The first time it hit me was a Sunday morning in April, the year my first-born son was a junior in high school. My husband and I were on our usual outing, grabbing bagels for the kids and time for coffee and conversation on our own. There was no hurry as both kids were still sprawled in their beds, sleeping the sleep of the
adolescent - truly exhausted and deeply entitled.We sat in the middle of Einstein’s Bagels and idly discussed our recent college visits– the schools we could picture him adapting to, or not– when the earth tilted and I understood for the first time that he would really leave – and break up the happy home I had poured my heart and soul into for all those years. The tears started, right in front of anyone who chose to look, mine streaming and his only welling up. After minutes of trying to stop, I left, and stumbled out into the next phase of life – the Letting Go era.
I have snapshots burned into my memory documenting the journey from that moment to the actual goodbye –the swirl of red robes at graduation, heartbreaking trips to Bed Bath and Beyond for the essentials of dorm life, my son happily sorting through shower totes and bedspreads, me searching the eyes of other moms to see if they were adjusting better than I was.
Finally, the three of us drove to Brown, leaving a disgruntled younger sister at home to start the school year under Grandma’s supervision. In a Cape Cod hotel lobby I witnessed a scene that said it all. A young mom was leaving for the airport, briefcase in hand, as her little boy followed with his dad. He called, “Mommy, here I am! Wait for me.” He couldn’t imagine that she was going without him. I could relate. My son put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Oh no. Oh Mom,” with a chuckle, and shot his dad a helpless glance.
At the freshman dorm, when all the excuses to stick around were exhausted, we left. In the courtyard we passed another couple standing in a wordless embrace, the mom with her eyes closed, the dad clasping his arms around her. That scene held all the hopes and agonies of getting your precious child this far and having to step aside.
More stories came our way. There was the sixty-ish dad who tearfully recalled his son’s departure fifteen years before, a mom who drove the long trip home because dad was too broken up, a new acquaintance who reminded me that there are worse ways to lose a child.
I know now that a river of inevitable grief runs just underneath family life, waiting for us to be tossed in. But 10 years later, having long ago climbed back out, I like this new era that I dreaded so much. My son is in Barcelona this week, my daughter the banker is coming out Thursday, and I am growing used to suiting myself rather than focusing on other people’s needs. We will no doubt be thrown into that river again, but we are practiced now and can look ahead with hope to the rewards we can’t see from here. Life is good, after all.
CBH 11/08
No comments:
Post a Comment