(Agencies)
Updated: 2008-05-28 09:40

Liu's mother, Zhao Xiaoxia, said the normally outgoing teen barely ate in the days after the disaster, and could not fall sleep unless she was holding his hand.

But the therapy by Li seems to be working.

"Now," Zhao said with a broad smile, "he wants fried chicken."

In another sign that health care professionals will not reach everybody in need right away, the Ministry of Health has issued a handout of guidelines on how to help survivors, rescue workers and volunteers who have experienced the carnage. Blue flyers circulated by Sichuan health authorities offer concern and compassion from the ruling Communist Party.

"When we're facing a disaster, the first thing we want to do is to continue living," it said. "That's the only way we can fight the disaster."

To make up for the shortage of counselors, doctors are encouraging survivors to look after each other, trying to create support systems in quake-shattered communities.

In Shifang, a town surrounded by rice fields where two chemical plants collapsed and buried more than 600 people, a steady stream of people visited three tables lined with medicines and staffed by doctors from the Taiwan-based Buddhist Compassion Relief Tzu-Chi Foundation.

"It's different from America here. Social and familial support is strong and it makes people feel better, safer," said Chien Sou Hsin of the foundation. "It's a special thing."

Basoglu, the trauma expert, and his colleagues have developed a method for dealing with large numbers of survivors from disasters -- work that grew from his experience after two quakes killed 19,000 people in Turkey in 1999. The method encourages victims to confront their fears and the simple message can be delivered through pamphlets, television or radio.

"Once they overcome their fear, all other PTSD and depression symptoms disappear," he said.

For some, recovery seems far away.

The nights have been the hardest for retired soldier Luo Tiangui. He flails violently in his hospital bed, eyes unblinking and shouting incoherently. "I am a bad person," he says, over and over.

Luo, 57, was buried in his house but survived with a broken thigh and fractured ribs. His mental state is more fragile.

Lying shirtless and sweating, Luo stared at the ceiling, murmuring "It's on fire, it's on fire" -- one of the many hallucinations his family says he's been suffering.

Doctors said Luo has suffered a great fright, and he's being given drugs to help him sleep. They have told his family they should share happy moments with him in the hope that it helps.

At his bedside, Luo's wife, Wei Yunqun, and 21-year-old daughter, Luo Cui, stroke his hands, which did not stop trembling. The TV above his bed is kept off so he isn't bombarded with news from the quake.

"It's too hard to bear," said Wei, 54, her eyes filling with tears as she looked at her husband, a former construction worker and furniture-maker.

"There was never anything wrong with his mind," Cui said.

   1 2 3   

   1 2 3