What they don’t tell you after a fire

Fire damage in Debbie Schipp's Sydney apartment. Pictures: Supplied

It’s 2am one morning in December when the acrid smell of smoke from the bushfires raging around Sydney again blows in to our tiny inner-city apartment.

I wake to hear our dog, Ralph, frantically dashing up and down the stairs, then my nostrils fill with a smell so close and pungent for a second I think the fire is in the house.

Ralph worriedly gathers toys, treats and his favourite blanket. Drags them up onto the bed and lays them, and himself, at my feet, all big eyes and trembling anxiety.

Distressed. Ready. Again.

I peer through the window which took three months to replace after being broken in the house fire we suffered in late August, removing the cardboard — which for months now has protected us from peering eyes of concerned neighbours because the blinds were turned to ash — and assure myself there’s no fire.

My partner checks and double-checks upstairs. Nothing.

I cradle the dog, and try to sleep, but lapse into that fitful state of half-rest which has disturbed our dreams since smoke, fear and powerlessness became the constant in our lives.

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The phone call

It began in late August with a deceptively-calm phone call at work

“You need to come home,” my partner said. “There’s been a fire. Me and Ralph are out, but it’s not good.”

The icy veil of shock that would stay for months, punctuated by outbursts of pure anger and sheer frustration, kicked in.

The cab driver said he couldn’t take me further from the street. “A fire,” he explained, gesturing at multiple fire trucks. “I know,” I said. “It’s my house.” He gently placed the $20 fare back in my hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Go.”

Debbie Schipp's Italian greyhound, Ralph, and her partner Paul.

Half an hour after they’d taken my partner by ambulance to the burns unit, I stood outside our rental apartment, Ralph still trembling in my arms, looked up blindly at the nearest fireman, and asked as calmly as I could what was next.

If he’d replied ‘four months of hell’, I wouldn’t have believed him.

Thankfully he didn’t.

Instead, he and a policeman gently explained they were just making the place safe enough for me to take a look, get what things I needed — or could — and get out.

They needed to wait, they said, for the smoke to clear.

As we surveyed the damage and my mind tried to process a bedroom still smouldering and the evil black of smoke damage throughout the entire house, I was asked for what seemed like the hundredth time if I was insured. Yes, I said. The police officer and firefighter exhaled with relief.

It was fixable, they said. Did I have somewhere to stay? Did I need a lift to the hospital to check on my partner? Did I need water? Did I need to get the dog to the vet?

I couldn’t answer.

They gave me two incident numbers, their business cards, a four-page booklet called “After the fire” (which proved invaluable to a shell-shocked mind), then checked someone was looking after me and left.

Still clutching the dog, slumped on the front steps, next to a burned-out scooter and a smouldering collection of what used to be boots, I mechanically rang my property manager and insurance company. Took notes. Wrote down numbers. Made a list of things to do tomorrow. Rang the hospital.

Waited for the smoke to clear.

Then asked myself if it was okay to cry yet.

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The nightmare

Five weeks into the nightmare that totalled the bedroom and bathroom of our rental, the cloying smell of smoke had lessened, replaced by the smokescreens of multiple insurers, and the ever-present stain of what those unfortunate enough to rent are reminded of constantly: you have no power.

You might, like me, have lucked onto a great landlord and property manager, but when push comes to shove with strata companies, building management, multiple claim assessors and three insurance companies, if you’re not the proud owner of a mortgage, you go to the back of the line in terms of communication.

Fire damage in Debbie Schipp's apartment.

Questions on where repairs are at? Strata’s insurers won’t talk to tenants, only landlords.

Has a builder been appointed? Silence.

Is there a timeline for this to happen? Silence.

Can we get a new client manager who actually answers emails? Silence.

I asked the strata company did they represent my building? “Hello Debbie,” the email reply began, “can you confirm you are an owner?”

There was, I was told multiple times by multiple people, “a process”. Nobody ever was able to articulate that process, but I was assured, there was one.

It was apparently why contracts for repairs sat unsigned for a week. Why nothing could be touched until a strata assessor came. Until that information, I was told, was wrong, and assessors could have visited a week ago. “Process” also appeared the reason nobody could explain just how long things would take and why. And the reason I spent two hours a day on the phone in queues to an insurance call centre. And apparently the reason I couldn’t deal with the same person twice, nobody would return calls, and some people just didn’t have to. “Process” also appeared to be the reason a shattered front window which left the place unsecured in August wouldn’t be replaced until late November. And was then the wrong size. Anger and frustration quickly became a part of my daily “process”.

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The smoke never quite comes out

At the Royal North Shore burns unit, the nurse carefully removed the latest dressing, surveyed the wreckage of my partner’s hand — burns look far worse before they look better — and unflinchingly cut away the dead skin. “We’re great pickers here,” she said matter-of-factly.

Fire damage in Debbie Schipp's bedroom.

She patiently redressed, rebandaged, and headed off to treat someone far worse off than us — with burns to 60 per cent of her body — a job that would take hours.

Meanwhile, we reeled from friends’ houses to hotel, to friends’ houses and back again.

Contents insurance picked up the difference in rent and accommodation costs, but with few places able to accommodate dogs, choices were thin on the ground. A close friend handed over her house keys. “Just leave the dog there whenever you need to,” she said.

“Take what you’ll need,” the claims assessor said. In a haze of shock and grief I grabbed a few weeks worth of stinking clothes, put them in a stinking suitcase. Nobody told me then we’d need four months worth. Or that you can wash and wash and wash — at the laundromat because we had no washing machine any more — but the smoke never quite comes out.

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Moments of hope

They were rare, but there were high points.

The no-nonsense man from my contents insurer who after several weeks recognised I’d done the work nobody else would get to, itemised values of lost possessions, with links to the replacement goods and some corrections in their favour - and carefully went through it and approved the full claim.

Jess at JB HiFi, having been through a fire herself wrapped me in her arms and said “forget about the price for now, we’ll do something about that, just choose the replacement”.

RestorX, the company charged with cataloguing and salvaging what they could of our possessions, disposing of what they couldn’t, were remarkable. The salvageable stuff was returned, after being after carefully stored and painstakingly wrapped, when at last we had somewhere to put it. They treated it with respect, knowing whatever it’s worth, it mattered to us.

Smoke damage in the bathroom.

After the first few weeks, it was a relief to shower and not smell smoke as the hot water hit my hair. Then my hair began to frizz, and break — damaged beyond repair by smoke and stress.

My hairdresser cut inches off it, treated it, then refused payment, hugging me tight as the tears came at her unexpected kindness.

My work was great. Never raising an eyebrow as I came and went clocking up cab fares I’d never be able to claim to allow another stranger into our home and lives to assess the damage, catalogue meagre possessions, then leave with vague promises about reports and timing and ‘process’.

They forgave my angry phone outbursts. Quietly comforted me, picked up the slack and sent me home — or wherever home was that week — when tears of frustration surfaced.

My partner’s work not so much. He realised his sick leave had run out when they quietly docked his pay.

He returned, burn glove on hand, to a month-high workload and the words “here’s barbecue Paul”.

But he was buoyed by the colleague who asked him sincerely if his family needed anything. Clothes for his wife? Could she cook for us? “I came to this country with nothing,” she said. “What do you need?”

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“What do you need? What do you need?”

So many friends and relatives asked us that. So many more are asking now as thousands of victims of devastating bushfires reel from the loss of life as they know it.

Nothing is normal. There’s no familiar place for them to take respite, to close the door and cry.

As I tried to salvage the few weeks of clothes and personal items I thought we’d need, I couldn’t answer the question. I was making it up as I went along.

In the grand scheme of things we didn’t lose much — but there were things that cut to the core.

This is all that was left of a favourite pair of heels.

The charred and sodden box of handwritten letters from my partner which couldn’t be saved.

Treasures gathered on overseas trips that were more valuable for the memories they evoked than the dollars we’d shelled out.

People offered clothes and furniture. Generous offers. I’d smile and say thanks, but we had nowhere to put them.

To those trying to help, don’t underestimate the value of doing a load of stinking washing, housing pets safely and lovingly, an uncomplicated dinner where the victims can talk — or not. And hugs. Don’t underestimate hugs. Long after the flames have been extinguished.

There will soon come a time when donations of food and clothing won’t be needed. The stark reality is that cash matters. Whether it comes from donations or an insurance payout doesn’t matter. Cash doesn’t just foot the bills. It restores victims’ power. Returns to them the sense of choice and control and dignity which has been snatched away. That’s when you start living again, rather than just surviving.

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What I didn’t need

Almost five months on, I know what we needed.

I needed to not spend hours emailing and on the phone, daily, chasing up people who just wouldn’t do their jobs — insurance companies, faceless report-writers, tradies.

I didn’t need condescending comments about the mysterious “process”. I didn’t need people to tell me I was “lucky” it had only taken months to set things right, that some wait a year.

I didn’t need, when I knew damn well things were delayed because someone wasn’t doing their job, to be patronisingly fobbed off and told to be patient.

I needed to not have to get up every single day and check my list of who needed to be called. I needed to not have to spend four months angry and fighting just to get my life back.

I needed my partner healed.

What was left of Debbie Schipp's bedroom carpet after the fire.

I needed power. And action. And to be treated with dignity. And straight answers.

They went up in smoke amid too much obfuscation and pure bullshit.

What you need most at times like this is to know you’ve somewhere to stay not just tonight, but for the next few weeks, and months. A place for you, and whatever you have left. You’ve lost your home, the place you return to each night. Your safe place.

Nothing is familiar.

For the many victims of fires now displaced and floundering, I can advise a few things.

Keep a diary — daily — and write it all down. Every conversation. Every name. Every phone number. Every exchange. Keep every email. It will keep it all straight in your head. It will keep people accountable. And it will help you make your way through the logistical nightmare to come. You’ll look back on it and find things happened you can’t even remember — which sometimes is a good thing.

Fight. Be relentless. Polite, firm, and relentless. Don’t be fobbed off by process. Complain loud and long when you aren’t getting what you need to get your life back.

Equally, say thanks, quickly, and sincerely, verbally and in writing, when someone does their job.

Take care of yourself — don’t ever underestimate the mental impact of losing, even temporarily, the solid comfort of a roof over your head. Not a substitute roof.

Grieve for possessions you’ve lost. It’s not materialistic. It’s normal.

Accept help. Mental. Physical. Financial. It’s OK not to be OK.

I wish you strength. I wish you relief. I wish you speedy resolution. I wish you peaceful sleep.

I wish you freedom from “process”.

I wish you a life free of the acrid smell of smoke.