Near midnight on Sept. 2, 1998, I reluctantly accepted and faced my
emerging role in the consequences of the crash of Swissair Flight 111.
Denial and confusion at first had provided a respite from reality: shortly
after the telephone call at about 10:45 p.m., I packed about 15 items. It
must have taken 30 minutes.
I did not want to face the stimulation of days of adrenaline coursing
through my already hypertensive arteries and head, the relentless pressure
of organizing, struggling for quick, good answers to complicated problems
and the potential for conflict, or of being abrupt or impatient with
myself or anyone else ? and without sleep.
I had a taste of it in February 1986, with the crash of a VIA Rail
passenger train and a CN freight near Hinton, Alta., a crash that killed
about 25. I knew this was going to be much worse, and the crash of SA111
was terrible in almost every way. I did find an important exception ? how
people help one another.
My first act was to go to the tiny medical examiner?s office. At the
time, we had only three other full-time staff. About 11:30 p.m., I was
retrieving the outline document we had from Alberta on disaster
management. The last thing I wanted to be was unprepared.
While at the office, Linda Mosher, a very capable woman and my right
hand, answered the phone: a supplier of body bags from Georgia, with whom
we had done business, offered support. We were into it, like it or
not.
Arriving at CFB Shearwater B Hangar at about 4 a.m. was in one respect
a shock, as the hangar floor had already been marked out in yellow tape
defining body-sized billets for more than 200. I wondered if this was
planned, and how it happened so quickly; there were no signs of workers.
But for one exception, there to be no bodies of the sort implied, so the
markings were removed in the following days.
In the next 36 hours, it was nothing but head-first into battle. I do
not mean to suggest there was conflict, but it seems a reasonable
expression for the stress. Admittedly, I have never been to war, and no
one had shot at me, so far. Otherwise, I believe in many ways we had much
in common with a battle. We all needed the strength and resources to get
through the next two weeks, and it was there. There were so many things
going on all the time that missing a night?s sleep hardly registered with
me.
That Thursday night, when I went to bed at CFB Shearwater, likely about
midnight, my mind was so full I could envision everything falling out of
it if I tipped over.
Anything that I knew about leadership I certainly did not pick up at
medical school. I came from a disciplined family; my mother was a school
teacher and my father had been in the navy and a merchant-marine officer
in his early years. I had spent a significant time in the Canadian navy
reserve, and all this helped me greatly during the next four of five days
until things settled down into planned routines and structure that
answered to most problems. Many people helped; for one, Dr. Jim Young, a
friend and the chief coroner of Ontario helped me with some decisions and
duties. No one does it alone.
I think the overwhelming deep feelings that I have for the disaster
began very early. Even today, some of them sit just below the conscious
surface and pop up often. I am ?OK,? as one might say, with it all. It
began with understanding the nature of people working with us and how
valuable they were in every role, whatever it was. How quickly people
fitted in working together and the grace of the families was amazing,
together with my growing sense of what Nova Scotia was about. (The latter
is something that today tugs at me in my new city of residence, Vancouver,
and not infrequently).
The nature of Nova Scotians came fully to view when, in the late
afternoon of Sept. 9, I was in a motorcade winding along the familiar
shoreline of St. Margaret?s Bay, heading to the memorial service at Indian
Harbour near Peggy?s Cove. I sat in the last row of a small van occupied
by military officers of rank. I was glad they could not see me as we
passed by numerous tributes laid out on the roadside to the victims amidst
heartfelt messages to families. I bit my tongue and could not hold back
the tears.
Other than the precincts of Shearwater and the Lord Nelson Hotel, I had
been cloistered for a week, and what I saw on the road hit home. Today,
this memory is one of the fondest I have. It continues to rise among the
feelings of what Nova Scotia is, always a special place for me.
On Saturday, Sept. 12., in the forenoon, a van from St. Peter?s, Cape
Breton, arrived filled with vegetables from the autumn harvest of local
gardens, and baking that I?d come to learn was a rural Nova Scotia
tradition. It required Mosher?s careful rationing.
I left Shearwater that afternoon to pay a visit home, although I felt
uncomfortable leaving even for a short respite, as I knew others had also
felt duty bound, but deserting. I was to see it many times in others;
esprit de corps, we had a strong collective spirit.
That afternoon, when I arrived home at Indian Point, several neighbours
were on hand, and all had provided help ? acts of sensitivity and kindness
that saw good coming from bad. We all need to think more about how well we
really do get along. Now, occasionally, when I fight a busy mind trying to
get to sleep and as was often the case in the autumn of 1998, I attempt to
meditate. I tell myself not to get caught up in the rear view mirror:
yesterday. When I need a rest and to see just today, I continue the
metaphor and try to put my whole mind into neutral.
I am asked if I am in contact with any families from that large list of
understanding, gracious people that remember all of us. I talk to and
visit in New York with one family. People move on, and some,
understandably, do not want a ?rear-view.?
I continue to have opportunities to speak about disaster management,
particularly about looking after people and ourselves. Canada did a great
job in looking after every aspect of the Swissair disaster. I was
privileged to work with about 400 people, only a few of many who were
involved. I spoke to many more.
It changed my life, and I am grateful for what came from a tragedy.
John Butt was Nova Scotia?s chief medical examiner from January, 1996,
to August, 1999. He is now a private consultant in forensic pathology in
Vancouver.