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Hurricane Katrina was one of the most devastating tragedies in American history. When Katrina slammed the Gulf Coast and ravaged the city of New Orleans in August of 2005, I was working for HUD in Oklahoma City. One day, our quiet office housed a team of twelve foreclosure specialists. The next week, our staff grew to more than three hundred Katrina Disaster Relief reps. Our job: assist affected homeowners with mortgage issues and aid those on rental assistance with relocation efforts.

At the time Katrina hit, I had my own personal issues. The demands of taking care of my aging father as well as my son who was having trouble in school were wearing me thin. Coupled with the overtime that the disaster required, I left the office most days emotionally drained. How could I help others when I was struggling myself?

Since our hotline was given prominent media exposure, we handled thousands of calls per day, many of which had nothing to do with housing needs. Evacuees had limited contact with the outside world since their cell phones had died and their laptops had floated away. Sitting for days in crowded makeshift shelters miles from home, they waited and waited―just for a chance to use the phone. Our phone lines never quit ringing.

I spoke with countless victims who were desperately trying to locate family members lost in the flood. They all needed assistance with housing, food and clothing. The monumental task of rebuilding or relocating was overwhelming. I listened to story after story of horrid details: families who lost every piece of furniture, every article of clothing, every picture ever taken. Cherished mementos and every remnant of their past―gone forever.

Very few had jobs to which they could return, so paychecks quit coming and money ran out. Devastation set like concrete. It took weeks before any federal assistance was available to the majority. Some received none.

At times, I would just wipe my eyes and say, “I’m so sorry.” That was it. What else could I say? They knew I hadn’t suffered like they had. They knew I was in a dry office building somewhere in Oklahoma City. I still had my home... my job... my family. Bottom line―my life hadn’t been ransacked like theirs had. Many days I wondered how I could think my issues were relevant considering what they faced.

Even though we were there to help, the trauma made some callers demanding, rude or belligerent. Some were impatient and hysterical. Some were suicidal. Normally, I was sympathetic and enjoyed helping others, but with all the negativity, it was hard to stay positive and encouraging. Just when I thought I had heard it all, I got a call from Brenda.

Brenda was a single woman in her early fifties with no children. She was all alone and had been living in a crowded shelter in Houston for the past month. Due to the number of hurricane victims who had been evacuated to Houston, there was no way to know how much longer it would be before temporary housing was available. When I asked her how she was coping, this is what she said to me: “I’ve heard that my house is still underwater and at this point, I have no idea if rebuilding is even a possibility. The hardest part of all of this, though, is seeing the elderly suffer. The young have longer to recover, but many of the elderly have no other resources.”