked.
He very coldly and uncompassionately informed me, “You go up there.” He pointed toward a long hill. “Follow the hospital signs.”
So I took off again. As I passed a group of businessmen walking toward me, I stopped them and asked, “Do you know how far it is to Georgetown Hospital?” One of the men said, “Yes, it’s about four miles up that way.”
“No way!” I screamed out, horrified. “It can’t be four miles!”
“It’s four miles.”
I started to sob uncontrollably again. I thought, I am never, ever going to get there! This is just too overwhelming.
Again I took off running as best I could, trying not to think about the cramp in my side or how my lungs felt as though they were going to explode. I kept praying, God, please just give me somebody who can take me the rest of the way. Please send me somebody who knows how to get there.
I made it about a quarter to half a mile—uphill—when a DC police officer passed me in his squad car. I start waving wildly at him, but he just kept going. “No! You can’t keep driving past me!” I shouted. I was hot, out of breath, sweaty, achy. And now I was mad.
Brian
Having survived everything else I thought this ride to the hospital was going to kill me.
As soon as Jill yelled, “We’re going to Georgetown,” the enlisted Navy man said, “I know the way! Follow me.” And he took off on his motorcycle, racing down roads and over median strips, dodging oncoming or stopped traffic, with us trying to keep up.
Fortunately I couldn’t see out the windows. But I heard enough to make me scared. Jill was yelling directions. John was yelling instructions and paying attention to me, checking that I was okay. Occasionally he would say, “Hang on, Sir.” With what? I thought. And to what? I had nothing I could hang on to or hang on with. I was lying on the back of a body board. And I was paying attention to my breathing and the pain. I had no sense of where we were. I just knew Georgetown Hospital was across the river, not that far, maybe four miles away, yet it seemed as if it was taking a long time to get there.
Jill was yelling, “Watch out!” or some similar instruction. I could tell she was concerned that the shock I was in would kill me.
“Major,” she said to Collison, “I need you to keep him alert and talking. Talk to him.”
So John told me, “Hey, Sir, I’m still here. Talk to me. Let me know you’re okay.”
“My legs hurt,” I told him. Then I figured I might as well know how I was really doing, so I asked, “How bad does it look?”
“Sir, to me,” he said, “you look like you have flash burns. Your hair is burned back, and your face is charred.”
“Okay, well, it hurts,” I told him. “It hurts really bad.”
With the attack on the Pentagon and reports that the Capitol and the White House were also targets, everybody was trying to escape DC and drive into Virginia—which is where we were. So as we would encounter traffic jams, the Navy motorcyclist would lead us over sidewalks and through lawns. Captain Wineland crossed over medians and into the other side of traffic. The motorcyclist, then Wineland would beep their horns as we drove through intersections so no one would hit us.
We were all getting jostled around. Jill and John were trying hard to keep from falling over onto me. That was probably why everyone in the car was yelling; they must have thought they were going to die along with me.
; We crossed Key Bridge, which hadn’t closed yet. But once we crossed the bridge, to get to Georgetown, which is situated in the middle of a residential area, we had to drive down narrow residential streets, which meant making really sharp, hard turns. Every turn and jostle of the vehicle was excruciating for me.
Finally we arrived at the hospital, found the emergency room door, and pulled up. Immediately a team of disaster specialists, since the hospital was on disaster alert, was outside with a stretcher. They opened the side door to the Expedition. I’m not sure why they opened that door, unless they thought I was sitting up. They realized quickly I was in the back, so they ran to the back door, pulled out the body board, set it on the gurney, and moved me inside.
The first physician to reach me was Dr. John DeSimone, the director of the emergency room. He helped pull the backboard out of the Expedition. He was the upfront physician who was responsible for evaluating my injuries. He took one look at me and realized I needed major resuscitation, so he ordered the staff to wheel me immediately to room 6, the trauma room of the emergency unit.
The morphine must have taken effect by this time because I was no longer shaking, and I didn’t feel as much pain.
They lifted the body board and placed me on the first bed closest to the doorway. Then I was surrounded by a sea of doctors in white lab coats and nurses in disaster-alert vests. The organized chaos began. Each person started a particular procedure on me. They were as organized as a battle drill.
The medical staff was primarily concerned about my airway; they needed to secure it so it didn’t close off completely. They were also worried about the internal burns and pulmonary damage.
The temperature of the air I was breathing in the Pentagon had burned and damaged my lungs. I don’t think I inhaled flames; otherwise I would have had burns inside my mouth, which I didn’t have.
I overheard them talking about an inhalation injury. They were very concerned about my lungs filling with fluid. If my lungs filled with fluid, which they had already begun to do, and the air passages closed from the burns and inhalation injuries, I would die.
Refined by Fire Page 4