We have all heard the phrase, “it takes a village,” but never has a phrase been more apt to encompass my life including my gratitude, my luck, my love of the street I live on and the friends and neighbors who have turned into chosen family.
Alone but not Lonely
Society today, despite evidence stating that single childless women are the happiest group, demonizes and looks down upon a solo woman. I mean men get bachelor and women get spinster. Marriage is touted as the goal to attain. A husband is the end-all be-all of life. Children are a forgone conclusion because who else will take care of you when you’re old? More and more I feel compelled to share my story in this way because there are thousands of ways to live a happy and fulfilled life. Being single does not mean you are alone. Romantic relationships are not necessarily the deepest or most impactful. Family is not a proverbial trump card.
During my recent hospital stay, several medical professionals titled their head, assumed a pitying tone of voice and said, “Do you STILL live alone?” Having no poker face I replied “yes” and tried to convey my annoyance at their question ripe with condescension and judgement. But I would pause and realize most people don’t have the powerhouse support system that I do. Most people can’t comprehend the Mr. Rodgers-esque street I live on. The assumption that I’ve experienced, is that if I live alone, I must therefore be alone. And nothing could be farther from the truth, farther from my reality. The chosen friendships I’ve built and invested in are the foundation of my life.
My village, both near and far, is unparalleled and exceptional.
Eight years ago, I moved into my home. I remember my realtor saying, “Oh this is a highly sought after street,” and thinking she probably said that about all streets. Turns out she wasn’t lying, and I can confirm that unequivocally, I do live on the best street there is.
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Less than two weeks after getting the keys to my first home and moving in, a massive tree in the front yard split, cracked, and crashed, narrowly missing both my roof and the original bay window at the front of my house. I woke in the wee hours of the morning, dazed and confused, and ran to the window. Seeing my front yard strewn with a downed tree, I ran downstairs and out the front door without a care for what I was wearing or how I looked. I still look back at that moment as my true induction into suburban living, homeownership, neighborhood watch, and the wonders that are my neighbors.
Wearing barely-there booty shorts, a t-shirt, no bra, and crazy morning hair, I stood on my front lawn. As I tried to wake up, I think I googled “What do I do with a downed tree in my yard?” Home ownership is a steep learning curve after a lifetime of renting and on-site maintenance.
My next-door neighbors, Joe and Donna, emerged in the front yard, awake despite it being sometime in the 6am hour, to introduce themselves. As I held my breasts up with my arm and tried not to flash anyone my booty, I casually shook hands, introduced myself, and was warmly welcomed to the neighborhood. Two sets of neighbors from across the street walked over as well. Each person shook my hand, welcomed me, and casually offered assistance and a chain saw (no joke, three people had one readily available). Joe and Donna decided on the spot that they would throw a casual get together that evening with wine and snacks. That turned out to be the first of many intimate and informal gatherings together in our homes.
It’s only in hindsight that you realize a moment forever, irrevocably changes your life. You don’t know who you are moving next to, what relationships will form, or what is even possible when you buy a house. I love Joe and Donna with all my heart and feel like I hit the neighbor jackpot. Thank goodness for that broken tree, a hilarious meeting, and neighbors who turned into friends, who became family.
Joint Custody
Fast forward ten months and they were over at my house enjoying a perfect Ohio summer evening, dining al fresco, and having wine on the patio. I mentioned how desperately I wanted a dog. Sadly, both my then-husband and I worked full time and felt guilty about a puppy being alone all day. Without hesitation, Joe and Donna said, “If only you had retired neighbors who love dogs and could let a dog out during the day.” I remember walking inside my home, grabbing a spare key and a bottle of Prisoner wine, and shaking hands on the deal. Their openness and generosity meant I could get a dog without guilt.
Months later when I finally found my sweet pup Oyster, I brought him home and he ran over to Joe and Donna. Joe — then and now — is without a doubt Oyster’s favorite person on the planet. I can’t even be mad or jealous. I truly believe he thinks both houses and yards are his. Oyster was instantly loved, instantly spoiled, instantly welcomed into their home, despite living in mine. When I’m in the hospital — planned or unplanned — they have looked after him. I can concentrate on treatment and healing knowing he is well looked after.
Distorted Perceptions
In disability, I often feel a burden to those around me. Despite every person telling me otherwise, I hate that I can’t be as self-sufficient as I would like or as I used to be. I loathe asking for help with a simple-to-them task. I berate myself for not trying hard enough to show just how OK I am. I detest my diminished capacity. And I’m waiting with bated breath for the moment when what I ask for proves too much.
I am not a burden. I am not a burden. I am not a burden. I am not a burden.
I might finally believe the words the more I say it; the more I write it out.
It’s funny how living with someone who claims to love you but gives you the bare minimum completely alters your perception of what is normal. I can’t even begin to describe the effusive gratitude with which I thank my neighbors and the baffled look that accompanies their response of, “it’s not a big deal.” To me it’s a huge deal, a monumental deal, a life-changing deal. The truth is I am relearning what love is, what support is. Because, I am in fact loved. People help me because they want to and can.
I am not a burden.
How do they help me? Let me count the ways.
Joe and Donna help me in 10,000 ways every day. They are emotional and physical support. They are safety and back up. They are friendship and concern. They text and check in. They walk Oyster. They cut my grass. They include me.
In the early days following transplant, they wanted to get together for dinner and so they not only made the meal but brought it to me in my home. They are aware of ableism, actively combat it now when they see it, and always offer to make the extra effort — carry the thing, lift the item, move the furniture. They even painted my sunroom!
More than anything, they think about me, my health, my healing, my happiness. There is no artifice. They frequently remind me that our friendship works both ways and they also get a tremendous amount of joy and fulfillment from our relationship– from being neighbors.
I am able to live independently because of them. I cherish my time and space living alone, because I am never lonely. I feel safe and secure, because I know they are near. I feel taken care of, seen, held, and understood.
Have you ever gotten home from a big event and realized you forgot to take photos? You were so busy with your friends, talking and laughing, and against all odds living in the moment that you forgot to document it? That is my relationship with Joe and Donna. I have thousands of quiet moments, shared bottles of wine, dinners, Christmas Eves, quick morning chats, hand-delivered croissants, and calling after Oyster when he has inevitably gone to hang out in their yard. I have millions of special, cherished memories and only one single photo of the three of us together. In all the years we’ve been neighbors, we’ve only ever eaten out at a restaurant together one time and that happened LAST YEAR!
While this post highlights Joe and Donna, I would be remiss in neglecting everyone else on my street. I live on a street that has a summer block party complete with food, beverages, sometimes bouncy houses for the kids, and a visit from a police car and fire truck. One neighbor throws a wine and pie party after trick or treating for the adults during Halloween. Much like all dog owners, you get to know the individuals with pets and their dogs’ names before you learn the human names. But after years, you are known to your neighbors through impromptu casual conversations. My friend’s daughter when asked her address recites, “Oyster’s street!” Her answer is in fact, technically correct albeit not especially helpful to strangers or emergency personnel.
When an ambulance arrives at my house, the neighbors reach out to see if I need anything. They text and call Donna knowing she is always in the know. I had meals made fresh and dropped off at my backdoor during isolation precautions with fresh-cut flowers and hand-written notes. One neighbor wished me the heartiest of congratulations following my divorce and dropped off wine to celebrate my excellent life decisions. One family on my street walks my dog and comes over for wine and cheese nights. Another neighbor/friend has coffee with me every Wednesday morning before work. Everyone knows, walks, and loves Oyster. The one-time Oyster ran away, multiple families jumped into action canvasing for my pup. With one text, people were volunteering to help.
During winter, my walkways are shoveled before I have my first cup of coffee. I’ll get a text letting me know I have a package with an offer to bring it in from outside. My neighbors check in on me. They love and take care of Oyster. People wave, smile, and are invested in my health and recovery. The village I live in is essential to my healing and happiness.
I have the best neighbors. I have a village surrounding me with support, assistance, compassion, friendship, and love. In my darkest days and moments, I am buoyed by this knowledge. I find moments of light that combat the darkness in the special bonds I’ve built.
Since transplant, I ponder living arrangements that would be easier. I don’t need the huge house I own. Life would be easier with no stairs, laundry on the first floor, less things to maintain. But the cost/benefit analysis of a one-story living situation always falls short to the massive support system I currently have. It’s not even a close race. There’s no contest.
To Joe and Donna: Thank you for your endless generosity and kindness. I appreciate your time and seemingly endless energy and the myriad of ways you give of yourselves. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m eternally grateful.
Oyster and I love you more than words can convey and are elated you are an integral part of our family.
My Chronic Library 