Free at Last : Housing: Severely disabled United Cerebral Palsy clients move to Panorama City apartment in bid for independence.

His first home was the McClay Facility, an institution in Sylmar for 141 disabled people who bunked five to a room and dined in a large communal hall. Mercifully, McClay closed in 1985, 10 years after he had moved in.

After that he got a room to himself in a licensed group home for 15, also in Sylmar, Hubbard Estates. Life was better there, but it was still an institution.

Now, on a day that would be alternately exhilarating and frightening, Charles (Scott) Daniel was preparing to make one more move, this time to the home he had wanted since the day in the 1970s when his father drove him from Texas to take advantage of California’s programs for the disabled.

Daniel was leaving Hubbard Estates to begin apartment living.

“I’ve been waiting 32 years to do this,” he said haltingly, with a charming smile, as he sat in his wheelchair in Hubbard Estates’ main hallway waiting for the moving van to arrive, one moment somber, another breaking into emotion, then fidgeting with impatience.

It would be the most radical change of Daniel’s 32 years--the transition from total dependence to life on his own, with his own key, his own money and his own bills to pay.

Daniel is one of 15 clients of United Cerebral Palsy of Los Angeles and Ventura Counties who this month moved to a federally subsidized building for the disabled that opened in Panorama City.

The complex relocation, involving residents from several group homes, was part of a federally sponsored test of the proposition that even the most severely disabled can live more happily and, on average, at less cost to the state in their own homes.

“It’s part of a nationwide movement to get people out and truly integrated in their communities instead of someplace that is licensed,” said Randy Ferguson, manager of the Adult and Family Support Services Branch of the California Department of Developmental Services. Although United Cerebral Palsy has long been establishing independent living for its clients, Daniel and the other 14 who moved with him are extending the concept to a new level because their disabilities are so severe they need daily assistance.

“It’s the first move for individuals with such significant disabilities,” said Linda Jones, director of day programs for United Cerebral Palsy. “The majority of the individuals already out there do not use wheelchairs, do not have the degree of physical limitation.”

It doesn’t promise to be a snap. Daniel, who is far from the most severely disabled in the group, has no use of his legs and limited use of his hands. Though he deftly guides his motorized wheelchair with a joystick at his side, he must be lifted from bed each morning, toileted and bathed by attendants, dressed, served his meals and bedded down.

From now on, attendants and counselors will visit Daniel’s apartment to carry out those necessary chores.

The money to pay for that help will come from a $100-million Medicaid program called Community Supported Living Arrangements. The money is being divided among eight states over five years.

The Department of Developmental Services matched the federal money and distributed its share to seven of the state’s 21 regional centers for the developmentally disabled. In Los Angeles County, the Northeast and Westside regional centers were selected to participate in the program. They, in turn, contracted with agencies such as United Cerebral Palsy to provide their clients the training, equipment and attendant care needed to live in their own homes.

Basic furnishing for the Panorama City units came from the defunct McClay Facility, but United Cerebral Palsy was not able to provide some amenities, such as couches, end tables and extra bedding. It’s looking for donations to make these homes complete.

Daniel and the others prepared nearly a year for the move. In classes at United Cerebral Palsy’s Van Nuys headquarters, where they were driven each day by van, they learned how to catch buses, microwave their dinners and budget their money.

Daniel, and Victor Yee, 26, a housemate at Hubbard Estates, were selected to be in the first group of four to move. After being given a send-off by their housemates the night before, they were up and waiting early in the morning.

But the complex shuffle of furnishings--done by four United Cerebral Palsy staff members, who donned shorts and lifting belts for the day--didn’t go quickly. They began the day by moving 15 sets of beds, dressers and kitchen equipment from storage to the new apartments, then went back for personal belongings.

Daniel and Yee found themselves waiting in the darkened hallway of the Hubbard Street home after the other residents left for the day’s classes.

During the three-hour wait, they spoke of their aspirations, with Daniel interpreting for Yee, who struggled intensely to form each word.

Yee is studying algebra at Mission College and wants to earn a degree and become an architect or engineer.

He also planned to have his mother deliver his drum set from her house so he can begin playing again. Yee sent a letter to all the other tenants informing them that he would only play on weekend afternoons from 1 to 5. Before having his apartment, he preferred to play the drums only at his parents’ home.

Daniel has a sweetheart at Hubbard Estates and hopes to marry her in a year or two, after he learns to manage his own independence. But he was worried because his fiancee, Leigh Baker, had gone to the hospital with a kidney problem.

“I wanted to take her out to dinner, but she got sick,” he said. “So I bought her a bouquet of roses for $29.”

He hoped she would return in time to see him off.

At 1 p.m., a van drove into the parking lot. Daniel excitedly steered his wheelchair to the glass front door to greet her.

“Yep, it has to be Leigh,” he said breathlessly, when the attendant opened the back panel door to draw a wheelchair onto a lift. But the wheelchair was empty.

“Oh, that’s not Leigh,” he said, almost weeping. “Ohhh.”

Baker, who didn’t return from the hospital in time to see him off, remains a resident at Hubbard Estates. Leaving her behind was his only regret, Daniel said.

Yee’s only regret was moving farther away from Mission College. He said he’ll have to learn a new bus route.

At 1:30, a chipper program director named Ricardo Montanez arrived and asked Daniel and Yee if they were ready.

Exchanging goodby hugs with a few of the staff--one had cared for Daniel for 14 years--they wheeled to the van.

Fifteen minutes later, Montanez lowered them from the van at a 39-unit apartment building on Gledhill Street, half a block from Van Nuys Boulevard.

“Free at last,” Daniel said with a raised fist, as he drove out of the van. Yee smiled approvingly.

In one way, their new home fell short of the ideal envisioned by the federal Community Supported Living Arrangements program, which is to fully integrate the disabled into a real community.

Each new resident had the option of moving into any apartment of their choice, but all chose the advantages of a building conceived and built for the handicapped, with wide halls, lever door handles and wheel-in showers, Jones said.

All the new residents chose it in preference to subsidized apartments in non-handicapped buildings, said Jones.

For Daniel and Yee, the distinction hardly seemed important.

Russell Zuckerman, United Cerebral Palsy community living services program director, met them at the door, handed them their keys and led them to their rooms, Yee on the second floor and Daniel on the third.

With nervous, untrained fingers neither could get the key into the lock. They also had trouble getting through the automatically closing doors. It would take time.

While the moving went on for several more hours, Daniel and Yee confronted idleness.

Daniel exercised his new liberty: without asking anyone for permission--one of the rules at Hubbard Estates--he tipped his joystick forward, motored to Van Nuys Boulevard and made his way down the sidewalk on a half-hour jaunt.

As the afternoon wore on, he occasionally emitted a spontaneous “Yeah.”

But, once, when left alone in his room, he grew anxious and took the elevator downstairs to sit beside the van where the counselors were still unloading.

About 5 p.m., aides arrived to tend to Daniel and Yee.

They unpacked new dishes, towels and microwaves--being careful to ask the men where they wanted each item placed--and made up the beds.

Soon counselors arrived with the first night’s groceries. In the future, the residents would accompany the counselors to the store to make their choices and pay the bills.

With independence comes responsibility and what Jones calls “the dignity of risk.”

In Daniel’s former life, his $650 monthly Social Security checks were deposited directly to the management of his group homes which gave him $32 per month for personal expenses. From now on, he’ll receive the check directly. He’ll pay 30% for rent and then have to budget the rest. Before his first day of independence was over, Daniel began to feel the weight of that responsibility.

“Cheryl, there’s so much here that I have to get used to,” he said to his first visitor, a young woman who was moving into the unit next to his. She was an old friend who had left her group home a year before to room with a disabled married couple.

“I’m afraid that people may think I’m more capable than I really am.”

He paused and then went on: “Do you think if I’m not as capable as people think, I’ll still have a right to live in my own apartment?”

Cheryl smiled beautifully, but couldn’t really answer, her muscles unwilling to form the words. Her wrists were restrained to keep her from injuring herself. She negotiated her wheelchair by pressing a knob with her cheek.

“When you moved into your place, was it everything you expected?”

“No,” she said.

“You happy now?”

“Yeah,” she said.