Silent, and a shame(d)

 

   My neighbors are moving. 

   I don’t remember if the young couple moved into the bright yellow and white house right across the street before or after my spinal surgery about seven years ago, but it was roughly, very roughly, around that time.  From my front window, I was intrigued by the punk-rock husband with his tattoos and his band t-shirts who didn’t seem to work and who did the yard work, hung up Christmas lights and sometimes played guitar in the front yard – there might have been a few band practices over there after they first moved in – and by the wife who always smiled and who always seemed to be pregnant.  Indeed, most remarkable, I watched the couple have four boys – four boys! – over the years.  The oldest looks to be about 7; I remember when he was a toddler.  Several weeks ago, the whole family was out washing one of their cars, with the new toddler watching from a stroller. 

   Now they are moving, and I’m sad.  I’m sad that I won’t see this family grow, that I won’t be able to see the boys get older, go to junior high school and high school. 

   I’m also pissed.  I’m mad that I never found out what the father does and if he did or does play in a band.  I’m mad that I never found out the boys’ names. 

   I’m pissed at myself, pissed that I never went over and talked to them.  Just talked to them! 

   It sounds simple – going over and saying hi, like good neighbors supposedly do, but I guess it’s not for me.  For me, it’s more than being shy. 

   I’ve been thinking about this over the last year, especially after attending a memorial of the mother of a few kids I grew up with.  I realized, as we greeted each other awkwardly, that I never spoke to them, because I felt bad, embarrassed that my speech is hard to understand.  I was ashamed of my speech (and probably of being disabled).

   When I was in Santa Barbara last month, I saw an old friend who’s about my age.  We talked about getting older, and he mentioned that he’s having a hard time finding friends who are younger than he is.  I’m having the same problem.  I want to find people who are younger – people like my neighbors who are now leaving – to be friends with.  It is hard enough, as my friend can attest, and it doesn’t help that I am ashamed to talk. 

   That’s a real shame. 

The Big Yellow House (no longer)

 

   On the drive north from Los Angeles along the coast on Highway 101 (and 1), right before Montecito, home of Oprah Winfrey and Prince Harry and Megan, and Santa Barbara, is the small, unassuming town of Summerland.  For all my life, as long as I can remember, there was a restaurant there along the highway called The Big Yellow House which was, literally, a big yellow house.  (It was actually one – the first? – of a small chain of big yellow houses known for being, literally, big yellow houses and for serving Thanksgiving dinner every day.) It was pretty much a landmark. 

   Last month, I went to Santa Barbara for a few days, and when passing through Summerland, I saw that the big yellow house is no longer The Big Yellow House.  The house is still there, but it’s now a furniture store (perhaps appropriately enough, in a house), and it’s not yellow but off-white or a very pale yellow.  What’s most interesting is that the big The Big Yellow House sign was still there, somewhat faded, along the highway – perhaps in recognition of its status as a landmark?  Or maybe as a memorial?

   It occurred to me, as I passed through, that it was like my life.  Or lives. 

   Ever since my spinal surgery seven years ago, it has been like I have a new life.  At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.  The surgery left me far more disabled, being able to do less and having to do things in other ways. As I’ve written about before, this means I’ve had to make many adjustments including to my attitude and mindset, like being satisfied with sticking around Claremont most of the time and not always traveling as I used to and not going so far when I do travel. 

   Although I’ve made progress on this adjusting, it is, as I’ve also written about here, not easy.  The fact is that my old life, my life before the surgery, is still and always will be there – somewhat faded.  As the song goes, there is always something there to remind me of what I used to be able to do, of where I used to be able to go, of the way I used to do things.  It doesn’t help that I keep doing or trying to do things, like going to all of the concerts and performances at the colleges here, that I used to do (and I was getting tired of keeping up with it all before my surgery!).

   What makes it so hard is not that or just that my disability is worse. I am more disabled, because I have a new disability. I now have a spinal cord injury – the surgery to remove a virus damaged my spine, leaving me paralyzed from the chest down and only able to move my neck and my left arm to a limited extent (and also with considerable neuropathic pain). On top of, layered on, the Cerebral Palsy that I was born with. After all that it took for me to learn to live, to make a life, with Cerebral Palsy, I now, in my 60’s, have to learn to live and make a life, with a lot of new ways of doing things, with a spinal cord injury.   

   What’s hard is that, although my old structure, my old life, is still there with its signs, although somewhat faded, I am no longer The Big Yellow House.