At Nursing Home, Katrina Dealt Only the First Blow

The first patient to die was a woman who'd been on hospice care before the storm. When her breathing grew more shallow, the nuns prayed over her, then wrapped her body and the staff carried her downstairs to the chapel, a modest room with an altar and 12 pews.

Nightfall brought heat and steam. The staff tore up cardboard boxes to fan the patients. Towels were dampened to cool foreheads. Evelyn Leal's husband was without his medication, and he hollered throughout the endless night, "Evelyn! Evelyn!"

Shelmire and others walked the floor with flashlights, checking on people. "Can I have my pain medication?" one asked. Unable to match their prescriptions, Shelmire could offer only Tylenol. The dietitian's children stayed in a nun's bedroom, but others who were offered rooms refused, including Shelmire, who considered the rooms sacred. Even in this defiled and muddied environment, the nuns still held a special place.

Daybreak Tuesday brought an incredible sight: The water downstairs was receding. By afternoon, the parking lot that had earlier been swamped was drying, and more amazing, the road that ran in front of Lafon -- Chef Menteur Highway -- looked passable. Help would certainly be on the way.

Passed By

Soon vehicles began to rumble by on Chef Menteur Highway. Greenwood and other employees ran outside to flag them down. A National Guard truck kept rolling. Police and fire vehicles sped by. When a Wildlife and Fisheries vehicle eased over, Greenwood said she begged, "Please help us, we have 103 elderly people in a nursing home." The rescue workers said they were trying to get to submerged neighborhoods where people were stuck on rooftops.

Two other Lafon employees, Pete and his wife, Precious, who both worked in housekeeping, stood in the middle of the street, trying to get anyone to stop. McDaniel and some of the men went across the street to the motherhouse of the Sisters of the Holy Family, and broke in to get more food and supplies.

That night, fires and looting erupted along Chef Menteur Highway, and gunshots popped in the distance. McDaniel and a male employee went out to the parking lot and got one of the cars to start. Still wearing her habit, she and the man rode out for help. They found a New Orleans police officer who promised assistance. A stickler for details, McDaniel wrote down the officer's name and returned to Lafon to wait.

One hour passed, then two, then three. Upstairs at Lafon, Shelmire focused on her patients. She administered suppositories to keep temperatures down. Dirty diapers were changed. Many patients became quiet and stopped eating. Many more were without their glasses and hearing aids, their essentials for making sense of the world. A Spanish-speaking patient had palsy. Evelyn Leal cleaned his face and lifted a water cup to his lips.

At one point, two New Orleans cops did pull into the Lafon parking lot. But they were in search of gasoline. "You could have my gas -- I have gas in my car," Greenwood said. One of the officers called for backup, and when the additional officer arrived, they tried siphoning gas from Greenwood's tank. It was empty. Same with all the other employees' cars in the lot. Someone had stolen all the gas. Before leaving, the officers promised they would radio that Lafon needed help.

On Wednesday morning, Greenwood and some of the others walked to a Family Dollar that had already been looted, and took supplies back to the nursing home. Beneath pictures of saints, they dressed some of the patients in stolen gowns.

Day Three was a day of more promised rescue attempts that never materialized. McDaniel camped out in front of Lafon to stop cars. Two patients who were having trouble breathing were taken out to a van where there was more air and comfortable seats. Even with this macabre and surreal scene, no one stopped.

They finally caught a break. Someone's cell phone chirped to life, offering communication with the outside world. Greenwood made contact with one of her brothers; that call turned out to be Lafon's most important SOS.