Displaced, Disabled, Uncertain

What’s it like to feel like a displaced person? In my case, I was catapulted by an earthquake from which I never expected to survive.

Disabled for the last three years, using a wheelchair, a grandmother of five but surviving independently as a writer, I had a network of supportive friends and a spiritual group who met monthly to discuss the sense that God talks to us all the time. All we had to do was listen.

The tragedy and horror that occurred on Jan. 17 in the San Fernando Valley told me two things. I’d been miraculously saved, so maybe God was there. And I have been taken in by my son and his family here in Orange County. So I’m not a street person or a tent person.

But I am still a refugee since this house was not built for a disabled person, let alone a displaced one.

My daughter-in-law has been very good to me. But she has a life--they all have a life here. And I have lost mine, which cannot be reclaimed in this dependent state in which I find myself.

I cannot bring myself to go back to Los Angeles. My building was evacuated. Even if I could return, how can I, as a disabled person, living alone on the third floor, return to the shakers and tremors and hope that a miracle rescuer will happen along once again?

I’ve thought of moving to Massachusetts where my daughter lives. But it’s cold-cold-cold.

I’ve certainly thought of moving out of earthquake California, the place I’ve loved since I moved here 23 years ago. Six months later, the Sylmar quake hit. Scared! Scared! I was 10 miles from the epicenter, but, spirited enough, I stayed.

Unless you were actually in it--and we Californians have been through a number of nudges, pokes and violent hits from the ground beneath us--you can empathize with us Northridge quake people, but you cannot truly feel.

I know I must find a place to restart my own life. My son will help me get together whatever is left of my possessions.

My grandchildren, lucky Orange County kids, don’t have the nightmares Los Angeles schoolchildren are suffering.

The fires in Laguna Beach were a terrible sight I’d watched on TV. But when a fire is over, it’s basically over.

Not so with an earthquake. For years to come, the Valley will do its macabre war dances, and I just can’t be one of those people Mayor (Richard) Riordan talks about who will be brave and get it all back together again.

California, I don’t want to leave you. Do I stay, take my chances in Orange County, find my own place, or flee?

What to do? How to get placed again? This is what I think of days and nights when I turn the lights back on because I am remembering once again the violence of the earth.

I know in my heart there was a reason I was saved. I’m just not sure I know what it is.