The further they move into Joplin, the more overwhelming the damage appears. It holds the basics: CPR shield, stethoscope, roll gauze, sterile saline, tourniquets, flashlights, bandage scissors, hemostats and a Swiss Army knife. She's also carrying a first-aid bag previously thrown together for volunteer disaster work. Her shoulder was operated on last month and stiffens up painfully in the cold, hence the extra layers. Cantrell is wearing blue jeans, work boots, a tank top, t-shirt and three lightweight jackets. It's well into the evening, wet and chilly. They're about a mile and a half from the Guidrys' home, unable to drive any farther as the streets are littered with unquantifiable amounts of debris. Matthew, a second-year college student home on summer break, is at Cantrell's side, although she now questions having brought him into such an extraordinary circumstance. After living here for 47 years, her entire life, Cantrell doesn't recognize the landscape and rubble before her, or the people crawling up from underneath. Cantrell, who happens to be an experienced health professional-the co-founder and chief clinical officer of the Joplin-based National Association of Health Care Assistants-can't comprehend what she sees. So here's Lisa Cantrell and her 19-year-old son, on a rescue mission, heading into the unknown. Minutes before, when cellphones still held signals in Joplin, Mo., the Guidrys described the sound of a terrible storm blowing away their home while they curled up inside a closet. ![]() Tom and Jerri Anne Guidry, that is-an older couple and friends of the family. A mother and her son are at the edge of what was once a familiar city, trying to fathom the mess Tom and Jerri have gotten themselves into.
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