Essay: I Was All Alone Fleeing the LA Fires. Would Anyone Take Me In?

I have wondered where I would turn for immediate help if I needed it in a situation like this, but there’s something…precarious…about living alone and aging that feels like thinking about it too much will cause it to be a little too true, like saying “Beetlejuice” out loud three times.

I don't have a partner, my family is elsewhere and a Golden Girls housing situation has never been in the cards. Even relatively minor issues become unflattering challenges when there's no one else at home to lend a hand: An inflamed hamstring felled me a couple of summers ago while walking to work; I had to call a Lyft driver for a lift to my feet and to an emergency room. And I'm already thinking of adding "Need someone to accompany me to colonoscopy" to my OKCupid profile.

So, yeah, the heads-up text message from my neighbor about the super close fire got my head up all right. The neighbors on that thread were, at least at the moment, my support group.

But what does planning accordingly even mean in my situation? I thought of my cats June and Otis first. I take that back about family being elsewhere — no day is complete without those two feline kids hollering happily at me from the upstairs window as I head up the walkway to my apartment after work. They are my company and comfort. They were curled in a nap when I got the text, neither of them inclined to respond to my request to get into the carrier that — on the 364 non-evacuation days of the year—they otherwise love to play in. But I managed.

Steven Wiecking's cats, June and Otis, hide under the bed during their stay at his friend's house.

Courtesy Steven Wiecking

I pulled on some clothes, trying to think through what to bring with me. Be sure to pack all your necessary medications, they tell you. OK, sure. I take a daily men's vitamin as well as a supplement for the aforementioned hamstring, Ibuprofen for two teeth I recently had pulled and separate prescriptions for, among other things, anxiety, depression, HIV, heartburn, allergies, and an enlarged prostate. I opened my medicine cabinet and threw every bottle into my backpack.

The polypharmacy left just enough room for cat food, underwear, socks, three random tees, my phone charger, a toothbrush, my passport, my Kindle … Wait, was I gong to be doing a lot of reading? Who packs a Kindle? How much time did I have for an inner monologue about entitlement?

The self-doubt, I realized, was keeping me from the larger question of where I was going to go. If you think this sounds easily solved online, Wi-Fi service is never stellar when it's taxed by a county-wide emergency. Just try searching "shelter from Los Angeles fire" and take in results with words like "overwhelmed" in their descriptions, which was how I felt but was hoping would not be such a popular feeling on Google.

Like out of a movie, my phone buzzed again. Two separate former coworkers, both with families, texted to ask if I had a place to go. Then I got a call from an old college roommate in Seattle, a message from another friend up north offering a plane ticket, and one more text, this time from Kevin, safe miles away in Boyle Heights, whom I see maybe a couple of times a month: "Hey, you OK? I have a dog, but if you need to leave your place, you can crash here, and we can keep our animals apart." You see, George Bailey, you’ve really had a wonderful life.

No man is failure who has friends. I don’t have a partner, but I do have a family of people who mean just as much as any blood relations and give me reasons for hope in times of hardship.

I called Lyft — I should start listing it as my emergency contact — stumbled out into the street with a double-wide cat carrier, a pack on my back the size of a large toddler, and a reusable grocery bag that I shoved my laptop into. I headed to Kevin's place.

After a couple of days, my cats and I were able to return home. But it's not like I feel safe. I've stopped assuming anything about the fires; the fact they got as close as they did is a first in my part of town.

My closest friends have been spared their homes, but many coworkers and acquaintances have not been as fortunate. I can't help but reflect on how many options I was lucky enough to have that so many others did not in such a terrible situation. It's that appreciation, I realized, that's more important than thoughts of aging or the practicality of packing a Kindle. What's crucial is knowing what you have. I had been so worried about what to take that I hadn't concerned myself with how much, after 57 years, I was still taking for granted. 

AARP essays share a point of view in the author's voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.