What the Eyes Don't See

by Mona Hanna-Attisha

  I think Aron was just caught off guard—and didn’t have much information about what was going on. His initial response, before he digested the whole story, was the classic risk-averse turtle move. Duck into your shell. And maybe it would have been easier for him and everybody else if I did that and stayed a good little pediatric residency director and waited for the proper authorities to come to their senses.

  But that’s not how I see things.

  The world shouldn’t be comprised of people in boxes, minding their own business. It should be full of people raising their voices, using their power and presence, standing up for what’s right. Minding one another’s business.

  That’s the world I live in.

  And that’s the world I want to live in.

  I wondered if part of the pushback was about the $270 million the state government approves for MSU every year. The power of money can’t be underestimated, ever. As Karl Marx said, “It transforms fidelity into infidelity, love into hate, hate into love, virtue into vice, vice into virtue, servant into master, master into servant, idiocy into intelligence, and intelligence into idiocy.” Or as the Bible says more succinctly, the love of money is the root of all evil.

  There was definitely no way to remove the MSU logo—a Spartan S—from my white coat, where it was embroidered in bright green on the other side of DR. MONA HANNA-ATTISHA. Even if the university didn’t support the words coming out of my mouth, this doctor would be wearing her white coat.

  * * *

  —

  I CAME INTO THE clinic early and prepared for my meeting with Ron Fonger, the journalist from The Flint Journal and its online version, MLive. His careworn expression made me suspect he was as stressed and disturbed as I was. The guy had been beating the drum for a year or more about the Flint water—and had written hundreds of articles by that point. I went over my study and data with him, with his agreement that the information would be embargoed until the press conference, but when it came time to publish an article, he would be ready.

  Before I left the clinic, Allison found me. In response to my text earlier in the morning, she handed me two of her son Liam’s baby bottles. They were both clear. One was bigger and easy to see. I took it, thanked her, and put it in my bag.

  Afterward I returned to my Hurley office to polish my presentation, looked at the slides for the millionth time, and fiddled with the new graphs that Jenny had sent over. I found another pediatrician to cover me at the clinic that afternoon. Then I sent an email to all my residents and faculty inviting them to the conference. No matter what, this was going to be educational.

  I took Liam’s baby bottle out of my bag. I walked out into the hallway, to a small bathroom across from my office. I filled the bottle with Flint water. It looked okay, pretty clear. But that wasn’t the point. The point was what our eyes couldn’t see.

  * * *

  —

  THE HURLEY CONFERENCE ROOM, just a few floors down, was ready by the time I arrived to load my presentation. Just a few days before, I had given a talk to the faculty there and faced a room of familiar faces. Now there were forty or fifty people there, mostly reporters, photographers, and TV camera crews, with their spots staked out and their microphones stuck to the podium. More people were coming through the door behind me. As I walked closer to the podium, I recognized the dogged ACLU reporter Curt Guyette from his online video interviews, and thanked him for his solid reporting.

  Kirk Smith was standing near the door. We shared a look of astonishment. He walked over to tell me that Mark Valacak, the head of the county health department, was planning to attend. At my suggestion, Kirk had called him the night before and urged him to come. From my earliest emails with Valacak, and his noncommittal behavior at Kirk’s health coalition meeting, I didn’t think he understood the gravity of the situation. But I thought the guy deserved a chance for redemption. And having the county health department represented at the press conference would be good for us—and for them.

  Across the way, I saw Natasha Henderson in another perfect suit. I was surprised when she made eye contact. That was a first. I was even more surprised to see Howard Croft.

  Were they planning to refute my work—and argue with me?

  Deeper into the gathering crowd, I caught sight of Karen Weaver, who was running against Dayne Walling for mayor, as well as city council members and various Hurley board members. I recognized LeeAnne Walters, the tough Flint mom and military wife who’d started it all—who’d gone to town meetings, called the EPA, tracked down Del Toral, and gotten in touch with Marc Edwards. Her life over much of the last year had been about the water and was given over to activism on behalf of her kids and all Flint kids. I introduced myself, thanked her, gave her a hug, and could tell after just a minute of talking that she was a natural leader and fighter. Someone you didn’t want to mess with. She’d had struggles in her life and had come out stronger.

  Marc was in Blacksburg and planned to watch online, as did Elin, Jordan, Senator Ananich, Andy, Elliott, and my parents. Allison was at the clinic, hoping to see the press conference while she was on duty seeing patients. They had all contacted me earlier in the day and sent texts and emails of support.

  People were still arriving, now about one hundred in all. They were mostly media and hospital employees and maybe a dozen or more activists—the tireless “water warriors.” As I looked out into the sea of cameras and microphones, my residents and medical students were easy to spot in their white coats.

  AT THE PODIUM WITH (FROM LEFT) MARK VALACAK, CLARENCE PIERCE, PETE LEVINE, KIRK SMITH, AND DR. REYNOLDS, SEPTEMBER 24, 2015

  The podium was way too tall for me, and I could barely see over the microphones stuck to it. As a demonstration of support, we decided that our team would gather around me while I presented. Kirk, Dr. Reynolds, Pete Levine, and Jamie Gaskin from the United Way stood behind and next to me; so did Clarence Pierce, the CEO of Hamilton Health Network, a nonprofit clinic for the underserved in Flint, and even Mark Valacak. All men, all much taller than I am. I felt like I was surrounded by bodyguards.

  Just before starting, I looked directly across the room and settled my eyes on Crystal Cederna-Meko, my associate residency program director, a pediatric psychologist, and a good friend. She would be my anchor—a friendly, assuring face to focus on.

  I talked for about forty minutes, which went by in an instant and felt like a lifetime. It was pretty much the same presentation I’d given the mayor, but with some clearer graphics and a punchier, more practiced delivery. I knew instinctively I was doing okay because the room was totally silent, hanging on every word, every number, every blood-lead level.

  Amid the science and facts and research numbers, I kept to the story of Makayla. The human aspect was critical. But it wasn’t enough. I needed to open their eyes—to make them really see. I put the clicker down, and, carrying Liam’s baby bottle filled with Flint water, I walked to the head table and tried to open a can of powdered formula. My plan was to mix the powder with the tap water while the room watched. But the formula can was difficult to open and then, once opened, very messy. So I improvised and just held up the baby bottle filled with Flint water.

  “This is what our babies are drinking, for their first year of life. Lead-tainted water during the period of most critical brain development.”

  Usually I talk fast, but I needed to hold that moment—to slow down the delivery. I paused and held up the bottle for a few seconds longer.

  I wanted everybody to really see it.

  It needed to sink in.

  I PAUSED AND HELD UP THE BABY BOTTLE FOR A FEW SECONDS LONGER

  I went on, from one slide to the next, all the way to the list of recommendations for Flint residents—no tap water, lead-clearing filters, breastfeed, breastfeed, breastfeed…and the “impossible” one, switching back to Great Lakes water. I could hear my o
wn voice as I spoke: calm, loud, clear, and assured. But behind the podium, under my white coat, my heart was booming in my chest like thunder. I wondered if the microphone could pick up the sound.

  Dr. Reynolds spoke after me, reiterating lead’s harm and issuing a call to action. Then the media began asking questions. Some were for me, like “Who funded your research?”

  “No one.”

  “How big was your research team?”

  “Just me and another young mom.”

  A puddle of reporters encircled Mark Valacak, the county health officer, digging into fine points and specifics. How many children were impacted? How long did the city and county know?

  The water warriors were visibly angry and sad, exhausted from fighting for well over a year already. And from being attacked, dismissed, and ignored. It made me mad to think about. LeeAnne Walters was wiping away tears. Curt Guyette raised his voice in exasperation and called out from the scrum around Valacak, “You are lying, sir! You are lying!”

  I couldn’t hear what Valacak had said, but he looked dazed and shook his head. Another group of reporters surrounded Natasha Henderson. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she seemed poised and ready with a response.

  I looked around for Mayor Walling. He wasn’t there.

  * * *

  —

  FOR A FEW MINUTES after I stepped from the podium, I was buzzing with a postadrenaline high. The stress of anticipation was behind me. The press conference was over. The news was finally public, released from my cycling mind and heavy shoulders and out in the world. For the last month, every second that had gone by without an announcement about the water was agony, knowing Flint kids were still drinking it, Flint babies were still being fed formula mixed with it. It was an awful secret to hold inside me—and it had taken a toll.

  I had done my job. My science was right. And people kept telling me how good I was. You’re awesome! That was amazing!

  Melany texted. “Excellent job!”

  Congratulations came in from Andy and Senator Ananich, who were freaking out about the baby bottle filled with Flint water. “What a visual!” Andy said. “Nobody will forget that. I know I won’t!” He sounded totally amazed, as if he had underestimated me, thought I was just a doctor. But deep inside it seemed that I had been preparing for that moment my whole life.

  Those first few minutes of euphoria were wonderful; I’d later wish I’d held on to that feeling for a little longer. But it didn’t last. The truth was out, but—just as I’d been warned—it would awaken new enemies.

  THE BLOWBACK BEGAN IMMEDIATELY. THE CITY was waffling toward some kind of concession, announcing it would have its own press conference the next day. But the state of Michigan dug in harder. Even before bothering to analyze my findings, the governor’s office and the state agencies launched a systematic effort to undermine and discredit me.

  Brad Wurfel was first, doing his job as the spokesman for the corrupt and mysterious powers at MDEQ. He repeated his familiar refrain: Flint water was within acceptable levels. Everything is in compliance. Everything tests fine.

  There was simply nothing to worry about.

  Then he focused on me. The guy seemed to have one speed, one method—attack and destroy. Just a couple of months before, he had gone after Miguel Del Toral, calling him a “rogue employee” of the EPA. Then he had gone after Marc Edwards, saying he was “fanning political flames irresponsibly.”

  Now it was my turn. As soon as the news conference ended, his ugly statements began popping up online—not just in the local outlets but, by the next day, in state and national media. My conclusions weren’t just “irresponsible,” Wurfel said, dripping with condescension. “I would call them unfortunate….Flint’s drinking water is safe in that it’s meeting state and federal standards.”

  I was an unfortunate researcher.

  Meanwhile the state health agency, the MDHHS, fired off a scientific-sounding statement that my findings had been due to a “seasonal anomaly”—a refutation they hoped no reporter would have the temerity or science background to dig into. The problem, they said, was “seasonality.” But I had factored for that—Jenny and I had controlled the study for seasons. The MDHHS didn’t even ask or appear to want to know that. It was an obvious attempt to confuse, distort, and dismiss.

  * * *

  —

  I DON’T REMEMBER ANYTHING about the drive home. My head was spinning, my phone was buzzing. I took repeated calls on speakerphone.

  I skipped the early dinner that Elliott had made and instead got ready to attend Layla’s back-to-school night. Her school calls it Curriculum Night, and I never missed one. It was important to be there, not just for me and for Layla’s teachers but for Layla. She was becoming increasingly vocal about my absences from her life. There was no getting around the fact my focus on the water crisis was taking an emotional toll on the family. Elliott had the benefit of understanding what was going on, but even he said the house felt empty. Meals came and went, but I was never at the table. Even when I was home, my eyes were on my iPad or laptop or phone—and my mind was elsewhere.

  Layla being Layla, she wasn’t going to let this slide. Her voice was the loudest and most persistent, but she was speaking for Nina and Elliott too. At night, she often came into our bedroom, wanting to sleep with us, pressing her little body close to mine. And when she saw me looking at my laptop, she said pointed things like “I know your work is important, but I’m important too. Can you please turn off your computer?”

  I wanted to be a good mom, but as hard as I tried, it was impossible to focus on anything but Flint water. The stream of emails and texts was incessant, and I couldn’t shut off my rage and frustration at the officials in charge.

  Just before I arrived at Layla’s school, Andy and Senator Ananich called—they were driving back from Lansing to Flint together. They told me they’d just spoken with Nick Lyon, director of the MDHHS, on speakerphone. Lyon had pushed back about the water and lead, my study and the numbers, and mentioned “seasonality.” Senator Ananich urged him not to reflexively discredit the data or “the doctor.” The sensible approach would be for the health department, which had a staff of epidemiologists, to check the numbers themselves. Lyon assured him—yes, yes, of course, there was no point in going after the doctor.

  But just as Lyon was reassuring Senator Ananich over the speakerphone, they heard the voice of Angela Minicucci, the MDHHS press person, on the car radio. She was giving a public statement. My results were “not consistent” with the state’s data, she said. A spokesperson in Governor Snyder’s office, none other than Sara Wurfel, was claiming that the Hurley data had been “spliced and diced.”

  Spliced and diced? There’s nothing worse to say about a scientific study—or about a scientist. Splicing and dicing meant that I was knowingly lying. Back in my eighth-grade science class, Ms. Eisenhardt had drilled us over and over about the “scientific method” and how scientists are supposed to test their hypotheses. Manipulating my data to get the result I wanted would have been the biggest scientific sin. This accusation wasn’t just a punch in the gut. It felt like a public stoning.

  This implicated another scientific sin, one I was nakedly guilty of: my research had not been peer-reviewed, which was highly unusual. Peer review is both an ancient and modern procedure, a way to legitimize research by independent experts prior to publication. But peer review can take months. So I knowingly skipped that step. It was academic disobedience and a risk to my reputation. But urgency called for it. The research was too important to wait another day.

  I arrived at Layla’s school. As I was sitting in her second-grade classroom, in one of those tiny chairs, I looked at the screen of my phone under the desk. Senator Ananich and Andy were working every possible angle, defending me against every state agency that was attacking me. Representative Kildee was arguing with the EPA about my findings.
Kirk was texting me, horrified by the vehemence of the state’s counterattack. Jenny, in her very data-driven way, began constructing statistical counterarguments.

  Under the school desk, my arms were trembling, and my hands were shaking. My heart was beating in my chest at such a rapid pace that my FitBit bracelet recorded two hundred beats per minute. (I never wore it again after that night.) I told myself I was still wound up from the excitement of the press conference. I needed to focus on Layla’s teacher, and listen, and be there 100 percent, like all the other moms and dads in the room.

  But the media had found me; the onslaught was beginning. Outlets wanted copies of my study and my reaction to the MDEQ and MDHHS backlash: “What is your response to the state? They are saying that you are wrong.”

  What could I say? My study was meant to speak for itself, to stand on its own. Now I began to doubt it would. The prospect took me to a very dark place. What if I told the truth and no one listened?

  Feeling defeated, I left Curriculum Night early—and left Elliott to meet Layla’s teachers without me. I drove home, went upstairs, and curled up into a ball on the bed. I was scared and sick and not sure what I would do next, except probably throw up.

  More was coming. I knew that now. The state would not revisit its own science—I couldn’t expect a decent, responsible reaction or governmental accountability. Instead I was going to be forced to defend my work and expose the problems with the state’s denials. The onus would be on me to keep fighting.

  You don’t necessarily hear this part of the story often, but when you’re in the middle of a backlash, the psychological stress is extraordinary. The emotions are big, overpowering. And they come as a total surprise.