Breaking News in San Diego: The Marines are Looking for A Few Good Men

June 1, 2009

This morning, the headline of my San Diego Union Tribune read: Case stirs military recruiting questions – Autistic man in brig, facing court-martial.  I read this after helping my son – who is non-verbal and severely impacted by autism – get on his special education bus for the ride to high school. He too has been recruited by the military.

How Pvt. Joshua D. Fry was recruited – he lived in a group home and is under limited conservatorship – is beyond comprehension. However, I get enough emails from parents to know they deal with recruiters all the time. I even wrote an article about my son’s experience.

Please understand I am not anti-military (some of my closest relatives serve and I support them) or against people being enlisted who are on the spectrum and able to serve (I have friends with Asperger’s Syndrome who probably would do a fine job in the military). This story makes me wonder where the recruiters go fishing for non-autistic, supposedly neurotypical people to serve their country.

Having raised a person severely impacted by autism for 20 years, I have learned the only way to survive is to laugh at all the absurdities we parents are often subject to. So if you do not enjoy sardonic wit, I suggest you do not read the following article I wrote which was first published on www.ageofautism.com:

“The Marines are Looking for a Few Good Men”

Rarely does the war in Iraq coincide with the war on autism in my house. Yet a few months ago, the phone rang and my hands were full of crap, literally. Normally, I would have let voice mail pick up, but I was expecting a call from my daughter. I ran to the phone and picked it up with the rubber gloves I was wearing. I was in the middle of cleaning my 18-year-old autistic son’s most recent failed attempt to make it to the toilet in time. Timing is everything.

“May I please speak to Jeremy?” requested a strong male voice. This is an unusual request in my house, as my son Jeremy is nonverbal. “He can’t come to the phone right now. Who is this, please?” I asked. “Take this number down, and tell him to call Ron,” the male voice instructed. “What is this about?” I inquired. “I’m from the Marines. I’m calling all the seniors from Torrey Pines High School, and I want to tell Jeremy what we have to offer.” “Really,” I replied, “Do you offer toilet training? I’ve heard you are really good at teaching bed making, standing in line and following directions. We are still having trouble in those areas, too. When can he start and where do I bring him?”

Actually, that was the conversation going on in my head. I just laughed and told him my son was autistic, nonverbal, and couldn’t talk on the phone. When you have a son as disabled as I do, you learn to be grateful for the smallest things. Like the fact that your son will never be eligible for active duty and that he doesn’t risk the possibility of getting killed in Iraq.

A short time later, Jeremy received a letter from the Selective Service System, who obviously were still looking for a few good men. This letter informed Jeremy that since he was now 18, he was required by law to register for selective service. Included was an application to fill out listing three categories of possible exemptions. As I read the application, I thought “OK, I’ll just have to check one of these off for Jeremy and mail it out.” To my dismay, there were only three possible exemptions listed: “Females”; “Members of the Armed Forces on full-time active duty”; and “Men who are unable to register due to circumstances beyond their control, such as being hospitalized, institutionalized, or incarcerated.” 

I couldn’t believe it. My son did not fit into any of those categories. Where was I supposed to check for “Males over the age of 18 who require 24-hour care because of their disability”? Was I supposed to sign Jeremy up and send him with his own private support person if he were ever drafted?

So I decided to get creative. I drew my own box at the bottom of the list, checked it off and wrote next to it “My son is severely impacted by autism and requires 24-hour care
and help with all of his every day living skills. Please see attached documentation.” I thought that would be the end of it.

Lo and behold, a few months later, Jeremy received his legal proof of registration card from the Selective Service System. He also received a pamphlet extolling him to “DISCOVER THE CAREER YOU WERE BORN TO PURSUE,” and informing him that they had “MORE THAN 4,000 JOBS TO EXPLORE,” and my personal favorite “88% OF OUR JOBS TRAIN YOU FOR A CAREER OUTSIDE THE MILITARY.”

Now, as a an expert on transition to adulthood services for those on the autism spectrum, I started fantasizing here. According to the 2002 report published by the President’s
Commission on Excellence in Special Education (ordered by President George Bush), unemployment rates for working-age adults with disabilities have hovered at the 70% level for at least the past twelve years. The Commission found that poor implementation of federal laws and policies in effect to help disabled students transition to competitive employment or higher education was one the reasons for such a high rate of unemployment.

Well, what if we put the Selective Service System in charge of transition programs and special education services from high school on up? They seem to be good at job development and effective at implementation of federal law and policies.

I continued to read the pamphlet…. “Choosing a career is a big decision. What do you love to do? What are you good at?” Gosh, these are the same questions I ask the teens and young adults with autism in my line of work. “Join the military and find out.”

Seriously, I doubt I could ever get Jeremy to agree to join the military, even if it offered him a guaranteed career. During the 2004 presidential debate, my son sat with us in the family room, flicking a piece of string, seemingly impervious to what we were watching for two hours. Back then, my son was just learning how to use a letter-board as a means of communication and we were unsure of how much he understood of what he heard. (As shown on MTV’s True Life episode “I Have Autism,” Jeremy has recently mastered the use of a Litewriter, a piece of assistive technology that speaks out what he types).

The next day in a workshop, Jeremy was asked to demonstrate his letter-board capabilities to a group of people watching on a video monitor in a separate room.

Soma Mukhopadhyay, educational director of HALO, presented a letter-board to Jeremy and said,  “Hi Jeremy.  Nice to see you. Do you want to tell me about something you did or something you watched on TV yesterday?”

SAW ON TV, Jeremy spelled out.

“What did you watch?” asked Soma

DEBATE

“Who do you want to see win the election, Jeremy, The democrats or the republicans?”

DEMOCRATS

“Why?”

STOP THE WAR

“What happens when we stop the war?” inquired Soma.

SOLDIERS CAN COME HOME

All this just goes to show, my son may be autistic, but he definitely isn’t stupid.

Where would we be without our mothers?

May 10, 2009

When my parents moved to America from France in the early 1950’s, Maman was eight months pregnant. She left behind her large, boisterous and close-knit family in France and followed Papa because he wanted to start a new life in the New World. In those days, French people didn’t just pick up and leave and cross the ocean, especially not with a baby on the way. But Maman followed her heart. Maman raised six children in a country where she had no relatives, and at first no friends to help her, and where she didn’t speak the language or know the customs. But she learned them.

Maman must have deeply loved Papa to leave all that was familiar behind, and Papa was no ordinary man. Take camping. Camping for my dad meant spending the three summer months in a cow field in Kentucky, sleeping in tiny pup tents, using a stinky wooden outhouse, and cooking over a campfire. We cleaned ourselves by bathing in the river below, and my mom had to trek into town to a Laundromat while papa went to work during the day. Some of us tykes were still in diapers, and it wasn’t easy taking care of us with no running water (other than the river below). At night, Papa would take us frogging in an old rowboat on the river, and we would eat froglegs for breakfast cooked over the open campfire. It wasn’t till I moved to France as a young adult that I realized that the French did in fact eat frog legs, but not for breakfast, and usually not cooked over an open fire.

My family moved often, about every three years because that was how long it usually took for Papa’s construction projects to be completed, and then it was on to the next one. Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Rosebank on Staten Island, Portsmouth, Stapleton Heights on Staten Island, Altadena in California, and so on – Maman took it all in stride. Think of all the moving and organizing that meant Maman had to do; the number of boxes to pack and unpack, all the stuff six children and a few pets can accumulate. The new school enrollments, finding new doctors and dentists, and acclimating to a new small town or a new big city, trying to find babysitters and make friends. My mother’s French accent was so think, that everywhere we moved people thought Maman had just moved from France, and would comment, “So, you’re from France; how do you like America?” Once Maman had obtained her American citizenship, she would respond “I am an American, what do you think?! I have six children they are all born here!”

When people see what life with my son, Jeremy, entails in terms of energy, and organization, advocating, resource-finding, they often ask, “How do you do it? How do you handle raising a child so impacted by autism, besides having Rebecca?” I think of Maman, raising the six of us (ok, none of us have autism but we had our share of neurodiversity in the family) in different cities every three years, and I realize where my resourcefulness came from. “I had a great role model,” I reply.

Happy Mother’s Day, Maman!

This blog first appeared on Huffingtonpost.com, May 10, 2009

Swine Flu and Paranoia, North of the Border

May 1, 2009

Recently I traveled to Mexico (see Autism and Hope, South of the Border) and came back really sick, so sick that I visited my medical clinic three times in two weeks. Last Friday, I actually got to see my regular doctor, but that was before we knew the swine flu existed.

Over the weekend, I started getting the phone calls from friends.

“What, you’re still sick? You never get sick like this! Didn’t you just come back from Mexico?” “Well, did you get tested for swine flu?”

I started getting worried, so I called my sister Dominique. She’s a nurse practitioner, and she knows everything, medically speaking. I guess you see a lot of interesting things when you work in the ER of a hospital in Greenwich Village. “You should get tested, seriously. It’s a pandemic alert level 4,” she tells me. I had no idea what that meant, but it did sound scary.

I decided to poll my facebook friends. I filled in the “What’s on your mind?” space with “OK, so I came back with an ear infection and really sick from South of the Border a couple of weeks ago. Should I get tested? I hate wasting my time. Am I being paranoid?” I have 822 friends, but only 9 cared to comment. They all said I should get tested.

I took a break from this strenuous decision-making process and went to visit my mom who lives down the street in a skilled nursing facility. There was a big sign on the door: “DON’T ENTER IF YOU HAVE BEEN TO MEXICO OR THINK YOU MAY HAVE SWINE FLU”. Great, now I was really getting paranoid. My iPhone buzzed and I got a text from my sister. “I think you should be tested ASAP,” it read.

I decided to call the doctor’s office and let them decide if I needed to be tested or not. I was still sick, and if I was possibly carrying around something I could spread to others, I guess it was the right thing to do. Sheepishly, I explained to the office staff person that because I’ve been sick ever since I came back from Mexico, I wondered if I should get tested for the Swine Flu.

“What are your symptoms?” he asked.

“Well, my ears were all plugged up which turned out to be an ear infection. And it started with a sore throat. I still feel terrible.”

“I’ll talk to the doctor and get back to you,” he said.

An hour later the phone rang. “Do you have, or did you have, a high fever?” This question always poses a problem for me. When I feel crappy, I usually pop tylenol or ibuprofen, anything to feel better. Of course, this reduces any fever as well. He asked me about a few more symptoms, and as he described them, I felt them coming on. “Do you feel achy all over?” I tried to remember what my initial symptoms were, and of course I then ached all over and I felt even sicker. I was really paranoid now, but still felt stupid for calling in the first place. He tells me he will talk to the doctor and get back to me.

I turned on the radio for a little distraction, and I listened to the news on NPR. “There are misconceptions about how the swine flu is spread,” the announcer says. “Some people think they can avoid it by not eating any pork….”

“Well, I definitely didn’t catch swine flu in Mexico, I was staying in a vegan household,” I tell myself.

“…. But the reality is it is spread by human contact. People should wash their hands and use alcoholic…..”

“Unfortunately it was also a “dry” household,” I remember. A week in Mexico, and no tequila!

“….gels and avoid sharing utensils and cups..”, continues the announcer. I’ve had enough, so I switch off the radio.

A little later, the doctor’s office calls back. “The doctor said not to worry, and there’s no need to get tested,” the person said. “Great!” I replied.

This evening, I heard on the local news that a baby died of the swine flu in Texas. “All of humanity is under threat,” Dr. Margaret Chan, director-general of the World Health Organization, said during a news conference in Geneva. I guess it is true because World Health officials have raised the pandemic alert level to 5 (out of a possible 6), and in Egypt, health officials ordered the slaughter of 300,000 hogs.

Some officials in Washington are calling for the borders to be closed between here and Mexico. President Obama says that’s not going to happen, “That would be like closing the barn door after the horse has escaped.”

I’m sure he meant to say pig, not horse.

The local news continued, reporting that two new cases of swine flu were confirmed in San Diego County, and that there is one possible case at San Diego State University, where officials said a female student sickened by what could be Swine Flu would not be allowed back on campus until she had fully recovered.

In other local news, there were reports of local San Diego residents acting pig-headed and hogging the road more than usual, but so far any connection to the swine flu outbreak has yet to be established.

This first appeared on the Huffingtonpost.com on May 1, 2009

Autism and Hope, South of the Border

April 27, 2009

Autism knows no geographical boundaries, so in honor of World Autism Awareness Day, I decide to head south of the border instead of attending awareness events in the United States. When I arrive in Puerto Vallarta, Bryan McAllister is waiting for me at the airport. I have come to spend a week with Kerri Rivera, director of the AutismO2 clinic, the only place in Mexico that offers biomedical and behavioral treatment – and hope – to Mexican families impacted by autism.

Bryan is a nurse who specializes in ozone therapy and he works at the clinic. I ask him how he met Kerri. “On ebay. Her husband Memo was looking to buy a vintage Desoto car and I was selling one. Memo wanted it to use for parts for a 1951 Desoto limo they own,” he explains. Somehow, Kerri and Bryan got talking about the clinic she and Memo were starting up, and Kerri convinced him to move down here.

That’s how movers and shakers like Kerri are – persuasive and inspiring and able to convince people to share their vision. In Kerri’s case, the vision was that of a not-for-profit clinic funded by money paid by those who could afford Hyperbaric chamber treatments, thus offsetting the costs of autism treatments for those who could not.

Two years later, the afore-mentioned vintage Desoto is still sitting at the border, waiting to be shipped and for all the necessary import/ export paperwork to be filled out. But Bryan is here and the AutismO2 clinic is up and running – some things just can’t wait. Like most non-profit autism organizations, a child was the inspiration behind the vision Kerri had. In this case the force is Patrick, Memo and Kerri’s youngest son, who regressed after receiving the DPT,HepB, infB vaccine (5 shots in one) at two years of age. Patrick, now 8 years old has benefited greatly from different types of biomedical treatments, as well as behavior therapy.

Mexico has been Kerri’s home for 14 years now, ever since she created a family here with her Mexican husband Memo. When Kerri first met her husband when she came here to study Spanish, little did she know that they were destined to be married years later, and eventually become a driving force in the Spanish- speaking autism community.

After their son Patrick was diagnosed with autism, Kerri began to look into treatments and realized she would have to travel often to the United States if her son was going to recover or improve. Kerri realized that nothing was available in Mexico, and wanted to bring help and hope to the many families impacted by autism who could not afford the treatments, and who had no access to resources in the United States. In January 2006, Kerri met with Dr. Bernard Rimland, founder of the Autism Research Institute in San Diego (the border town I live in) and long considered the godfather of the movement for understanding the biological treatment of autism. With his blessing Kerri and Memo had the Defeat Autism Now (biomedical treatment) protocol translated from English into Spanish. Two weeks after Dr. Rimland passed away, the clinic AutismO2 was opened. “Nothing we do on a daily basis here at the clinic to help families impacted by autism would ever have happened without Bernie Rimland,” Kerri tells me.

Kerri, inspired by Dr. Rimland, became proactive when her son was diagnosed, becoming both a Rescue Angel for Generation Rescue, Jenny McCarthy’s autism organization, and a mentor to mothers of newly diagnosed children for Talk About Curing Autism (TACA). Kerri continues to provide information and help to people all over the world in both Spanish and English in those capacities. But she and Memo wanted to do more. In 2006, Kerri and Memo founded Bebepingo AC, the non-profit structure that funds the AutismO2 clinic, by buying a hyperbaric chamber that people here in Puerto Vallarta use for a variety of health reasons – for Multiple Sclerosis, Cerebral Palsy, Down’s Syndrome, autism, arthritis, rheumatoid arthritis infections, and diabetes to name a few. Proceeds from the treatments in the chamber go towards helping the children with autism from low-income families that they treat at the clinic. Besides the chamber, the clinic offers behavioral therapy, nutritional and supplement consulting, and information on the Defeat Autism Now (DAN!) biomedical protocol, as well as IV chelation, and ozone therapy provided by Bryan, who has worked with ozone treatment for 17 years. The AutismO2 clinic is the only clinic of its kind in Mexico, a country with no practicing DAN! Biomedical doctor or behavioral therapy clinic.

In Mexico, “hope” is not a word usually associated with autism, as there is very little on offer for children who have autism. Hope, however, is apparent not only in abundance at the AutismO2 clinic, but also in Kerri and Memo’s home. Parents and the children who have traveled great distances to receive treatment, drop in to discuss nutritional support with Kerri, share the midday meal, or just to say “hola.” Besides Patrick, Kerri and Memo have an older son, Alex as well as three dogs and 3 cats that add much warmth to this already nurturing home. While I’m there, I meet Luis Cisneros and his 5 year old daughter, Diana, who has Down’s Syndrome has begun to talk after 10 hyperbaric treatments and change in her diet as well as nutritional supplements. I also meet Dr. Edith Vela, who runs a small ABA program for her son and three other children in her living room because there are no schools willing or able to teach them in Mexico. Edith’s son, Alex, has also responded well to treatments; this is his second stay in Puerto Vallarta to access the services at the clinic AutismO2. While we are eating lunch and visitors drop in, Memo explains his reason for donating so much of the family’s time, money and energy to AutismO2. “It is a wonderful thing to see children getting better. How could I not help these people when I see how much of a difference it is making in their lives, in my son’s life?”

The day I leave, Kerri drives me to the airport. She slows down as we pass a Holiday Inn. “There, near the flags in front of that hotel is where I met Memo for the first time. I was waiting for some college friends to play tennis, and he was meeting up with some friends as well,” she explains, smiling and enjoying the memory.

What a fortuitous day that was for Mexican families impacted by autism.

This first appeared on the Huffingtonpost.com April 27, 2009

From the fires in San Diego

October 27, 2007

Tuesday morning:    Here in San Diego, life continues to be surreal. We’re hunkered down in my niece’s tiny one bedroom apartment as parts of the county continue to burn. We are the lucky ones. We sit in comfort, eating chocolate, eyes glued to the TV, each with our own laptop, communicating to people on the other side of town. Our house is still intact, and we have a place to stay out of the danger zone. On the TV, we see homes burning. We don’t really want to watch this destruction, but on the bottom of the screen they are scrolling the names of the neighborhoods that people are allowed to return to, and we hope to see ours listed. It isn’t, although they are allowing people in a couple of miles away. We discuss whether or not we should head back to our home anyway.

My husband wants to go. I don’t, I figure there is a reason they have not released our neighborhood. We live in Carmel Valley, and with the Santa Ana winds our little valley can become a wind tunnel channeling the fire right to the ocean, which is why they evacuated us in the first place. Besides, when I was growing up in Ohio I lived through too many tornados to feel the danger is over. No matter what the prognosis, mankind still has no control over wind patterns, as far as I know.

Outside my niece’s apartment the sky is orange and ashes are falling and it smells like a forest on fire. Not surprising. We have lots of free time to go walking, but it’s not a good idea to breathe in air that you can see. Meanwhile on the tube, they announce that schools will be closed all week in all school districts in the county. Rebecca, my daughter who is a high school sophomore, is thrilled. She is less thrilled when she finds out that the concert we have tickets to go to tomorrow night at the House of Blues is also cancelled. We were supposed to see Boys Like Girls, All Time Low and The Audition. This is the third time Rebecca attempts to see The Audition with no success, at this point she thinks this fire is part of a conspiracy. My 18 year old son with autism is happy enough, he’s got his favorite book and his ribbon. When asked how he is doing he spells out on his letter board “GREAT I’M WITH FAMILY. I’M HAPPY WE ARE HERE.”

I am still worried about friends I have not been able to reach in some areas I am seeing highlighted bright red fire zones on the TV. A conference on self-employment for developmental disabilities that my son and I were supposed to speak at in a suburb of San Diego on Thursday has been cancelled. Meanwhile I am getting emails from people in other parts of the world asking for answers on projects I am working on and expecting me to meet certain writing deadlines. This makes me realize how although we San Diegans may feel like our lives are on hold, and we are consumed with thoughts about essentials such as food and shelter, to the rest of the world, it is life as usual and the fires are just another item on the evening news. And really, when you think about the fact that 2.5 million people have been driven from their homes in Darfur, Sudan and that millions of others face murder, rape, torture, malnutrition, and disease over there, my little situation here doesn’t seem so bad.

Tuesday afternoon: Back on the tube, Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger is on screen along with both Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff and FEMA Administrator David Paulison. President Bush has sent them to get a first-hand view of the disaster. To be honest, I don’t feel comforted by their presence. Those of us watching can only hope the federal government has learned something since Hurricane Katrina. Arnold tells us how great the San Diego locals are being to their neighbors, pulling together to help each other and how the evacuation centers are overwhelmed with volunteers and needed supplies. It is true that San Diegans are a very neighborly population, one of the reasons I like it here. In my 11 years of living here with a severely autistic child with weird behaviors, I have seen only kindness from strangers when we are out in public. Not so in other places.

Gov. Schwarzenegger tells us he has asked President Bush to declare a federal emergency for seven CA counties to speed disaster-relief efforts. This is good news. He tells us President Bush is coming on Thursday. I’m not quite sure I understand why. Perhaps he is going to open up some of the extra bedrooms in the White House to those who have been forced to evacuate and have lost their homes, and he is going to interview some appropriate locals to be prospective roommates. When Gov. Schwarzenegger and company are done speaking, the local newscaster jokes that Arnold must have bought a home here, he and President Bush seem so involved and touched with what is going on down here. I have a feeling it is really because San Diego County is a Republican stronghold. Call me cynical. I might add that much of the homes we see burning are in neighborhoods a bit different from the parishes devastated in New Orleans and most of them are owned by whites. I am not saying that this makes their devastation any easier – losing your home sucks no matter whether it is a shack or a mansion and irregardless of the color of your skin – but I don’t get the feeling that Bush and company are down with the brown.

Meanwhile we have to leave the house for a provision run to the 99 cent store down the street. We are running out of toilet paper. Some things you just can’t do without unless it is a matter of life or death, or you are unlucky enough to be homeless in Sudan. Since we have ventured beyond the front door, we decide to brave the haze and head for the local pier. The sun looks bright red and very eerie through the smoke and our sinuses are starting to act up. Looking down into the ocean off the pier, we see the surfers are out in full force. Surfers are a dedicated bunch and it feels great to see a bit of every day normalcy after all the images of doom and gloom on the TV and internet. It is nice to see so much water after feeling so much dryness.

Tuesday evening: When we get back to my niece’s apartment, I check my email. I’m still trying to find out what happened to a few local friends I can’t seem to reach. One of them has emailed me and she is safe with friends in Hillcrest, another San Diego neighborhood closer to the center of town. I read some emails from friends and family around the world who have come to realize that this is not just the usual California brushfire. Like Arnold, I am overwhelmed by the kindness. In particular, one seminar organizer who sends me around the country to speak on autism has offered to put my family up at a hotel, and when told none are available in San Diego, finds and reserves one in Orange County, about an hour and fifteen minutes away from here. It feels amazingly good to feel so much support, yet we are hesitant to leave in case the winds change and head for our neighbors and home. Right now, we are still the lucky ones. And in reality, we would have to cross other evacuation zones and fires and we would rather deal with the devastation in our own town than in someone else’s. But we are touched and grateful for the offered gift of privacy and a swimming pool.

People in the autism community are well aware of how a disaster such as this can create particular havoc for a child with autism because most of them cannot tolerate a change in their routine or a change in their environment. We are lucky because as long as Jeremy is with us and has his book or his favorite piece of ribbon, he is OK. No meltdowns here. In other emails I see that some autism organizations in the Southern California area are already looking to see what they can do to mobilize help for those whose kids with autism are not as easy going as Jeremy. Since the schools and day programs are closed and their routine has been disrupted, many of these kid are wigging out. Add to that the fact that many of them are now living in a relatives’s or a friend’s living room and they don’t have their stuff around them, and you can understand how painful this is for them and their families. Another concern is for those who are on special diets and can’t get access to the kinds of foods their systems can tolerate.

We sit back and watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, the perfect show to relax to. Visions of the Fab 5 redoing our house when we can move back in or if we need to rebuild are dancing in my head. I love these guys. One of them has a parent in Rancho Santa Fe, where the fires have headed instead of our neighborhood. I hope she is OK and her house is still standing.

My brother the cameraman calls, he has just landed at LAX. He is heading out with his camera and his soundman to shoot some footage in San Bernardino before coming down to San Diego. I tell him to be careful, not to get too close to anything burning. But that’s why he’s here, Good Morning America viewers want to see and feel up close what we are going through. I hope I will get the chance to see him while he is out here.

Wednesday early morning: It’s 5:30 here in San Diego, I wake up and it still smells like everything is burning, even worse than yesterday. My eyes are stinging, my sinuses are protesting. Soot is everywhere and I’m still inside the house. That hotel room in Orange County is looking pretty tempting right now. News on the internet tells me wireless service has been provided to those evacuated to Qualcomm Stadium and laptops have been donated to evacuees there. This is definitely not a Hurricane Katrina -style stadium evacuation going on here. Final numbers for yesterday’s devastation are at 500,000 people evacuated from their homes and 1300 houses burned to the ground. My neighborhood is still not listed as a place we are allowed to go back to, but I’m hoping there will be another update later today. Still, I feel lucky. My family is here, we are all alive and safe, we have family to stay with and our house is still up. Life is good. What more could I possibly want?

This post first appeared on the HuffingtonPost.com, October 23, 2007

What to pack

October 23, 2007

Sunday – It is amazing how little you care about stuff when you have flames licking at your heels. I flew back from a speaking engagement in New York on Sunday night and from the airplane, I could see three little fires out in the wilderness. Leaving the airport and driving to my home in Carmel Valley, the most northern tip of the city of San Diego, I felt like I had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. The closer I got to my neighborhood, the thicker the air. The fierce Santa Ana winds were blowing ashes all around. In the house, even with all the windows closed, there was a fine layer of soot on everything and the smell of campfire permeated our house. With hindsight it seems silly, but Sunday night we still went to bed thinking life would go on as usual.

Monday – When I woke up Monday morning and turned on the news, reality hit. This was not just going to go away. The three little fires had grown and split into larger fires, creating a virtual line of fires going north and south, east of the Interstate 15. The Santa Ana winds were blowing strong, and on the news we were told that they could not get the usual fire fighting aircraft up in the air because of the wind and smoke.

I sneaked into my daughter’s bedroom and turned off our alarm clock. There would be no school Monday. A few hours later we were told that our area was designated a ‘mandatory evacuation’ area. We were told to get out ASAP, while we could. This all felt very surreal. We are four miles from the ocean. How could brush fire come this close?

I contemplated driving up to my mom’s house in Pasadena, 100 miles to the northeast from here to stay for a few days. Ironically, she has been preparing to move out of her house to an assisted living facility a mile from my San Diego house so she could be near us. However, driving north meant driving through other areas that were being evacuated and I didn’t want to be toast on the freeway.

Time to pack. The first thought in my mind when I realized the house could burn down, was an enormous sense of relief at the thought of not having to get caught up on my filing, or cleaning out the closets or emptying the garage. The idea of a fresh start was appealing. After a few minutes of daydreaming, I realized I had to make some decisions, we had to leave. Interesting what different people want to take when it gets down to the wire.

My 15-year-old daughter, Rebecca, was instructed to pack three days worth of clothes, and whatever items she could not live without. Rebecca packed her stuffed bunny that she has had since the day she was born and is literally falling to bits although I’ve given it a new skin many times. She also took the ticket stubs to all the rock concerts she has ever been to, her computer, her cell phone, her new video iPod, one of her tennis trophies and last year’s freshman yearbook. She also took tickets to a rock concert she and I are supposed to attend at the House of Blues on Wednesday. She did not think to pack her contacts, her retainer or her school books.

My son, Jeremy, who is 18 and severely impacted by autism, needed help to get packed. He was standing in the hallway, rocking back and forth and flicking a piece of ribbon. This is his favorite self-stimulatory activity when he is stressed. Some of us drink vodka and smoke.

I asked him with his letter board what he wanted to take with him, besides his dog, Handsome. He spells out “U R NICE TO FIND MY BOOK” He wants his favorite book, an artsy black and white photography book on the metro in Paris. He was born in Paris and riding the metro in Paris is one of his favorite things to do. ‘Got it!,” Rebecca shouted down the stairs. “What else, Jeremy? You may not see or feel your things again. What can’t you live without?” I ask. “MY MUSIC, DAVE MATTHEWS’ Jeremy spelled. “I got him on my iPod, is that OK?,” “YES.”

I packed my jewelry, sentimental pieces that have not much monetary value but come from old friends and family since passed away, gifts from my husband, sisters and girlfriends. I took my favorite photo of my son and daughter — their first Halloween in California. Jeremy (seven at the time) is wearing turquoise Chinese pajamas. Rebecca is dressed as a witch. They are so cute , smiling and standing in front of the rental we lived in, before we bought the house we are now evacuating. I took pre-digital photos off the wall, photos of friends and relatives. We have paintings hanging on all our walls, a lifetime of collecting from flea markets around the world, but I didn’t give them a second thought. I took the two pieces of art nearest and dearest to my heart: my daughter’s fifth grade self-portrait that won a ribbon at the local San Diego County Fair, and a multi-media self- portrait my autistic son made with an art college student. I grabbed a few days worth of comfortable clothes and for some reason my leather jacket. I had not realized until then the importance of that jacket — it has been everywhere with me, a witness to my adventures in different places. I took my computer, and saved online once again the manuscript I am currently working on. Can’t be too careful.

My husband packed some clothes, a computer, flashlights, cat and dog food, our Very Important Papers which are always in a metal fire proof box. He packed water, food, the kids favorite snacks. I packed 2 cans of fois gras — souvenirs of a trip to France — a couple of good bottles of wine, and a bottle of champagne. Why let it all go to waste? We might as well enjoy one good meal before we get really depressed.

All the neighbors are out on the street packing up their cars. We hug and exchange cell phone numbers and the surreal became reality. We are taking our two cars, so we split up the teens, the 2 cats and the dog. We head to Imperial Beach, about 25 miles south where a niece and her husband have just moved into a tiny one bedroom apartment. When they first arrived to San Diego a month ago, they stayed with us till they found their new home. I never thought that one day, I would need to ask them to repay the favor.

Tuesday – Tuesday morning, everyone is asleep in the tiny living room. I check on the internet, looks like our house is still standing. There is little relief in knowing that, because if your house did not burn down, it just means someone else’s did, possibly someone you know. The fires haven’t stopped, they are still moving towards the coast. I get a call form my sister in New York, she tells me my brother, a cameraman based in Philly, is flying out to cover the story for Good Morning America. My brother has covered many natural disasters in the U.S., including Hurricane Katrina, other floods and fires. This time it will probably seem a bit more personal.

This blog first appeared on the Huffingtonpost.com on October 23, 2007

Back home after the fires

October 15, 2007

Wednesday morning – Everyone is still asleep in this tiny room in Imperial Beach where we have evacuated from our home in San Diego, but I want to know what is going on. I turn on the TV without the sound and see the same images of fire and brimstone on the screen but there is a noticeable difference though I can’t put my finger on it right away. Then I realize what it is. No wind! This is great. I am fixated on the scrolling words on the bottom of the screen until I see what I’ve been waiting for. ‘Residents may return to these previously evacuated areas: … Carmel Valley…Yes! We can go home! A little while later I call my friend Veronique who never left her house and I hear a strange noise in the background. “Oh my God,” she says “Planes! I hear planes!” This is extraordinarily good news because it means the wind has really died down at least in our area and they can get planes up to fight the fire burning east of us and hopefully everywhere else.

My husband is still thinking I should take up the generous offer of the hotel room in Orange County as the air quality is pretty bad, and take the kids and the dog up there. We find out the Interstate 5 is blocked because of fires in Camp Pendelton, so for now it is not even an option, and I decide to make a decision once we are back in our neighborhood. We pack up the car, and head north. We stop in downtown San Diego to drop off my 18 year old autistic son, Jeremy, at Dana’s place. Dana is one of his Afternoon Angels, college students who help me teach and take care of Jeremy as he requires 24 hour support. She hasn’t left town and Jeremy and Handsome (his dog) are going to hang around with her while we assess the situation back home. It is extremely difficult to get anything done and keep an eye on Jeremy at the same time and I know we are going to have a lot of clean up to do. I wouldn’t be able to keep him occupied and out of the soot. I hope Dana is going to be around the rest the week, because the rest of the Afternoon Angels have flown the coop and gone home to LA, and although he did well for a few days, he is going to start wigging out if this goes on for too long. My fifteen year old, Rebecca is on her cell phone, checking to see who is going back to our neighborhood that she can hang with when we get home. She is still thinking of this whole experience as a week’s worth of snow days. Wait till she realizes how much clean up we are going to all have to do.

Wednesday afternoon – As we get off the freeway and head down the street near our house, it is still pretty calm and quiet here, not everyone is back. Tree branches and leaves are scattered everywhere, some trees have been uprooted by the wind. There is a gardener mowing the grass along the sidewalks and it looks like he is just spewing brown ash into the air. We park in front of our house and see piles of soot and leaves along the door and garage, the winds have blown it all up against the house. Inside, everything is covered in a fine layer of soot that has blown in through the cracks.

We unpack our car, but leave everything near the door, because we know that the winds could pick up and the fire could still change directions and head back this way. I check the landline voice mail and call family to tell them we are back home. I try to call Jeremy’s instructional school aide, Maureen, one more time without success. I am concerned about her, as when I spoke to her last, she was evacuating and she could see the flames a half a mile form her house. I wonder if her home was spared.

I call my mom in Pasadena, now that I am home, she wants to know when I am coming up to see her. I explain I have to clean everything up and the roads are still not clear heading north on the Interstate 5. The irony in all this is that we are in the middle of moving her down here, a mile from my house to an assisted living home. She has just lost her husband of 56 years, my father, and she requires 24 hour care due to Parkinson’s. Good thing we hadn’t completed the move or she would have been evacuated as well. I’m not sure I could have cared for her as well as my son through all of this, and I wonder how long now till I can move her down close to me with all that is going on.

We start cleaning the soot in the bathrooms and the kitchen; it has gotten into everything and it smells like damp soot, like a store having a fire sale. We keep the windows closed and put the air conditioning fan on to clean the air. We strip the beds and wash the sheets, everything is covered in ash. I feel so lucky to be alive and back in my home. I’m not sure if I will have help with Jeremy over the next few days, so I decide to take advantage of the fact he is not with me to see a girlfriend. My friend Veronique picks me up and we head to the beach. As we walk and play catch up with our stories we can finally breathe some semi-fresh air. I keep feeling how lucky I am. We stop at the Poseidon, my local Cheers which is right on the beach, and have a drink at the bar. Everyone is commiserating and telling evacuation stories. We are the lucky ones. Each of these moments feels like a gift, to be treasured and savored. I feel guilty that my home is still intact when others have lost everything.

Once back home, my brother the cameraman calls. He and his soundman have had no sleep, they have been covering the fires in Lake Arrowhead and have been covering the fires all night for Good Morning America. He is now headed to Rancho Bernardo and wants an update on the roads as he doesn’t want to get stuck, he is going to crash at a hotel in Rancho as that where he has to be ready to roll the next day. We hope we will get to see each other within the next day or so. Funny enough, he was planning to come out this week to help move my mom down here, instead he is now covering the fires.

Thursday morning – I wake up in my own bed, feeling luxurious. I make my favorite coffee and drink it out of my favorite coffee cup (the blue one with the chipped saucer I have had since my Paris days) which I thought I might never drink out of again. Life is great. The house is quiet, the kids are still asleep. I turn on the TV, the Santa Ana winds have settled down, the fires aren’t as bad , and there are none left in the city of San Diego. It is now over in the east and to the north. For many the fire and its aftermath will not be over for years to come. There have been ten deaths, thousands upon thousands of acres burned and at least 1500 homes gone.

I know we will have to deal with drought, and get this mess in and out of the house cleaned up and that soon I will have to deal with the reality of my life that was interrupted before the fires. I need to go visit my mom and help her prepare for a move, I need to work with Jeremy’s school to make sure they are getting back on track (new school placement) and find out which Afternoon Angels are still around to help out with Jeremy so I can get what needs doing, done. I need to make sure Rebecca gets caught up in her school work. Oh yeah- and I need to finish my manuscript due soon. But right now, I am enjoying the feeling of luxury of being in my own home, I am feeling on top of the world. My family and I are so lucky, we are alive, we still have a home. Our neighbors are OK. It doesn’t get any better than this.

This first appeared on the Huffingtonpost.com  October 25, 2007

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