Beware of Do-Gooders with Axes. 8-12-13

Giving dumbbell to sinking man instead of help. Making worse con

Loss is a hierarchy of values, unique to oneself, impossible to comprehend from the outside. Loss is layers of priority, woven intricately across your life, a tapestry of history, experiences, memories, possessions, ownership, and environment, withdrawn. It is exhaustion of the tiny treasures in your life, tangible and intangible, that soothe you, nurture you, buffer, energize and propel you. The greatest losses are intangible, impossible to grasp without heartstrings.

The survivors of the SuperStorm understand the hierarchy of loss. Loss for them focuses on home, their history hemorrhaging across a painting in progress by an artist concentrating on a date of completion, not the hues: loss upon loss wiped away as a mistake on the canvas, an intrusion in the gestalt, smeared by a cold hand without pulse.

I had a home. It was beautiful to me: pretty, muted pastels, soft fabrics, comfy pillows, cozy workspaces, solid wood furniture, functional, all that I needed. My home was memories: my children scribbling everyday adventures across the walls, carving their dreams into Mimosa they straddled, imaginations soaring, unfettered; rolling in fragrant grasses with abandon, looming green foliage affording security: inspiring me, delighting me, as they grew strong and tall, like the trees in my sweet garden. It was all that I wanted: all that I needed.

The rocks in my garden were collected from the world: fondled, contemplated, transported to this fertile land, their history intact, lovingly placed with deliberation and intention, substantial and validated. My garden reeked of mountains, forests, meadows, beaches, streams, waterfalls, oceans, and Indian preserves, with igneous, sedimentary, metamorphic. Smooth Florida ocean rocks, Nova Scotia conglomerates, river rocks from Maine rested beside Mermaid’s toenails from Noyack, vibrant sunset shells from Sanibel, slipper shells, spotted clams, olives, angel wings, paper figs, murex, whelk, curls, and conchs. I picked each up because it was special, like the people in my secret garden.

I nurtured a sweet garden so many years ago, to shelter my children from the busy street, to give them unspoiled acreage to own: before baseball and two-wheel bicycle rides to Jones Beach expanded their world into tomorrow. Those were years of innocence, when neighborhood children flocked to our verdant sanctuary, for a summer’s day of riding toys, sliding water fun and hours of good climbing trees, imagining and inventing, rehearsing tomorrow, dripping ice pops into the cool dark earth, dirty feet running across blankets of soft grass. Those summer days of noisy children with dirty hands in my garden, needing me, wanting beyond any place to be here with my children and their toys, lived on each morning, in songbirds summoning me to tall hedges with deep strong roots, and soaring climbing trees. Memory whispers timeless messages across the heart. How simple, yesterday.

Then came years when bikes turned into cars. Heavy traffic on the street triggered adapting the yard for greater functionality. A street, that had once been dead-end host of neighborhood softball games, now wrapped around the new Cedar Creek Park and down to Seaford Harbor Elementary School, providing access to marinas and taverns. Cars were being hit in the street regularly by drunks. I placed white rocks where the grass used to be and two toyotas slept peacefully through college.

In those days, Cedar Creek Park was a bone the County threw at homeowners who protested the County’s repurposing of the marshland stretching south from our homes all the way to the Great South Bay: a playground for fishing, bird-watching, romping and exploring, ecosystems wiped out, mutilated, usurped by local government, to create a bedroom for sewage tanks and a chemical plant to spew the oppressive stench of chemical sewage into the salty air at 2 a,m, each night, as infants sleep in their cribs.

On October 29, 2012, SuperStorm Sandy engulfed our neighborhood with raging floodwaters, spewing sewage that tore our lives apart. My house gulped down the putrid slime and puked up everything I owned: my secret garden stood resilient above the onslaught, quiet sentinel. And as spring breezes ruffled lush lacy foliage, I sat each day in my fragrant green sanctuary and believed in restoration and nesting.

FEMA, the government agency for Hurricane Sandy survivor’s assistance, let us all down: providing outlandishly low assistance grants, that made timely return home impossible. FEMA prefaced the assistance with, “You can do it with free help.” In reality, during such an extensive event, free help, any help, was virtually non-existent. The survivors were on their own: destitute, living in substandard, make-shift quarters, due to governmental failure. The Hurricane Sandy Recovery effort is a National Tragedy: America’s shame!

Temporary Housing was doled out by FEMA. People dropped out of Temporary FEMA Housing every day, not to go to HUD apartments or permanent housing, but to substandard private accommodations anywhere, just to get away from the bullying and constant threats of being thrown out by FEMA agents at their door.

So, under threat again of being thrown out of the Hotel by FEMA in three weeks, I accepted an eleventh-hour offer of free help from an international church group seeking a house to restore. They had a house to restore on Monday, but it fell through. Consequently, they had 10 volunteers coming from Alabama on Sunday. I was called on Friday by the Director, who outlined what they would do in my house: check the roof leak, and possibly patch it, empty insulation and toys from the attic, insulate the walls, and sheetrock. I asked if that was all. He said yes.

I trusted this group because they had gutted my house. They had been kind, thoughtful people, who seemed competent enough. They never overstepped their authority, in their past interactions with my house.

I pulled up to the curb, prepared to ease my accessible van between formidable hedges enclosing my ravaged, gutted home, as I did each day since the malevolent event. I was comforted by this precious remnant of my life left looming, strong, surviving, like me, the terrible storm: my yard, filled with shadows of squealing children from yesteryear. I spent hours here every day, nurtured by memories.

My van hesitated, then stopped. Oddly, I pulled up to the wrong house, one that was in the process of being bulldozed, it seemed. My internal navigation had failed. Clearly, the hedges I passed through each day to a restoration project limping along without funding, were not here.

No, my house was standing green and solid in front of me, clearly visible: naked, exposed, vulnerable, on a totally bald lot, sterilized, automobiles speeding past. My yard was obliterated. My garden, was mutilated, demolished, gone! The ground was still steaming. My eyes clouded over and bled profusely a lifetime lost. Loss upon loss pummeled me and I was overcome. Hope threw a lance through my heart and I bled out in the street. I was all gone. There was nothing left of me. Nothing left!

A mob of burly workers, were hacking, chopping, slicing, ripping up roots that were pulling back with 60 years of brute strength and cherished history, unwilling to yield the land of their birth, struggling against insanity. Strangers raked wet dirt over my white pebbles, standing on my rock garden, loading six-foot-long pivots into belching yellow dumpsters, to transport what was left of my life to some stinking landfill, my yard to wither in the hot summer sun, and die, unattended, unloved, the last vestiges of an unjust, uncaring world gone berserk.

I was empty. My world was only devastation and loss. Gasping green vines hung limp from the dumpster screaming my name. My heart shrieked so loud my head exploded and membranes rained down on the fragrant dirt, and soaked into my land. I could not breathe. It was armageddon. Goodness was gone.

A big, rough man with a pleasant face walked toward my car. A grey-haired woman stood on my oozing land, pointing, amid swinging blades: men with axes trashing my land without permission. Strong men struggled with massive roots that would not relinquish their right to survive and howled for me to save them. The violence smothered a field of white pebbles and smooth pink river rocks. They had obliterated every piece of foliage, every living thing, from the street to the windows: privet hedges, Roses of Sharon, Wisteria, Forsythia, mom’s American Beauty rose bushes, pachysandra, and oak trees my sons planted. The ground looked like it was put through a sifter. Insensitivity swallowed my past, sucking songbirds, purple violets and lily of the valley, sweet blooming Privet, through the jagged, closing chasm.

The man walked over and leaned against my van, resting his sweating arm across my mirror, “Wendy?” he said. I wanted to throw his arm off my property.

“What did you do?” I whispered, breathless. I was shocked, devastated, appalled. I did not understand. I felt faint, enraged, hopeless, terrified. “What did you do to my yard?”

He turned away from me, toward my raped land, and declared with callous disregard, “Looks good, doesn’t it!”

I wanted to tear his head off and smash it to the pavement, at his arrogance. His lack of feeling confirmed he was not human.

“Why did you do that!” I said. “You had no right!” I could find no words. It was too horrible. “This is my land.”

“It had to be done.” he said. “It looks better.”

“Better than what? You had no right. This is my property.” I insisted. Everything was spinning. I could not see, for the tears.

He stood there with his back to me admiring his delinquency.

“Is Grace here?” I mumbled.. She was an administrator: he was the foreman.

“She’s over there,” he pointed. He called to her, like nothing was wrong. She walked toward my van. I was slipping away.

“Hi.” she said cheerfully. She was an arrogant woman with a perennial smirk. I wanted to lunge from my van and strangle her, as she did my garden. I was face to face with the Devil.

“What did you do to my yard? “. I said. “How could you do that?”

“Your neighbors like it.” she smiled.

“You talked to my neighbors, but you didn’t call me?” I said. “Why did you do this? This is my property!”

“In this Program,” she said, “we must make the house better. This is better.”

“No! No, this is not better.” I said. “You trim a hedge, you don’t demolish a yard. You had no permission to touch my yard! This is my property! You had no right!”

The two stood against my van, ignoring me, prattling, “It looks good. This is the least of your worries. You should be grateful. People have a lot more to worry about than something like this. You have a lot more to worry about than this.” They were arrogant ego-maniacs, trampling on property rights and choice, in the name of charity. I was revolted by their smug self-righteousness.

There was nothing I could do: it was all gone! My ability to function, in a wheelchair, living alone, on a busy street, was gone! It was no longer safe, secure, or private. The damage was irreversible. As a person with multiple melanomas, there was no longer shelter from the sun. The firm rocky surface for my wheelchair, exists no longer. They didn’t get it!!!

I guess the church trashed my yard because they had 10 volunteers from Alabama with nothing to do. The building materials were not delivered until 3:15 p.m., long after my yard was demolished by men with axes. They obliterated my present and my past, to provide busy work.

I lost my home to a terrifying natural event. I lost my environment to terrifying control freaks feigning charity. Beware of do-gooders with axes! They will tear your heart out!

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Sandy’s Fickle Fury. 3-14-13

Deep Flood Water

When the post-hurricane cyclone hit Long Island, its monstrous arm spun across our fragile landscape like a scythe slicing grass. It decimated whole neighborhoods and towns, while sparing isolated homesteads with illogical precision. I have heard this same story, same ending, different towns, with intermittent regularity. The fickle fury of natural disaster marks its gruesome path with random accuracy.

I recently met one survivor of such a random sparing, sheepishly harboring survivor’s guilt for being untouched in a neighborhood where most homes were devastated by the flood waters. She felt, “like there was an umbrella over my house.” I asked her if her house was built up high. She lifted her hand and indicated with her fingers, just a few inches. She didn’t understand why her home was spared. I am not sure that we are meant to know the reasons why. It happened! I venture to think that it is what we do with what happened to us, that matters.

She spoke of a house in south Merrick, on the Bay, located on a peninsula surrounded by water on three sides. I have been there a thousand times, being the daughter of a man who built most of the bulkheads, pilings, finger floats and marinas in Nassau County: creating the docks that took on water like sinking ships in the neighborhoods that flooded. I, being the progeny of generations of bay-men, decoy carvers, clam diggers, tasted oysters clinging to the seagrass on her boggy plot before her house was built. Alas, all of the land below Merrick Road was originally mudflats, marshland, ditches, cattails, swamp grass: man claimed it for his home. How can we then be angry at the land that reverted to its natural habitat when a meteorologic aberration stressed it?

I respect the land the bore my ancestor’s names, as I respect the unpredictable, raging sea, that swallowed so many of my ancestors, their sons and fathers, following in their chosen occupation. The salt water of Long Island is in my history and in my veins: I can read the bays and ditches of Long Island like a blind man reading information from a page of braille. Mudflats were my childhood playground, jumping ditches, picking buttercups amongst sea grass, digging clams with naked feet in cotton bloomers. And all the while the bay breezes fluttered fragrant through my long blond frolicking curls. But on one stormy night in October the golden south shore turned terrifying and torrential, blasted and bleak.

The woman and her husband had evacuated for previous hurricanes, but decided to remain in their home for Hurricane Sandy. After all we were all confident: the weather reports as the hurricane traveled up the East coast, were quite benign.

Actually, the National Weather Service made a decision not to issue hurricane watches or warnings north of North Carolina. Weathermen reported 74 mph winds, barely a Category One Hurricane, downgraded to a post-tropical cyclone before it landed in Atlantic City; no significant damage along the coast. Until Jersey! Suddenly, there were state and local officials on television warning the public of a curve to the west at about the level of North Jersey, the hurricane joining with a middle-state storm, a cold front, a northeaster, The reports were ominous, frightening! It was too late for many of us to act. Many didn’t believe the eleventh-hour hysterics, given the rantings last year about the “Storm of the Century” that fizzled across Long Island. Most of us lost our electric: before the storm hit. After that, you knew what was happening only right here, in the dark.

I left the sweet solace of my hospital bed, because my sons wouldn’t stop calling, urging me to get out. I went to a converted garage surrounded by tall trees a few miles away, where the wind was so quiet, that I felt silly lying on the floor waiting for the storm to pass. But, on the Merrick waterfront, boats were bashed against splintering docks and finger floats jumped onto bulkheads. rain pelted black waters, sifting sand through whitecaps, slopping onto patios, swelling, pounding the shore.

And a man and a woman sat in their home, prepared to wait out the hurricane, with candles and flashlights. As the storm progressed, the rain was relentless: and the wind slashed mighty trees and tore their roots from saturated soil, chewing chunks of structures into tinder. The homeowners questioned their decision to stay as the winds grew more fierce, too late, wandering from window to window, seeking relevant information. But all was black and cold, as the storm spit out mighty power lines. There was no comfort. There was no communication. There was only anticipation.

A flashlight darted toward the bay at the peak of the peninsula, the location of the most imminent approaching danger. The man strained to see the bay beyond the murky downpour, seeking information too late to make a difference. The bay was a mass of skating whitecaps, crashing against docks, washing over lawns, battering boats. “It’s o.k. Hon.” He believed what he saw.

“The other way! Look the other way!” There was urgency in her voice.

He turned his head toward the east and peered into his neighborhood. “OMG, I don’t believe it”. He exclaimed.

A river roared toward the house, a wall of sea water advancing. She hurried to the window, and was horrified, to see through the darkness, raging, frenzied water rushing toward them, strewn with debris: patio furniture, tree limbs, household items, lumber, chunks of siding, life preservers, and motor boats. There were no streets, no yards, only water, as far as she could see, rushing water, churning rubble. She was terrified. The comfort of her home had suddenly become a terrifying trap. There was no obvious means of escape. No vehicle could provide transportation. No structure could offer shelter from natures’s mighty wrath. Raging waters were the master of the moment: in control, eclipsing choice, smothering security. There was no place to go but where they were.

The fury of the storm increased, the deluge swallowed up their yard. They peered from windows at the swirling floodwaters, realizing that there was no higher, safer place to go. They thought of the children they could not call from this heatless, lightless room, and they regretted having no choice, and staying behind. There would be no rescue until the storm was done with its awful rampage and it was safe for rescue workers to approach. There would be no help in time to save lives. They were on their own, surrounded by an angry sea.

And in those final moments of uncertainty they looked at each other and were comforted by the history they created together in this space. As they watched from inside, aware of options closing quickly, and longing for daylight, the whirling tempest approached the concrete steps to their house, lashed them, spit-up foamy wreckage upon them. and seemed to stop. It sat there turbulent, for hours, threatening, teasing, slowly receding, as the homeowners respectfully waited: barring alternate choice. In the end, not a drop of water entered their lovely home. The homeowners were grateful, confused, humbled, traumatized, harboring survivor’s guilt: marked with an indelible imprint.

So it happened, that on the night of October 29, 2012, wind and rain swept across Long Island with insidious precision: the tide rose and sea water engulfed homes, reclaimed virgin marshland. Two homes stood on a primal bog that night: one was spared and one was swallowed up, at the inclination of the tide. And that made all the difference!

And we all understood that it is wonderful to live on the shoreline of Long Island. But, we must respect the genesis of this land, and the authority of the sea. And when the sea enforces its original right of ownership, to borrow or reclaim the land we love, we must acquiesce to its will or relinquish our claim altogether. The sea is a powerful and unpredictable force: with dominance over man and land alike. We can only borrow paradise, not own it.

Empty Eyes. 11-8-12

Lonely tree and bench

I was alone, living in my car, not eating, not sleeping, not wanting to go on. I was walking around day by day in a fog, isolated, numb, consumed by reality: looking into the eyes of the world, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but grief. Not realizing I was one among thousands, I validated my loss. For during Hurricane Sandy I was cut off, we were all cut off, by massive power outages: from the visuals, from the overwhelming truth, the destruction, the drowning, from the suffering of thousands. So, in those first days before I met the others, the ghosts of the lives of other survivors, I was wandering around searching.

I instinctively knew the survivors as well as I knew my own features. and I needed to touch their flesh. I was searching the faces of men, looking for bleeding, for empty eyes, like mine. I recognized those like me, who lost everything, disbelieving, bewildered people, wandering, with no place left to go: belonging no where, owning nothing. I relived over and over the terrifying moments, as I followed slime and grit, into the devastation of my home, my life. The smell of my home, that rancid, acrid stench of extinction, burned my nasal passages daily, and I wanted to embrace someone who couldn’t get that stench out of his nostrils either. I needed to cradle broken hearts.

Within the context of having lost everything to a natural event that was no fault of my own, of having nothing left, of feeling very sad and panicked, I wandered without purpose, occasionally accomplishing necessary tasks. I entered CVS, looking for antibiotic and bandages for my fingernails, severely infected by contact with the sewage water entombing my treasures. I was neither responding to nor interacting with my environment: I was hardly a part of the world. There was no reason for me to be there.

I navigated my wheelchair up and down aisles overcrowded and blocked by carts of boxes and merchandise being loaded onto shelves stripped by frantic Hurricane Sandy shoppers. I was confused by the disorder, and frustrated, as displays of toilet paper and shampoo came cascading down on me. There was no place for me here, and my equipment. I was in the way, at time of crisis. Store clerks scowled, as I bumped into displays and rolling carts, taking out end caps of water bottles and stacks of baby wipes. Standing, also in the way, at every turn, was a woman with a shock of grey curls, a red wool coat, and gold-trimmed glasses. She moved quietly, without purpose. She never looked at me, but clung to me. I recognized her immediately. She had empty eyes.

Neither one of us spoke to the other: we knew. We went through the store like that, silently meeting: passing. I needed to listen: she had something to say. But we were hurting too much to reach out. I took care of business and exited sliding glass doors that snapped closed behind me. The air outside was crisp and damp. The sidewalk was narrow and hazardous. As I navigated toward my car, there, coming toward me, were empty eyes. It was the woman in the red coat. I looked directly at her and said quietly, “Did you lose your house too?”

Words spilled from her like water from a broken dam. “I live in south Seaford. But, I only sustained minor damage.”

I swallowed deep and choked up a large glob of self pity. “I lost everything: my house, my furniture, belongings, $50,000 in medical equipment.” Every time I said it, it seemed less real. I had expressed my pain.

“I lost my son-in-law,” she said out loud, seemingly matching my pain.

I stopped breathing and tried to process words I did not anticipate. Surely I had heard incorrectly. “What do you mean?” I said with puzzled stupidity.

She seemed anxious to explain. “My son-in-law was crushed by a tree.”

Time stopped. I grabbed the words and rolled them around in my mind. I believed her. “I didn’t know anyone died in the flood.” I responded sincerely.

“Oh yes. Twenty-six people,” she said. “Two children were torn from their mother’s arms by the winds on Staten Island.”

“Oh my goodness! I didn’t know. I am so so sorry.” There were no words . . . She understood. She wasn’t looking for comfort. She was trying to hold on to her son-in-law.

“He was a good man, a good husband and dad: he was a good person.”

Her statement was written in stone: untouchable, unchangeable. I responded with a serene smile of understanding.

I was incredulous. The storm seemed so benign where I was sleeping that night. I felt cheated and stupid, that I didn’t’ know. This monster had destroyed my life and hers, and I had no visuals to process. “I didn’t know,” I said.

“Was the accident in Seaford?” I asked. What did that matter?

“No, they live in Lloyd Harbor. It happened in Lloyd Harbor.” She was in so much pain. She wanted to talk about the man. I wanted to remember him.

“What happened?” I said, almost whispering.

She was not crying. She was remembering what they had told her happened. It was like, if she told the story enough times, she would finally believe it. She needed to remember every detail. She needed to pass them on to someone. I needed to listen.

“They were evacuating. My son-in-law had put their two little girls in the car.” I pictured two little girls safely secured in the dry car by a father taking care of his family: two tiny faces in rain gear, droplets splattered across their foreheads, watching daddy running through the storm with salvaged armloads of clothes and necessities. I was once that tiny child being shuttled safely away from our flooded house by responsible adults. I felt their excitement, their fear and anticipation.

“A tree fell on him!”

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed. It was horrifying! It was real. It was what his sweet babies saw! There were no words! There was no comfort! There was only listening. There was a maimed and broken family, compelled to accept reality. My house, my precious lost house and all my belongings, seemed so inconsequential now. People died! A daddy died in front of his two little girls. I was ashamed of grieving for a house!

“He put his daughters in the car. He was helping his wife. The tree fell onto the driveway. It crushed my son-in-law. It killed him! It struck my daughter.”

“Is she all right?” I gasped.

“No.” she said. “One whole side of her body is all black, where the tree hit her. She has broken bones. She is in terrible pain.” I pictured the mayhem: the mortal injuries in the deluge, screaming for help, babies crying, hysteria, flashing lights blasting silence. It was awful! It was too much to bear. A daddy was broken and gone on that monstrous stormy night.

“Is she going to be all right?” I insisted. How could she ever be all right?

“Yes,” was the quiet response.

“Did the little girls see what happened?” I asked, fearing her response.

“They saw everything!” she said solemnly. We were silent together.

I looked into her tortured face, and felt the inconsolable pain of a wife and children. I was overwhelmed: impacted by the loss of one unique person, the agony of a family broken and changed, forever. I was humbled.

I understood that I had lost very little in the scheme of things. My house was not a person. My former life could be reinvented. None of this was what I wanted to accept right now, but it was true. It would be truer tomorrow.

Letter to the Editor (East Hampton Press, The Independent, www.indyeastend.com)

Letter to the Editor:

In 1962 I graduated from Massapequa High School with Wendy McVicker. She was very shy. In October I attended my 50th high school reunion. On the Roster, Wendy McVicker Wagner’s email address was listed as, iwillnotwhisper@hotmail.com. I smiled and thought, “Wendy found her voice.”

Actually, Wendy found her voice 35 years ago after she sustained serious spinal cord injuries that left her permanently totally disabled. Fighting for her own medical care in the Workers Comp System, she began fighting for others, first for medical, then promoting awareness, changing perception, facilitating barrier-free compliance and spreading accessible facilities throughout Long Island and other areas. She worked with malls, universities, libraries, municipalities, hospitals, retail and fast food chains, schools, small business, medical offices, corporate executives and legislators. She had a Variety Show for access, attended by 800 people.

In 1996 she chose to help the Village of Southampton. She wanted disabled individuals in Southampton to enjoy some of the same independence she had given others. For the next 15 years Wendy worked side by side with Douglas Murtha. She designed and implemented the Village of Southampton Access for the Disabled Program and led the Village of Southampton Committee on Access and Disability. She made the Village of Southampton the first accessible Village on the East End. She worked on Village Hall, the Police Department, Rogers Memorial Library, the Veterans Hall, the Cultural Center, Southampton Hospital, Agawam Park, handicapped parking, curb cuts, walkways, traffic lights, ramps, beaches, telephones, and rest rooms.

During Hurricane Sandy, Wendy’s house in Seaford was severely damaged by a sewage surge that destroyed her furniture, belongings and medical equipment. Her Flood coverage was only $14,000. FEMA has only given her $5,494.35 for home repairs that are estimated at $100,000.

Wendy has over the years, unnoticed, made amazing changes that have impacted the lives of thousands of disabled people every year, with no thought of personal gain. As a matter of fact, throughout her advocacy, she has paid for all office and printing supplies, postage, gas, and repairs to her car and wheelchairs, herself. Some people say she is the most selfless person they know, others say she must be crazy. But everyone agrees, she has left a wake of change and good deeds unchallenged.

Please find a way to help Wendy, who has never hesitated for a second to help another, to restore her house and go home! Please contact her at iwillnotwhisper@hotmail.com or 2401 S. Cedar Street, Seaford, NY 11783.

Sincerely,
Robert E. White
East Hampton

Hotel Room Appeal submitted to FEMA. 12-29-12

FEMA
1-800-621-3362. FAX. 1-800-827-8112
DisasterAssistance.gov

Fema I.D. No. 41-1371304
Subject: URGENT. Long-term Housing
Medical Condition: Spinal Cord Injury with Severe Autonomic Dysfunction, Cervical Myelopathy, Costochondritis, Intercostal Neuritis, Occipital Neuralgia, L-S Radiculopathy, Multiple Disc Lesions, Post Traumatic Neuropathy. Pulmonary Fibrosis.

To Whom it may Concern:

On October 29, 2012, i was a permanently disabled individual, severely limited by symptoms of a spinal cord injury sustained 35 years ago, fully functioning within the closed environment of my home, set up to accommodate my specific physical needs. I was in intractable pain. I used an electric wheelchair, oxygen, a service dog, and was in a hospital bed 80-90 % of the day. I was an ADA/Disability Advocate of 35 years, who has facilitated amazing changes for disabled individuals.

As you can imagine, the sequence of events since the sewage surge hit my home have caused me great physical pain and functional disruption. I slept in my car for 10 days. Then I was able to get into the Best Western at Bar Harbor on Sunrise Highway in Massapequa Park, NY. I have a room with a bathroom and parking outside the door. My oxygen is set up here and my physical therapist visits twice a week for 2 hours each session. I am warm and comfortable. My home was set up like this. I cannot function in an apartment.

I have been told by numerous persons within the system that Fema has the capability to allow me to stay here at their expense, because of my special needs. I provided two medical reports to the Fema Inspector. If these are not in my file I will fax them to you.

I am asking Fema to allow me to stay at this hotel, where I am comfortable and my needs are being met, until my severely damaged home is restored and livable. Please take this request seriously, because there is no way I can fit into the housing standards set up for able-bodied individuals pertinent to Disaster and Recovery. Be assured that I am highly motivated to recover the level of comfort, functioning and productivity I enjoyed prior to October 29, 2012. With your validation of and cooperation with my special needs, I feel that will happen.

Thank you sincerely for your consideration and anticipated help.
Sincerely,
Wendy Wagner

********FEMA consistently refused to answer this Appeal, although I was told repeatedly that it was being considered.

Letter to President Obama. 12-18-12

Dear President Obama,

I sincerely hope that you will read this letter personally and realize there are faces on the victims of the flood surge of Hurricane Sandy and that our needs are not being met.

On October 28, 2012, I was a profoundly disabled woman living alone with my service dog, in a neighborhood in Seaford, Long Island, not on the water or even close by. I have Spinal Cord Injury with Severe Autonomic Dysfunction (which means it affects all involuntary functions, such as heartbeat, breathing, swallowing, temperature control, etc.), Cervical Myelopathy, Occipital Neuralgia, Costochondritis, etc. etc. 3 lobes of my lungs are partially collapsed. I am in a hospital bed 80 percent of the day because I can only sit up for 2 hours and can never lie down. I use an electric wheelchair and oxygen concentrator. I am in intractable pain 24/7. I have had 27 malignant melanoma.

Despite all this, I have built a life of incredible advocacy and consultancy for disabled people that has spanned 35 years and allowed many many thousands of people to live more accessible and equitable lives. All of my files were destroyed by the sewage surge that tore all of my furniture, belongings and $50,000 in medical equipment from my home on October 29, and made it unlivable and hazardous to enter. I lost everything. But what I lost most was a comfortable nest in which I could function. I lost control of my own life.

I stand before you destitute, with nothing but my good works in my arms, stumbling about in a Disaster Recovery Program that has no place or compassion for Disabled Individuals, and I beg you to see me and to listen to us. We are being dismissed!

WHAT I NEED IS INTERVENTION. For 10 days after the flood I, with SCI, slept on the floor or in my car. I lived on a half a roll a day and a half bottle of water. Food, gas, and housing were non-existent.
After 10 days I found a hotel in my area, Best Western at Bar Harbor in Massapequa, NY. They have agree to let me stay until December 9, 2012, after which I have no place to go. The problem is, that while I am Approved for Hotel Assistance, Fema said this hotel is not on their List. The list they are using seemed to be from a former hurricane, and the woman was trying to send me to locations 2 hours away. She finally settled on two, Farmingdale, 45 minutes away and Freeport Motor Lodge, on the water in the devastated Flood Zone. I can only sit up for 2 hours and need a hotel close by.

I am located presently, after some effort. Housing and hotels are extremely scarce. I cannot go to a shelter and I can provide medical documentation for this. My needs are being met here. I am near people and medical personnel who know my rare medical condition. And I am close to the home where I need to take care of insurance and other business. No insurance has visited my home yet.

Fema has not said they will pay for this facility. My out-of-state son has it on his credit card but cannot much longer. The daily cost that Fema is allowing for hotel assistance is $143 with taxes, This hotel is only $112. I AM ASKING YOU, President Obama, TO PLEASE HELP ME TO GET FEMA TO APPROVE PAYMENT FOR THIS PARTICULAR HOTEL. PLease help!

It looks like although I had $400,000 in insurance coverage on my home, because it was a flood I am going to get only $14,000 for my home, furniture and all its contents. Devastating. I find myself wishing I had died in the hospital bed that burned up in the storm surge. I am in such physical pain. Land rapers are already trying to buy up our devastated homes for the land. I find myself wondering how in my wonderful America, insurance companies could be so overindulged and homeowners could be so victimized, first by the storm and then by the system. I have been living below the poverty level on $10,000 from workers compensation for 35 years, and there is no way i can rebuild my home without help.

I sincerely appreciate your anticipated help. I have experienced no help or compassion in the systems. God bless you. wendy wagner, 2401 South Cedar Street, Seaford, NY 11783

***THIS LETTER NEVER RECEIVED ANY RESPONSE.