Hurricane Matthew: FLORIDA TODAY staff's experience

From a shuttered home in Titusville to a fire station on Satellite Beach, from a "remote" newsroom at Orlando Melbourne International Airport to a downtown Melbourne apartment, FLORIDA TODAY journalists and employees rode out Hurricane Matthew, determined to provide 24/7 coverage and the most up-to-date information to keep you safe and informed throughout the storm.

One of our photographers, Craig Rubadoux, was snapping photos from Port Canaveral as Matthew's winds swept across the Space Coast. Reporter James Dean and photographer Malcolm Denemark embedded with Satellite Beach Fire Department and documented firefighters' efforts to fight a blaze beachside as Matthew raged. Reporter Rick Neale produced live Facebook videos of the Indian River surging at Douglas Park in Indialantic, becoming one of the first on our staff to cross the causeway as winds subsided.

Other FLORIDA TODAY journalists provided live updates from their homes and neighborhoods, and producers kept FloridaToday.com humming from within and beyond the hurricane zone. As we worked, we all worried about our homes, our families, our neighbors and our community. We call Brevard home, too. And, yes, we all felt relief that Brevard was spared major damage.

Readers turned to FloridaToday.com in record numbers before, during and after the storm. We had more than 4.5 million page views on our mobile website and smart phone apps, and more than 4.1 million on our desktop site. And we posted more than 70 storm-related videos, which have generated more than 400,000 views. Our Facebook posts reached more than 7.7 million users and our Facebook Live videos reached more than 1.7 million.

We asked FLORIDA TODAY staff to share their Hurricane Matthew experiences:

Jeff Kiel, President of FLORIDA TODAY

I am one of the Brevard residents who rode out Hurricane Andrew in Miami in 1992. The memory of a category 5 storm coming ashore in Homestead just a few miles from my home will be with me forever. Ten years in California dodging a major earthquake did offer a hiatus from thinking much about hurricanes until my return to Florida in 2012. In the days leading up to Matthew's arrival, my memories of Andrew gradually returned, especially as Matthew climbed to a category 4 storm.

As the events unfolded, while the way we deliver news and information has changed, what hasn’t changed in almost 25 years is the importance of access to up-to-date news and information. The online traffic spike to FLORIDA TODAY digital platforms tells me that FLORIDA TODAY was counted on, but, the letters, e-mails and voice mails tell a better story. Reader Erin Frank summed it up well “…the unique and unprecedented approach Florida today took through the live streams helped empower the public to ask questions, share information on what they experienced, and communicate with local representatives of the media who clearly cared for the county and its citizens as they were living through this in their own town with us and weren't sent here from other areas to cover the big news…"

Malcolm Denemark, staff photographer since 1981, covered every major hurricane to hit Brevard County since 1981

The conundrum for visual journalists covering a hurricane is if you are not on the barrier islands, you are not getting back to the barrier islands until is it “safe.” A media press pass means nothing. They actually never close the causeways during a storm, they close them immediately after the storm, leaving no access to the beaches where most of the damage might have occurred. Fellow journalist James Dean knew this, made a few last-minute phone calls and got the two of us embedded with the Satellite Beach Fire Department. Satellite stayed for the storm. Ironically, Satellite and Indialantic firefighters had to go out in the hurricane to fight a fire in beachside Brevard County.

I was impressed by the camaraderie and professionalism of the firefighters who didn’t hesitate to venture out in the hurricane to fight two fires. They did lose the one house on Thyme Street (lack of water) but saved the homes on each side of it. After firefighters used chainsaws to cut away a large oak tree that had buried our cars, we headed out to send photos and videos of damage that were posted online immediately, giving people a first look at the barrier islands.

James Dean, space reporter

As Hurricane Matthew approached, I thought about the threat high winds and storm surge posed to my beachside home. I never thought about it burning down. Now I realize that’s a real danger, too. I watched Satellite Beach and Indialantic fire departments brave powerful wind gusts and pelting rain to fight two blazes, offering the only defense for miles of beachside communities. It was heartbreaking to see one house burn down, at least in part because water pressure was too low. What if that fire had spread? In this case, fire crews that didn't evacuate helped keep a bad situation from getting worse.

Eric Garwood, planning editor (evacuated mainland home for Hurricane Floyd in 1999, but no other since 1992)

It almost looked like a run-of-the-mill, hourly weather forecast, checked on an iPhone before bed at 12:30 in the morning. Almost. 3 A.M: 77 degrees. Cloudy. Rain chance: 100 percent. Wind: NNE 135 mph.

The notion of disaster heading right for you is stomach-turningly easy to understand when it’s delivered without verbs. In less time than it would take to watch “The Godfather, Part II,’’ your family is forecast to be in peril. Will the roof hold? Will the shutters help? How long before we can move back home? Will anyone get hurt?

Through little sleep and a lot more awake, those questions looped around and around with no answers, except "wait and see."  Why the worry? Why weren't my family and I miles from danger? In the immortal words of Hyman Roth (played in that quintessential gangster movie by Lee Strasberg) "I said to myself, 'this is the business we've chosen.' '' Uh, journalism, not Murder, Inc.

In the end, Matthew cut to the right, limiting north Melbourne gusts to interstate-highway speeds instead of Daytona International Speedway speeds. But what if? Would we be living in a FEMA trailer today or visiting a loved one in the hospital?

Experiences like this shape how we decide about future events. And though that glowing, smartphone screen in the middle of the night offered not a complete sentence of warning, I will never forget the message it delivered.

Mara Bellaby, news director

I’d never been through a hurricane before, and rode this one out with our team at a makeshift newsroom at Orlando Melbourne International Airport. I’ll admit I was nervous, not so much about my safety but about our team’s reporting plan (I shouldn’t have been; they are all superstars and knew exactly what they were doing) and my family, who evacuated to a hotel on the mainland, and for our Merritt Island home. We’d tried and failed to get our hurricane shutters up, and left with grave fears of what we’d return to.

Thursday afternoon, as I unloaded my laptop and my backpack and my puppy at the airport, a shiny penny on the ground caught my eye.

Now I have to back up, my mother died when I was 18 and for some reason, the sudden discovery of a penny has always – in my mind – suggested itself as some code back-n-forth between us; her way of saying, all’s OK. Pennies appear not only where and when I’d expect, but at times when I’m struggling or anxious about something. It’s left me clinging to this belief in our penny connection. So there was that penny. Just when I needed it. I stuffed it in my pocket and kept it with me all night as the storm raged outside.

Now that we’re back home, that penny sits in an envelope, labeled Hurricane Matthew.

Luann Manderville, community content specialist 

From my dog Emmy’s perspective:

My parents for days after work were in and out of the house, making noise outside, covering up the windows I use to see what’s going on outside, putting things in the house in unusual places and making me nervous because they were acting so strange.

I few days later, we all evacuated to the FLORIDA TODAY building where Mom works. I got to greet people and received all kinds of attention, then all of a sudden we packed up and left that building and headed to another big building, the Orlando Melbourne International Airport, for additional safety as we rode out the storm.

My parents had to put me in jail (a metal crate) where I could only go outside with my parents when the mood struck them.

Oh, and then when other dogs and one cat came into my area at the airport, I was even more unhappy. Plus Mom made a fuss over the other dogs and I was not thrilled, in fact, I gave Mom the cold shoulder.

The night went on as Mom and Dad took turns watching over me, feeding me, letting me out and doing the best to try to reassure me I was going be OK.

I was not assured, I was miserable!

After many hours passed, we eventually left and waited to the causeway reopened.

When I finally got home, I could not eat or do much of anything except sleep the misery away.

Oh, and for the record, the fact that part of the screen patio and fence are now missing is messing with my head. I hope my parents realize that.

Sincerely, Mara Jade aka Emmy Manderville

Britt Kennerly, deputy public opinion editor/columnist

I’ve covered natural disasters in four states over 26 years – wildfires. Tornadoes. Snow storms. Hurricanes.

I helped a Barefoot Bay woman find her engagement ring in the rubble of her mobile home after the hurricanes of 2004. She looked me in the eye and said, "If I don't find it, I'll always have the memory of my husband."  Life lessons learned on the job help me cope.

So this time, as always, I didn’t just sit at home waiting for Jim Cantore to tell me things were looking dicey.

In what I call the “balm before the storm,” those beautiful hours when you can’t believe bad weather’s coming, I ran my usual route along the Indian River in Cocoa. Said “Be safe” and “Peace” to everyone I saw. They said it back. Smiled as I shot peace signs. I do that a lot.

That Thursday night, at 9 p.m., I lit a candle and played a song called “Nothing More” by a band called Alternate Routes. The song honors victims of the 2012 massacre in Newtown, Connecticut, and was written for an organization that recognizes acts of kindness. Its lyrics are simple: “To be humble, to be kind/It is the giving of the peace in your mind/To a stranger, to a friend/To give in such a way that has no end.”

My husband and friends in other states and in Canada joined me on Facebook, sending me pictures of their candles. You might find it corny. An empty gesture. But it comforted me, as I watched that candle flicker and sent positive thoughts to people in Haiti and other areas affected by Matthew.

And in the days after the storm, I saw that "giving of the peace in your mind" in action. As my neighbors Kathy and Dave offered us room in their freezer .As volunteers descended on Brevard to help in clean-up. As utility workers from out of state grinned as I threw peace signs from my car.

I saw, as that oh-so-poignant song says, “We are how we treat each other and nothing more.”

Oh, and we found the ring.

Peace.

Rick Neale, South Brevard watchdog reporter

By nightfall Thursday, New Haven Avenue practically became a ghost town, inhabited only by handfuls of hurricane holdouts holed up inside shuttered-up storefronts in the darkness.

I watched burning, sparking transformers from my downtown apartment window as the winds started howling that night, and I wondered how bad conditions would get. But when I ventured outdoors at daybreak, the winds were blustery — but damages were minimal.

Wayne T. Price, business editor

Returning at 2:30 a.m. from taking photos and video in Rockledge-Suntree-Viera, the weather was extremely concerning and I worried my house soon was to go all out 'Oz' any second. One last duty was to take my dog, Theo, out for his business.

Dogs being dogs he decided to be very discerning about trees to mark his territory, sniffing from one to the other as the branches violently creaked and swayed above. Then he picked up an oak branch and wanted to play tug-of-war. I nervously complied for a minute or two.

It was surreal experience but I took a lot of comfort in it. If a dog didn't sense any real danger, then I sure wasn't going to get overexcited.

Jim Waymer, environment reporter

I knew there hadn't been a major (Cat. 3-5) hurricane landfall from about Stuart to the Georgia border since 1851. But as my wife and I rode out Matthew on the top floor of a wood-framed condo in Viera, I couldn't help but think of the Hurricane Andrew victims I'd interviewed in 2002. They described huddling within laundry room walls that swelled like rubber, their ear drums pressurizing like on a bad flight, and the ungodly sight of their roofs popping off. 

We watched out our window as more neighbors fled with every forecast update, each mini exodus making us second guess our decision. Ultimately, about two-thirds of our parking lot would empty out. Other second thoughts came during a few dicey moments when forceful gusts made our walls and windows seem to breathe.

We finally got some rest, and my wife emerged feeling like "a bad ass" for braving the storm — kinda (not so much during the storm, as I recall). Another in our condo was even badder: Our cat, "Wally," had pranced and purred throughout the ordeal.

After snapping photos and video of a few downed fruit trees in our condo complex, I drove south Saturday morning along the barrier Island, finding relieved dune-side property owners everywhere I went.

Along the edge of a now steep-cliff dune, Marcial De Lacruz swept sand from the grounds at Sandy Shoes, the beach resort hotel he co-owns in the South Beaches area. The room doors were caked with sand. A wooden fence had toppled.

"I think, honestly, God was with us," De Lacruz, said.

In this case, God had helped those who'd helped themselves. Five months earlier, De Lacruz and the other Sandy Shoes owners had invested $19,000 in sand to shore up the hotel's dune, he said. That sand is long gone. Their business still stands.

Sara Paulson, parenting reporter, Momsense columnist and Space Coast Parent editor

I don’t know how else to say it: I was scared.

My first brush with hurricanes was Floyd in September 1999. I was a 24-year-old newlywed, a transplant from Chicago and freaked out my apartment was going to get wiped out – and I’d be hauling it back to the Windy City, my tail between my legs. I was petrified and wanted to leave. But I called my uncle, Ken Paulson (former editor of both FLORIDA TODAY and USA TODAY), whom I often turn to for journalism advice. I don’t recall his exact words, but he was supportive no matter my decision. But his one point really resonated: When you’re a reporter and there’s a severe storm headed to your community, you don’t leave. You stay and do the job you were meant to do. Inform.

I stuck it out, reporting from a shelter in Melbourne. Floyd shifted and we were spared. And I stayed despite being terrified again during my copy editor days during the 2004 storms, sleeping under my desk after finishing the front page -- and scraping the puke off of my shirt and my daughter’s. (She was 22 months old and had gotten so worked up during Hurricane Frances, she tossed her cookies.)

And I stayed again last week. Again, I was scared to death – especially since FLORIDA TODAY moved its news operations to the airport. (Yikes!)  My kids stayed with their dad in his sturdy condo complex as I rode out the storm at my parents’ Viera townhouse, which had shutters. My Rockledge home did not. I looked at my place before heading to Mom and Dad’s, the family photos and heirlooms I’ve collected over the years, eerily sad all of the sudden. Would they be here the next day? I told myself it wouldn’t matter, as long as we were all safe.

It was an unnerving night, as my dog nervously paced and hid under the bed at times. (A Thundershirt can only do so much, I reckon.) I went outside and reported on Facebook Live when I could, in part to ease the fears of my worried loved ones up North. But I also felt it was my duty as a journalist. People who’d fled wanted to know what was up. And I had to tell them. Not because my employer made me. I made myself. It’s who I am.

Jeff Meesey, audience analyst

When we evacuated from Hurricane Matthew, the storm was forecast to be a major hurricane directly on top of Brevard County and our home.

My wife, daughter and I evacuated for two reasons: personal safety and the need to continue working floridatoday.com, which can be done even from the moon, as long as we have Internet. So we went where we had a guaranteed connection.

We accomplished both and were able to help Florida Today continue to provide news and resources to a record number of online readers, even during the worst that Matthew sent our way.

You see, Florida Today is always open, especially when Brevard County needs us most. We’re like the Waffle House near our Kissimmee hotel: open when others places are closed.

We came home to limbs and debris on the ground but nothing too serious. Our prayers go out to those who lost loved ones to Matthew in Haiti and the Caribbean and elsewhere in Florida, Georgia and Carolinas.

Hurricane Matthew was my fourth hurricane (including Charley, Jeanne and Frances).

Dave Berman, county and tourism reporter

I covered Hurricane Matthew from what could be considered one of the safest places in Brevard County: the county’s Emergency Operations Center in Rockledge, sometimes known as “The Bunker.”

That mostly underground building is where officials from county and state agencies, law enforcement and community organizations converge during a storm. It’s the nerve center for the county’s storm preparation and response. And, for a reporter, it’s one-stop-shopping for getting information to disseminate to our readers before, during and after the storm.

More than 200 people were in the building at the height of the storm, many of them in a 3,400-square-foot room that’s a little reminiscent of Mission Control at NASA, with computer monitors at each workstation and giant screens in front of the room. This was the first time the center was at “Level 1” activation — the highest level — for a storm since Tropical Storm Fay in 2008.

Before the storm hit, Florida Gov. Rick Scott and U.S. Sen. Bill Nelson both stopped at the Emergency Operations Center to confer with local officials and to address the news media. Their sobering comments, warning people on the barrier islands to evacuate, made it sink in to me just how serious this storm was.

One of the stop-in-my-tracks moments for me during Hurricane Matthew: When power briefly went out around the height of the storm, due to a glitch in the transfer switch for the building’s emergency generator system. Computer screens went dark and desk phones were not working. Lights sticks were being handed out to illuminate the main room, to supplement the emergency lighting that was still on.

Officials started to devise a plan to bring in a county electrician from his Viera home to help restore power, as soon as wind speeds started to drop to safe levels for the trip to Rockledge. Luckily, power went back on after about 20 minutes, and stayed on through the duration of the storm.

Throughout the storm, being like a fly on the wall, watching the emergency response coordination transpire at the EOC, I was super-impressed with the coordinated efforts of officials from different agencies, all with the goal of doing everything possible to get Brevard County through the storm.

J.D. Gallop, breaking news reporter

What stood out to me the most was the ability of people In the Palm Bay community to come together. Neighbors helped with shutters, chatted with each other about storm plans and even food needs once the power was out. I even had a neighbor take an old trash can stuffed with ant-ridden yard clippings to secure it on his property. A neighbor's son even boarded up my windows hours before Matthew's arrival.

After the storm, you saw the same thing, strangers helped with downed trees and yard debris. People seemed genuinely moved to help.

Stephanie McLoughlin, director of advertising

This being my first time experiencing a hurricane, I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect. The days that preceded the storm were a flurry of hurricane shutters and supply runs, bottled water and non-perishables, and generally a nervous energy could be felt across the county. From all that I had heard, this was going to be the worst that Brevard had seen, and I was concerned for our county.

We’re lucky to have been spared worse damage, but what was most striking to me was what I observed in people’s connection to one another. I saw the kindness and generosity of neighbors helping one another to batten down their homes and protect their families. I also witnessed the truest definition of professionalism from my colleagues across FLORIDA TODAY, who made it their mission to provide Brevard with the news and information necessary to stay safe. At the end of it all, I wound up feeling even more grateful to be a part of such a terrific community.

Suzy Fleming Leonard, food and dining writer 

I remember cooking everything in the freezer and getting to know my neighbors when Hurricane Andrew knocked out the power in Thibodaux, Louisiana, in 1992.

I remember zooming south to the Gulf Coast from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, while traffic heading north was at a standstill. A Tuscaloosa News photographer and I slept on the floor of the Fairhope, Alabama, police station while covering the storm — Opal, I think? — in the late 1990s.

I remember packing my miniature poodle, a few photos and my grandmother's china into my two-seater Honda and crossing the Pineda Causeway from Satellite Beach as Floyd headed our way in 1999, certain I was destined to become homeless.

I remember the ominous, claustrophobic shadow that fell over the FLORIDA TODAY newsroom as our rock star maintenance crew fastened storm shutters around the building during the catastrophic summer of 2004.

I remember touring New Orleans on a cold December day a year after Katrina and thinking, Those poor people. Then stepping outside my friends' home to take a break from sanding sheet rock as I did my best to help them rebuild. A car passed by, slowly, and I realized the people inside were looking at me, bedraggled and exhausted, and thinking, Those poor people.

I respect the weather. I've seen what a hurricane can do. Several people questioned our decision to ride out Matthew in our Rockledge home rather than fleeing. And as the wind picked up early Friday morning, the doubts crept in.

In the end, we came out OK. We lost power for a few hours, had a little yard work to do. I don't want to experience another storm anytime soon, if ever. But I love the way something like this gives us the opportunity to come together, help one another, show small and huge acts of kindness. Wouldn't it be nice if we could treat one another this way without a forceful push from Mother Nature?

Jennifer Sangalang, entertainment reporter

My FLORIDA TODAY colleagues braved the storm, sending damage reports, mass photos and videos from the field via our breaking news email. At one point, we were getting 5-7 emails per minute — and everything had to be online, stat. I also kept an eye on Matthew news on social media.

People were hungry for updates. They wanted to know anything and everything about Matthew's impact on Brevard.

It takes a lot of organization skills to tell these stories on all of our platforms, and I was proud to be part of the "mission control" team for this one.

Brian McCallum, sports writer

Hurricane Matthew brought another of many miracles to my life. After hours of trying to find a pet-friendly hotel and finding Florida fully booked, one of my fellow seekers heard from a relative. She was checking into a hotel in Tampa when the man next to her cancelled his room for the night. She claimed it for us, and we had a place to stay.

The turn Matthew took, sparing us from what could have been worse, added another miracle to my list.

John McCarthy, Florida Today staffer since 1994 and Pacific Daily News (in Guam) staffer prior to that.

When I drove west over the Pineda Causeway Thursday, I was resigned to the fact that my beachside home might not be there for me to return to.

Amazingly, I was able to sleep in my own bed in my undamaged home Friday night. With the A/C blasting. I've been through about 20 hurricanes/typhoons over the past 28 years and I've never had my power back on that first night.

Craig Bailey, photojournalist

Matthew was not my first storm. There have been many over the years; Opel, Erin, Charley, Andrew, Jeanne, Katrina, and others that have faded into distant memory. Hurricane Floyd really got my attention back in 1999.  I had just purchased my first home, didn't have shutters and absolutely no idea of how to install them.  Panic was not far from the surface then.  But I got everything I needed and Floyd decided to turn away at the last minute.

Fast forward to last week. Matthew is on a similar track as Floyd.  I'm far more prepared, and more nervous at the same time.  This storm isn't turning away like Cat. 5 Floyd. I'm sure I'll be fine. Experience has shown the wisdom of a Plan B (and a Plan C, if necessary).  What got my attention this time was how neighbors went out of their way to help each other prepare.  People who don't normally talk to each other were working side by side. Those who had lived through the 2004-2005 nightmare were lending tools, or helping new residents put up shutters.

Makes me think there's still hope for us.

Jessica Saggio, reporter/columnist

This wasn't my first rodeo with a hurricane in Brevard, but it certainly was my first as a full-blown adult. Back in 2004, my biggest concern was not having AOL instant messenger to keep up my social life. Forgive me, I was 17. This time around, I was juggling reporting from North Brevard, a toddler, a 7-month-pregnant belly and a houseful of family who had evacuated. 

Not to mention, this was the first time I had seen a hurricane gunning for our coast quite like this. I was paranoid, to say the least. Should I stay or should I go?  I didn’t, but I heavily doubted myself. The pregnancy hormones kicked in several times. 

I reported live prior to the storm and during the storm, but in between you could find me pacing, fiddling with things, cooking everything in our refrigerator and murmuring nonsense about the Ais Indian legend. It’s this theory that Brevard never gets hit directly by a hurricane because of the ancient Indian burial ground at Kennedy Space Center. It was my last shred of hope as Matthew came barreling toward our coast and I tried to calm viewers panicked about friends, families and their homes during our live chats. I answered questions as best I could, but Matthew was unpredictable. 

Regardless, the live broadcasts felt good, it made me feel helpful in a time of chaos. Of course my little girl didn’t like it so much. During one of the shoots in the midst of an outer band, she stood at the door with her upper lip poked out, worried about me as the wind blew my hair. It was so pitiful I had to cut the broadcast short as she started to wail. 

The storm was intense up in Titusville at times, but we lucked out and never lost power (at my house, at least). Not to say I got any sleep that night, I didn’t, but come Friday morning I felt a huge sense of relief. We made it, and despite all our doubts, the ancient Ais Indian theory pulled through again!  

R. Norman Moody, North Brevard watchdog reporter

I had resigned myself to coming back to a destroyed home after evacuating from Cocoa Beach. The reports said Hurricane Matthew was coming at us as a category 4 and to expect serious storm surge.

So after boarding up the house we left beachside hoping for the best but still thinking of what would be if we came back home to find it destroyed.

But as the  winds began to subside Friday, we had more optimism but still some apprehension about what would be left of the house.

I returned to Cocoa Beach on Friday. I checked someone else’s house and my church, which had some shingles peeled off the roof and other damage, before I dared check my own.

I found parts of the fence knocked over, trees and plants stripped of their leaves and a tree in the swimming pool. Relief.

I think we fared much better than during the storms of 2004.

Chris Bonanno, breaking news reporter

I've never been more scared in my life than I was on Thursday, October 6.

Many models had the center of what was an intensifying Category 4 hurricane hitting Brevard directly. I was positive my house, built before Hurricane Andrew in Rockledge was gone. More than that, I felt a great sense of fear for everyone who was set to ride out the storm in Brevard, even those who were on the mainland.

I'd seen what being a good distance away from a Category 1 storm looked like when I covered Hurricane Hermine for FLORIDA TODAY about a month prior with visual journalist Craig Bailey in Cedar Key. I wanted nothing to do with a Category 4 storm.

I deserved this, I thought. As a weather enthusiast with a bachelor's degree in environmental science with meteorology option, I welcomed severe weather to our area in the past. Now, I was getting what I deserved. It was my fault. 

As I left my home for what I felt was the final time on Thursday afternoon, I cried. I'm by no means a crier as it's been years since I had done so, but I was sure life was about to change for my family and I along with hundreds of thousands of people along the coast.

When I returned on Friday afternoon, I was relieved that so much of the community had done well, our house included, which only sustained fence and patio damage. I'm not sure people really realize what would have happened had Brevard gotten hit directly by a Category 4 storm and that worries me.

I can't help but feel terrible as I see reports of damage in Haiti, The Bahamas and in the southeast U.S. from Matthew and wonder what we had done to get so lucky. I feel a tremendous guilt and relief from what was probably the most difficult few days of my life.