Since the Fire

The following is the second part of an account from an HCRN homeowner in Paradise, California. Part one can be found here. Make sure to read her thank you note at the end of this post!

It’s been a long year. I’ve done everything I can in an attempt to move forward. To find a place to call home. I have spent this last year completely displaced. First, the shelter, where the Norovirus outbreak forced a lot of evacuees into their cars, including myself. After living in my car, I was “blessed” with a FEMA trailer. It was at the Orland Fairgrounds’ overflow parking lot for the livestock stables, in Glenn County. The second night I was there, a stabbing took place, leaving one man with a slashed throat, and the assailant at large. I spent my nights there, isolating, and my days traveling one hour to my property in Magalia, digging and sifting through the ashes. I would arrive on my property at sunrise and work until after dark, using the headlights of my vehicle as my light source. This was a distraction for me – looking for anything from my past that I could resurrect and treasure.

Finally, I was able to find a 5th wheel RV I could purchase. It was pulled to the DeSabla PG&E Day Camp Campground through funds available with Butte County. The FEMA camps were closing, and that was the only option available. I “dry camped” there without electricity or running water. The 5^th wheel had a built-in generator that I was able to run on propane in order to have lights, hot water, and charge my cell phone. The cost for propane was a minimum of $25.00 per day, totaling approximately $750.00 a month in propane – far exceeding all utility costs in my home, combined. Cell phone signals are weak in DeSabla and it was necessary to drive a few miles down the road in order to make calls, or have internet service, in order to stay in contact with my family, and make arrangements to keep the progress going on my property with the county, utilities, permit applications, etc.

I have worked diligently, every day, trying to coordinate everything necessary to move the RV to my property. I wanted to go home. Dead and compromised trees had to be cut down and removed at my expense. I dug until I uncovered my septic tank, and was able to get a temporary permit for hook-up to the RV. I paid to have a water test, and meter, with DelOro, and was able to run a water line from the public road to my flag lot and install a spigot. With a hose, I had water, yet, unable to drink, or use to cook. I acquired a permit for a power pole, and had an electrician position a temporary power pole, and panel, accommodating two RV’s, mine, and one to help another survivor, and friend, Jeff, also wanting to go “home.” This, too, required a housing permit.

Since doing everything required of me to go home, the county has established, as of December 31, 2020, that property owners can no longer live in an RV on their own property. Prior to the fire, and after years of insuring my home, my homeowner’s insurance company cancelled my policy. I was told “it was a high fire risk” and they would not insure it. As an uninsured homeowner, without any funds to rebuild, living on SSI, I will, again, be homeless.

Physically, I have suffered with numerous conditions. Namely, arthritis in my hands, combined with carpal tunnel, and “trigger finger.” I have a lot of sleepless nights because of pain and aching numbness. I have back and sciatica pain, undoubtedly caused by the months of clearing my property. The hard work of shoveling, moving trees, and building retaining walls to prevent erosion. I have limited finances and did a lot of the work myself. Most everyone I know was in the same position with their own property, and had not any time to help. I’m now very limited in what I can do, and duration. I have shortness of breath with any exertion. A condition unfamiliar to me, as a runner and cyclist, prior to the fire. My finger and toenails have a condition that has caused the nails to become misshapen and loose. I’ve had hair loss, gingival loss, and weight loss.

Something became broken inside of me on November 8, 2018. As I write this narrative, 22 months after the fire, sleep still eludes me. The fear of the reoccurring nightmares is overwhelming. The visions embedded in my mind of people engulfed in flames in their vehicle, looking at me for help. I couldn’t get close enough to help them because of the heat. I watched them melt. I remember hearing screaming, then realized it was my own screams. I ask myself, when I close my eyes and try to sleep, could I have done more? Did I try hard enough? I know that I will never be the same person I was before the fire. Prior to the fire I was content and felt comfortable and safe. I was close to my family and enjoyed our holidays together, mostly at my home. Every holiday, or family get together, was cataloged, and immortalized with thousands of pictures, videos, and tape recordings. How do I put a price on my entire life’s photos, and those of my great grandparents, grandparents, mom and, now deceased, father, my children, and grandchildren, one of which has passed away?

I had childhood friends who I communicated with on a regular basis. We reminisced about growing up, having families of our own, and shared stories of our grandchildren. I had thousands of pictures of childhood birthdays, Halloweens, Christmases, Girl Scouts, school,…  On my 7^th birthday, in 1965, I was given a Kodak Brownie camera, that had been my mom’s. Until November 8, 2018, I had that camera, and most every picture I had taken with it, and all negatives.  My best friend, since first grade, and I would sit for hours reminiscing over those pictures. Again, how do I put a price on something that is priceless, and can never be replaced?

There have been long bouts of depression, hopelessness, and defeat since the fire. Not a condition I ever struggled with prior to the fire. The desire, and necessity, to return to my property kept me moving forward with a goal, and I was able to suppress the depression enough to accomplish that goal, to get Isaac back in my life, and me in his.

The most devastating loss for myself has been the loss of time with Isaac. He has regressed in everything we had accomplished with the therapist. He’s back in diapers, non-verbal, does not use sign language, or have an interest in music. I am unable to have him with me, as before; four days, and four nights, a week. The drastic change in living arrangements, without a room, toys, and everything familiar to create his “safe place,” is not conducive for an autistic child. The fire not only took away my most valued time, with Isaac, it took his progress, and security, away from him. An innocent 3½ year-old boy. I have been able to see him seven times in 22 months, for about 30 minutes each visit. How do I get that time back? I can’t. How do I put a price on that loss? How is it possible for him to understand what happened? Why I’m not in his life, or why he was abandoned by the only person he had that he could depend on? Why can’t he go “home,” to his beautiful bedroom, with his finger-painted trainset, and his painted footprints across the hardwood floor, when he took his first steps?

Knowing that I will be homeless again in a few short months lends to the feeling of despair. I will have an RV, in need of repairs, and nowhere to go. I have been seeing a therapist since funding became available through a non-profit organization. I suffer from memory loss and have a hard time staying focused. I’ve heard other Camp Fire evacuees refer to this as “Fire Brain”. Forgetfulness is a common complaint. PTSD has had its affect as well. I’m unable to light a BBQ, or propane gas oven without a panicky feeling of impending fire, explosion, or major disaster. I have anxiety whenever I see, or smell, smoke. I have looked to the east, from my property, towards Sawmill Peak, and mistaken clouds for smoke, at which time it was hard to breathe, and felt the need to run, and escape.

I am not a writer. I am an artist. I paint, mostly. This narrative is my attempt to paint a picture, with words, of the life I loved, and lost, in Magalia, California. My sentence structure may seem broken, or fractured, and may not flow smoothly. However, that, in itself, describes what life has been since that fateful day, November 8, 2018.

Recalling these events that changed my life forever, and everything that has transpired since, has been the hardest task that I’ve ever had to face. Trying to make any plans for the future seems useless today. Where does hope come from? I am now 62 years old, with health concerns I didn’t have before November 8, 2018. I live in an RV, on a piece of property that has only gravel, without any trees, plants, or flowers. I can’t use the water to cook, or drink.  I have no fence for security, as a single woman. I have nowhere to paint. I have no tools to make jewelry, or a place to work. 

My hope is that my story, like thousands of others in our town, and surrounding communities, will be heard.

It is a story that should never have been necessary to tell. 

It didn’t have to be this way.

Since this writing, this homeowner has seen her home framed, roofed, sided and well on the way to completion. Her home was framed by our friends from IRT and when they returned, the homeowner sent them this note:

I want to express my gratitude to you and the rest of the IRT crew that made my dream come true.

It’s been a really long, tough road for me since the Camp Fire. I had just started feeling like my efforts of digging waterlines, uncovering the septic tank, getting a power pole, and spending all of my savings on my property in hopes of rebuilding, were not worth it, when you, and the rest of the IRT volunteers, came rolling in on that miracle Sunday early evening.

You’re probably not aware of this, but I got very little sleep that night, or the following 5 nights. I was afraid to wake up each morning and realize your arrival was only a dream.  But it was real!

Apart from the fire destroying the whole community, the team of IRT heroes is the most surreal experience I’ve ever known.  You guys, my 7 dwarfs, amazing men, true and true, made me feel like I was a “sleeping beauty.” 

I awoke from a dream, and it was true!  I’m really going to have a home again!  

I write this through tears of joy, and may seem a little too mushy, but I don’t know how to express how much this means to me, and my future with Isaac in a home again. 

There are no words that can express how much this part of my journey has changed my feeling of defeat and hopelessness to a feeling of future and faith. In just 5 days, it was possible for me to walk through rooms, look out windows, and feel the comfort of a roof over my head again. And it wasn’t just a dream.

Thank you, and the rest of the gang, for everything you did for me, and all of the other people who are looking for their dreams to come true.

If you would like to be a part of Rebuilding Homes and Restoring Lives, you can text HCRN to 53-555 or visit our volunteer page.