September 5, 1992

HURRICANE SHATTERED CENTER'S ROUTINE DISABLED GROPE TO UNDERSTAND CHANGES

PAMELA FERDINAND Herald Staff Writer

No one will ever know how much Hurricane Andrew scared Douglas Clark. Or if it frightened him at all.

Around Clark now are green vinyl couches dimly lit by bare
lantern bulbs. The air is sticky from the heat. The pool is empty. The workshop flooded.

But any lingering understanding of what transpired hurricane morning is buried in his unconscious or in his soul. Clark suffers from Down's Syndrome.

An extra chromosome deprived him of the tragedy.

"Excuse the cliche, but ignorance is bliss," says Clark's father, Robert, glancing at his grinning son.

As the sun sets over the bare trees and trailer-park bonfires of the Redland, the Clarks sit in their motor home behind Sunrise Community, a home for the developmentally disabled where 27-year-old Douglas lives.

This beige, one-story building with farmhouse-red wooden slats is one of the few structures left standing. More than 100 severely disabled children and adults weathered the storm together here, sheltered in hallways, lying on mats, sitting in wheelchairs.

No one was injured. But for those less profoundly disturbed than Clark, the experience and its disastrous aftermath pierced the cocoon of familiarity that they crave.

Cylvia Segall, a 23-year-old mentally disabled woman with asthma who has lived at the home for nearly two years, panicked when the building shook.

"I could hardly sleep, it was really bad," said Segall, fiddling with a yellow flashlight. "I didn't think we were going to make it."

As the storm howled, nurses checked medical equipment and rushed residents from room to room, away from sliding glass doors and patches of leaking, brown-stained roof. Seven children had to be fed around the clock. Four others relied on delicately attached trachea tubes to breathe.

The Sunrise staff can't recall what the hurricane sounded or felt like -- they were too busy. Laura Malling, a nurse, worked for 72 hours straight. Afterward, she didn't even know whether her own family -- three miles away -- was alive.

"You look back and you don't remember," she said. "It would have been worse if these people had to leave and be dispersed. Here is family. To move them somewhere else would have been very frightening for them."

"You're scared and you're worried and you're fighting down panic and wondering if you're going to keep it together," said Leslie Leech Jr., president of the nonprofit organization, which cares for 400 people in Dade County. "It tested us all. But most of all, it tested our commitment to these people."

In a covered concrete courtyard at dusk Monday, two girls
drew crayon pictures on scratch paper. A red-haired boy sat on a pink-cushioned chair in a doorway, thumbing through pages of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comic book.

At the sight of visitors, he smiled and stretched his arms out for a hug.

"At least they weren't among strangers," Leech said. "We all went through it together."

The complex suffered millions of dollars in damage -- broken windows, ripped roofing, ruined furniture and flooding. Four group homes and two day-care centers in Homestead were also damaged.

Exhausted staff, many of whose own lives are in shambles, work 12-hour shifts without air conditioning, hot water or electricity. They catnap in tents outside.

Army officers deliver diesel fuel, and police guard against looters. Parents bring supplies.

The guardians are busy, but their wards have nothing to do.

Many miss their work at the center's print shop, which was destroyed. One 28-year-old man now sits silently, running fingers through his hair, alone on his waterbed. His I.Q. is less than 20.

Inside three main dormitory-type rooms, plaid napkins and flowers decorate tables. Wooden cot frames lean against a wall. A dozen young men and women sit in a wheelchair circle.

Some moan, shaking contorted arms, bobbing heads, rocking back and forth. They squirm under the uncomfortable, itchy warmth of buckles and braces. A smiling, black-haired 15-year- old communicates by tapping his forehead against the wheelchair headrest.

"They're all sweaty. I am, too," said Sandra Tjoefat, who runs one of the center's assisted-living apartments. "I can see they're not used to this. They take showers and have breakfast, but they're not going anywhere."

Familiarity and routine must be restored at once, Leech said. For those with serious medical needs, nutrition comes first. Next, everyone needs to see the same staff that used to care for them, to participate in the same programs and to feel secure.

"Routines are what our people count on," Leech said. "While you and I can experiment, anything new can be traumatic for them. To sit down and have a conversation about how they feel about the hurricane is impossible. They need continuity."