I waded through the floods of Donna in 1960 and watched the eye of Cleo pass over Hollywood in 1964. I wore the T-shirt that said I survived Andrew.

But none of those hurricanes impacted me like Wilma. I am one of the legion of temporarily homeless, ordered to leave my red-stickered condo at Sunrise Lakes under police escort.

I thought I'd escaped Wilma unscathed. The ceilings in the living room, bedroom and halls were brown and dripped a sappy, odorous liquid all over my belongings after Wilma came through. But I could paint the ceilings and mop the wood floors. I could not imagine what was yet to come.

I must have been asleep for about an hour when the back third of the bedroom ceiling came crashing down around me, and I was knocked out of my bed. Lying on the floor, I could see neither the walls nor anything in the room and I did not know exactly what had fallen. Was it those massive support beams that supported the roof or was it plasterboard and nails or electric wires?

Frantically, I felt the floor around me for the flashlight that had been knocked off the nightstand, but it was gone. Fearing more of the ceiling might fall, I crawled in the direction of the door. At the foot of the bed I encountered a pile of soaking, stinking debris and without thinking, climbed over it.

Taking it back to the bedroom, I gazed over the mess and saw the yawning hole in the ceiling that stretched from one side of the room to the other. How could this be happening to me?

Dashing outside, I checked to see if light flickered from any other apartment. Perhaps I could seek consolation from a friendly soul who could tell me I'd be all right. But mine was the only candle in an unworldly darkness.

I finally dialed my cousin, Kathy Rothman in Plantation. She did not answer. I pulled my couch from under the wet living room ceiling into the dry hall where I slept fitfully until morning.

I received the consolation I craved from neighbors who flocked to my damaged unit to gape and compare. As I was hauling debris, a familiar voice called my name. It was Kathy, who had picked up my pitiful message and flew to my apartment. She held me in her arms, comforted me and offered to take me in. It was one of the few times I shed tears.

But first I had to report my damage to the condo association. It would be the beginning of a long process of frustrating encounters with agencies stretched too thin to be immediately effective.

Rain fell during the weekend and, with no tarps on the roof, I lived in an unending state of anxiety that climaxed when Kathy got a busy signal from the phone in my apartment. Something had happened.

The living room ceiling had collapsed, as did the rest of the ceiling in the bedroom, which had shattered the telephone table. Water was pouring in as I looked over what used to be my living room. I had spent my life's savings on this home, and it had been destroyed. Who would help me now?

I visited the insurance village on Sunrise Boulevard to talk with representatives from Citizens, who said an adjuster would not be available for another seven to 14 days. It would be much longer.

I then called FEMA, but because I had insurance, I was ineligible. The clerk recited her worn speech and promised to send a packet in the mail. Why were they sending me a packet if I was ineligible?

A pickup truck from Woods Restoration Services arrived in our parking lot with a bed full of blue tarps. There was a smattering of applause and an unspoken sense of it's about time.

The packet from FEMA arrived. It was an application for a loan. A LOAN? I didn't want a loan. I wanted FEMA to provide disaster relief funds. I felt abandoned.

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