You need all your senses to truly comprehend the utter devastation multiple fires have wreaked as they have rampaged across Southern California these past days. The sight of leaping crimson and gold flames blazing across freeways, towns, ridges, and hillsides is inescapable, no matter where you turn, yet simultaneously seems incomprehensible.
Just as you wonder whether your eyes are playing tricks on you, your throat burns with the effects of the smoke that lodges in your esophagus.
On Wednesday morning, in my little enclave of Culver City on the west side of Los Angeles, I opened my front door at 7 a.m. to a sky darker than a thunderclap. In the distance, a giant red fireball, like something from a science-fiction movie, hovered. The smell of acrid smoke that continues to permeate the air to this day can be best understood by Israelis as a hardcore Lag Ba’omer hangover.
And yet, I am one of the lucky ones… for now. In the last 24 hours, my home has been placed under a red flag warning zone. As of this writing, I have not received any evacuation orders, but I have a bag packed, and my dog and I are ready to hotfoot it out of here to a friend in Orange County, if necessary.
The smoke from the fires in the Palisades, about 15 km. from my home, began on Tuesday.
As of this writing, I have not received any evacuation orders, but I have a bag packed, and my dog and I are ready to hotfoot it out of here to a friend in Orange County, if necessary.
The fires begin
The smoke from the fires in the Palisades, about 15 km. from my home, began on Tuesday.
Even before the evacuation orders started coming thick and fast that evening, I had the beginnings of a headache that eventually turned into a terrible migraine, culminating in me throwing up several times. I fervently prayed that I wouldn’t get worse.
As an immunocompromised person who had a kidney transplant two-and-a-half years ago, I knew if I continued to be sick, I’d have to go to the emergency room, which is the last place you want to be on the best of days. Attempting to visit one amid raging fires would cause hospitals to be more packed than usual. Thankfully, I didn’t need to go.
Beyond that, I couldn’t imagine heading to Cedars Sinai emergency room, where my beloved nephrologist, Dr. Keith Klein, works. Yes, he’s my doctor, but he’s also a father figure to me. He is one of the top nephrologistsAs of this writing, I have not received any evacuation orders, but I have a bag packed, and my dog and I are ready to hotfoot it out of here to a friend in Orange County, if necessary. in the country and kept me alive for 20 years as I battled polycystic kidney disease (PKD). He has been my savior, my advocate, and my guardian angel as I was hospitalized multiple times over the years while my disease tried to kill me.
He’s held me up when I’ve fallen apart battling my body; he cheered with me when I finally got my transplant. He helped me cross the transplant finish line without ever having to go on dialysis. He’s the rock star of nephrologists; he’s the doctor you need in your corner. Seriously, I owe this man my life. He is family.
That’s why, when the fires spread on Tuesday evening, I emailed him because he lives in the Palisades. “Are you okay?” I emailed around 9 p.m., shortly after I’d thrown up.
I didn’t hear back right away. Honestly, I didn’t expect to. Most people don’t have their doctor’s email and cell number on hand, and I wasn’t messaging him with a medical question (I decided to keep the vomiting to myself under the circumstances).
I eventually fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up to a two-word email from him: “Home gone.”
Flames take over
My heart sank. I texted him immediately. It’s hard to know what to say, but I wanted to reach out. I also wanted to know if he’d be willing to talk about what he was going through for this article.
Like so many, he was devastated, depressed, and just trying to figure out basics – like going to get clothes and buy a toothbrush. Today, I spoke with him and learned he valiantly tried to save his house for four straight hours.
Klein rushed home in the middle of the day on Tuesday from work, “leaving irate patients,” after a neighbor called and said he saw fires nearby.
“I could only get within a mile or two of my home because the roads were gridlocked,” he recalled. He parked on the side of the road and trudged up the hill. “I had to stop because I kept getting short of breath and passing long lines of cars.”
He even asked people driving down and out if they’d be willing to turn around and drive him back up the hill so he could reach his two cats and two dogs in the home. “I offered $50, but nobody wanted to go.”
By the time he arrived home, there were flames on the hill and at his house. He grabbed two garden hoses and held them together to maximize the spray.
“I thought I could keep the fires in check,” he said, “but every time I left one side of the house to go to another, the previous side ignited.”
When the roof caught fire, Klein turned the hose there. Firefighters said they weren’t allowed to go on the roof, so Klein dragged the hose through his house, climbed out his second-story bathroom window, and sprayed water into his roof vents. He went back into the house, but it was now filled with smoke.
“I took a sledgehammer and smashed through the ceiling to try and get into the attic area to put the flames out,” he said. But it was all too late. Smoke was pouring in from everywhere.
“I just went into the bedroom, grabbed things blindly, threw them in a bag, and went downstairs. That’s when pieces of the roof started to come down.”
Ultimately, Klein couldn’t save his home, but he did save himself and his pets and evacuated to his daughter’s home in Woodland Hills.
On Thursday evening, they were getting ready to evacuate once again, as his daughter’s home was now in the danger zone.
Klein is just one of thousands of families that lost their homes in these horrific fires. I spent most of yesterday interviewing people who had lost everything. Like Klein, many evacuated only to find themselves in another evacuation zone shortly thereafter.
Some thought they’d be able to return to their homes, only to learn they’d been destroyed. People are still waiting to hear if their homes are standing. Others, like myself, are primed to leave at the drop of a flashing evacuation alert on our phones.
For now, we’re keeping our doors and windows closed, going out only if necessary, and wearing masks when we do. On Thursday, Culver City was among the areas listed as having the worst possible air quality, and everyone was urged to stay indoors.
I have been in touch with Jewish community officials and leaders as we learned of more people in our community being displaced and losing everything, and that two synagogues – one in Pacific Palisades and another in Pasadena – had been destroyed.
On Wednesday night, my IKAR community, led by Rabbi Sharon Brous, came together over Zoom to pray, cry, talk, share, and discuss ways to take action. Almost 100 people showed up.
Brous spoke about how IKAR sprang into action on Tuesday, sending out forms to the community asking people to sign up if they had a spare bed or needed one. Within five minutes, she said, 28 people had volunteered places in their homes.
We moved into breakout rooms where people could share their experiences in small, intimate groups. It was both healing and harrowing to hear people’s stories and to see the fear, exhaustion, and despair etched onto the faces of so many community members.
However, as a people, we are nothing if not resilient. We hold each other up. We know how to wrap our arms around those in need to offer physical, spiritual, or financial help while simultaneously rolling up our sleeves to do the hard work of rebuilding once these fires pass.
For now, though, as so many people’s lives and livelihoods hang in the balance, all we can continue to do is show up and offer whatever help we can, no matter how small.
Over the years, Dr. Klein has taught me so many lessons about dealing with pain, tackling things head-on, resilience, and moving forward when you just want to give up. I will never be able to repay him for helping save my life, and I certainly can’t rebuild his home.
But I can buy him a toothbrush.