A Big Chill

Last night it was 41 degrees in Ft. Lauderdale.

I don't know if it set a record. But it sure was unusual, and the coldest air I've felt in many years.

I cranked the heat. I piled blankets on the bed: two beat-up old small hospital blankets that are amazingly warm, a *regular* type one, and then my Big Gun. That's a huge blue thermal-type thing. I folded it over, making it double-thick.

And slept and slept and slept.

I was just warm enough, under those covers. But when I got out, I was not.

For one thing, I still have broken windows from the hurricane, and my jalousie windows on the back door are all out of whack from some kind of damage and wood swelling. They slide down and open up big gaps. The cold air is pouring in.

So is pollen, by the way. My carefully filtered air has been breached since October 24, 2005, and without assistance from FEMA, or getting my insurance checks released, I don't have the funds to repair it all. This really impacts my health. Because of an incompetent FEMA inspector, I am much sicker and in much more pain than I would be otherwise.

I'm not just bitching for its own sake, folks. I can deal with it. What I'm doing here is making this point, one that I've made before and will again: Incompetence isn't just annoying. It's harmful.

This cold-pain is nearly unbearable. I'd forgotten how that particular pain feels, it's been just one of those dim nightmare-memories most of us have buried in the archives of our brains.

I'm useless.

I've done all I can for now. Nothing else to do but ride it out. Can't work on clearing up the house, hurts way too much. At least I can sit at the computer, that's nice. And take plenty of hot baths. Pet the cat.

This afternoon, I turned off the heat for a couple of hours, as the sun warmed us up a bit. Someone came pounding on the door. Those who know me - and know how I sleep and rest so much - would never bang on the door that loud. Or do so two times! ?? I opened 'er up.

And there stood FEMA. An Official FEMA Re-Inspector.

Well well well.

I hobbled to the car and got out my canes. But we didn't walk the property. Just sat on the front porch and talked.

I told him how happy I was to see him. I gave him a good earful about FEMA Dave. He told me a lot of the things that Dave said weren't covered under FEMA, actually should have been - just as I thought.

I told him about the trees blocking the front door and threatening to come down on us, clearly a safety hazard. But FEMA Dave didn't want to see the pictures. The chainsawing guys took them down without payment, but wouldn't finish the back yard mess till they were paid, and of course not! Why should they? They're supposed to work for free forever? They were very good to me.

I told him about my unreplaced and/or unboarded windows, medical costs unreimbursed, how dangerous untreated MRSA is. Showed him the foot, the scars everywhere, and explained how I constantly reinfect myself, so those minor glass cuts were a much worse problem than they might seem.

And explained how I'd already infected both Sylvia and Walter, back before I knew any better. How Sylvia had to spend five terrible days in the hospital, sick beyond words, and get a 6-hour operation to save her arm, because she was kind enough to clean my house for free - when I was in the hospital in danger of losing my foot. She handled my bedding. Even though I'd been in the hospital for a good week, she got infected from that bedding.

When the FEMA Re-Inspector presented his form for me to sign, and offered me a pen, I said, Excuse me, I use my own, I left my pen inside, let me get it.

Stopped him in his tracks.

He asked: It's that contagious?

Sure, from contact. Not airborne.

He decided he'd do just fine without any signature at all. Oh --! I don't mind, I can grab my pen in one sec, really --!

No, no, that's okay!, he says, backing away from me to his car. Quicker and quicker. Crawfishing.

heh heh!

Usually it's only medical personnel who do that around me. You know. Tell 'em what you've got, and they all take a Giant Step Backwards in unison?

Poor guy. I'm glad I'd already thanked him for his patience listening to my gripes, and that I wouldn't want his job for anything. He was very nice and said he didn't mind at all.

He told me to submit an appeal, even though I probably missed the deadline. I think that deadline was yesterday. I thought it was President's Day, and that FEMA would be closed. Besides...I really wasn't up to it. I spent all my *health* time lately on a backlog of medical appointments, and Lord it wears me out.

So yeah, I'll do that appeal. If nothing else, FEMA needs to hear about Dave. Clearly he wasn't following guidelines. Maybe we can keep him away from some other poor hurricane-smashed folks in the future. I can take this stuff a hell of a lot better than many other people I've been talking to. When your life comes crashing around your head like that, the last thing you need is a dumb, rude, foolish, ignorant, cold-hearted bigot telling you how you shouldn't get any help, and how disgusting we all are to him.

Actually...

The more I think about it...

Hmmm.

This here is a heart-warming thought.

Yup.

FEMA Dave is toast.

Hey, Dave? Listen:

What you do comes back to you.