Mother of a special needs son loses home in Eaton Fire

"What Else Can Go Wrong?" – Help Us Rebuild After Unimaginable Loss

I'm a mother of 3 beautiful kids, a special needs mom and a medical mom.

I never thought I’d be writing this. I never thought I’d lose everything—not just our home, but the fragile stability I fought so hard to build for my kids, especially my youngest, Nehemiah.

In January, the Eaton Canyon fire here in East Altadena California took our home in just eight minutes. We left with nothing but the clothes on our backs. No time to grab Nehemiah’s medical equipment—tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of supplies, gone. Machines that kept him alive, specialized tools for his care, all turned to ash.

Then, in March, while still displaced, my truck was totaled in a crash. And now, because of the small donations that kept us afloat, we’ve lost our benefits. No insurance for Nehemiah. No SSI. No safety net. The money we’ve gotten is burning away just trying to keep a roof over our heads—hotel after hotel, because Nehemiah can’t stay in a shelter. His immune system is too weak. One cold could land him in the hospital.

My son is five years old and has fought for every breath since the day he was born. He has cerebral palsy, a colostomy bag, a feeding tube, and his intestines sit outside his body. He has 18 complex conditions, including epilepsy, sleep apnea, and a rare genetic disorder. Every day is a battle, and right now, we’re losing ground.

Before the fire, we had finally gotten him the care he needed—nurses, doctors, an IEP in place after years of fighting. Now? It’s all gone. If we have to move, we start from scratch. No doctors. No nursing care. No school support. Years of progress, wiped out.

Nehemiah is regressing. His little victories—things he worked so hard to learn—are slipping away. Surgeries are being postponed. Appointments canceled. We’re stuck in survival mode, and I’m watching my son pay the price.

We need a home. Not just any home—one that can accommodate his medical needs. One where he’s safe. Once we find it, we’ll need furniture, supplies, and the means to rebuild his care team.

I’ve spent five years fighting for Nehemiah. I won’t stop now. But I can’t do this alone. If you can help—even just a little—it means one less night in a hotel. One step closer to stability. One less thing standing between my son and the care he deserves.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading, for sharing, for seeing us in this impossible moment.

—Bridgette, Nehemiah, and family

P.S. If you can’t give, please share. Every signal boost gets us closer to safety.