Saying Goodbye (Part Two) or What do we expect of our children?

          “I had a serious conversation with Gary before he left for college.  I am very worried about the level of his partying this past summer.  I reminded him rather strongly that he is going to college for an education not partying.  I want him to have fun but he needs to find the balance.  (Finding that balance is part of his maturation process).  Well, I should confess that “reminded” may not be a strong enough word.  I warned him.  I threatened him.  I used every tool available to me to let him know I expect him to get good grades and a good education.  That is why he is going to college.”  I ranted all of this to my friends during lunch one day last week.

          My one friend looked at me rather disapprovingly. I think she thought I was much too “tough”. I could also read on her face that she was shocked that Gary was such a partier.  She is one of those parents who believe her children are perfect and that they tell her everything that they do.   So I got defensive and I started doing even more tough talk and ranting, as if that would justify my position with her.  Afterwards I felt stupid that I had let this mother of “perfect” children make me feel bad about my own child and my own parenting skills.  I thought I was beyond that but I guess I still have my sensitive spots.  Maybe I always will.

         Her disapproval of Gary’s behavior and my parenting style got me thinking though.   I used to have a “secret agenda” for my children.  As I have matured as a parent, it has been refreshing and healthy to bring those agendas and expectations to the surface and look at them.  That is often a difficult thing to do as it is now.  Why am I so angry?  What is it I expect of Gary?  Oh I am clear what I expect in terms of grades and studies.  But I sensed there was some expectation beyond that immediate one that I was not being honest about with myself or him.  I started mentally wrestling with my “expectations”.

          I don’t want to say that Gary “owes” me because I don’t feel that way.  I have done for him for the past 18 years out of love, not duty.  The sense of duty was the mantra of my parent’s generation.  You owed your parents and would be required to do things for them like take care of them when they were no longer able to care for themselves.  Their relationship was based primarily on responsibility and duty.  I don’t want that to be the primary basis of my relationship with my children.  But in running away from a relationship based on duty we may have embraced a relationship based solely on what you “feel” like doing for the other person.   “We need to let our kids do their thing,” we say to each other.   But that attitude seems to totally eradicate certain important elements of our relationship, any relationship. 

          I don’t believe that Gary owes me in the way my parents believe I owe them or they owed their parents.   But I still feel he “owes” me something although I don’t like the word, “owes”.  Gary “owes” me respect for what I have done and sacrificed for him.   I want him to recognize my contributions and honor those contributions and me not by doing something specific for me but by building on the foundation I provided for him for the past 18 years.  He fulfills his obligation and honors me by, in college, getting good grades and a good education and, in life, by acting as a moral person.   I want him to recognize that he is not doing everything for or to himself.  If he fails it affects me and hurts me too.  I want him to think about that as he makes his decisions. 

           Perhaps that is what was meant in the Bible when it is said “Honor thy mother and father”.  I never understood that Commandment before.  I thought it meant something superficial like being polite and respectful to your parents.  But it is much deeper than that.  It means to honor the work and sacrifice your parents have made to get you to your adulthood.  Children honor their parents not with empty words, but with actions.  The actions I speak of are those that exhibit the values imbued in them and modeled for them by their parents. 
         That is my hope for Gary and ultimately what I expect from him.  I have given him a moral compass. He must learn to navigate with it.  This is the maiden voyage and I am afraid for him and for me. Therein lies the source of my anger.  Now that I understand my expectations and fears I can communicate them to Gary.  Of course this conversation will have to wait a while until Gary actually calls me from college!  What are your expectations for your children especially the young adults who are going out on their own for the first time?

Death and Love Together (Part Three)

         We seek and crave connections especially in our darkest hours but we really are alone. No one is experiencing what we are experiencing.  We are isolated in our despair.  Only those who are also experiencing it can understand it and share the burden and pain.  Brian was the one person who shared the experience with me.  But he was enveloped in his own dark world of fear and despair.  Physically Lou Gehrig’s disease deprived Brian of the ability to reach out and touch me.  Emotionally it rendered him incapable of reaching out and connecting with me.  I lost him the minute the diagnosis was given.  Our emotional connection was severed when the death sentence was pronounced.  I didn’t realize that at the time.  I so wanted to connect with him – to grow even closer to him for whatever time he had left.  But wishing doesn’t make it so.  What is that old expression?  “If wishes were horses beggars would ride.”  Brian was entirely wrapped up in his own world – a maze of fear, anxiety, regrets, physical pain, anger, remorse, hatred.  And I was angry with him for pushing me away.

All that remained was the memory of our great love.  That memory would have to sustain us for the few remaining years.  I was reminded of a car rambling down the last distance of road on the fumes from its once full gas tank.  Our lives were reduced to waiting for the end to come and trying to manage the final journey as gracefully as possible.  It was about wheelchairs, bedpans, feeding tubes, bedsores, insomnia, assisted showers, assisted trips to the bathroom and containing the rage and fear.  His pain was my pain and so we traveled down that long, dark road to death together but apart.

We were separated by a wall of silence and anger – his and mine.  I tried to talk to Brian about how I felt.  I often asked how he felt.  He was silent.  He would look at me with eyes filled with anger and hatred.  I suppose he thought it should have been obvious to me how he felt.

Eventually I stopped trying to connect with him.  I think Brian remained angry until the day he died.  I recently read that a person dies in the same way that he lived.  Brian was, in many ways, always a person filled with anger.  I couldn’t control how he chose to die.  I could only control how I chose to react to him and the situation.  My anger over his refusal or inability to connect faded.  I realized I had no right to judge him.  The answer for me was found by asking myself the question, “How do I know how I would be if I was the one dying a horrible and agonizing death?”  I had no right to presume I would handle it any differently or any better than Brian was handling it.  There was no right way to handle this – at least none that I know of.  How arrogant of me to presume that there was.  When I would become exasperated or impatient or angry with him I would ask myself that question. 

            When I first met him, one of the things I found attractive about Brian was the way he dressed.  I am not referring to the type of clothes that he wore.  They were not expensive.  But he was always neatly dressed.  Perhaps the best way I can explain it was that Brian was in the military and he continued many of those habits into his later life.  His clothes were always neatly pressed and he was always very well groomed.  He had beautiful hair.  I know that is a strange thing to say about a man but he did.  One of the nurses even commented on it when he spent some time in hospice care.  She described it as “U.S. Senator Hair.”  It was a beautiful gray color and very fine and soft.

Brian would wash and dry his hair each morning, comb it into place and then apply some hairspray.  Well the time inevitably came when Brian could no longer fix his own hair.  This happened early on in the disease or as soon as he could no longer use his left arm.  He had use of only one arm and you needed two to manage the hair dryer and the comb.  He was still going to the office at that time.  Brian was very particular about his appearance, especially his hair.   It became my task to style his hair every morning.  It was a huge process for me to try to get his hair to look like he did it.  I could never do it right.  He was usually disgusted with me because I never did it the way he did.  Disgusted may be too tame an adjective but I will leave it at that. 

After I dried and styled Brian’s hair I would dress him.  That was a bit easier at least at that point in time.  Brian’s balance was impaired but he was still able to steady himself on a counter or wall while standing.  Once he was fairly steady he would lift each leg and I would put his pant leg over his foot.  Unfortunately each day brought many more and new aggravations and limitations.

“You b****.  You whore.  You are so stupid.  How can anyone be as stupid as you are?  F*** you!  You are a piece of s***,” Brian shrieked at me.  Brian was staring at me and his entire face was contorted with rage and hatred.  “Get the f*** out of here,” he screamed at me.  I had just raised my head up from the floor where I had been putting on Brian’s slacks.  My hands are trembling as I write this. 

 I had felt something brush against my head after I bent down.  I realized that Brian had taken a swing at me with the fist of his good arm.  He missed me because I had ducked down to put on his pants.  It took me a minute to sort all this out.  I was stunned.  The look on Brian’s face was terrifying.  It was beyond rage.  “Get the f*** out of here,” he kept screaming at me.

I was shaking as I left the room.  “Close the f****** door on your way out you b****!” he screamed at me.  I left the bedroom and closed the door.  My whole body was shaking.  I felt like I was going to throw up.  I waited a little while and then I knocked on the door.  “Get away from that f****** door,” Brian screamed from inside the room.  I ran to the telephone and called one of his friends. 

“Richard I don’t know what to do.  Brian is in the bedroom and refuses to come out.  He is acting irrationally?  Can you come over?”  I asked.  I didn’t tell Richard about anything that had happened.  To his credit Richard came right over to the house.  Richard knocked at the bedroom door and announced his presence.  I heard Brian tell him to come in.  I have no idea what was said between them that morning.  Richard left after about an hour.  I went in and helped Brian get dressed.  He left for the office shortly thereafter.  After Brian left for the office I asked myself, “How do I know how I would act if I was the one dying a horrible and agonizing death?”  Brian and I never spoke about the events of that day.  

NOTE:  Life can be tremendously difficult and challenging but also tremendously rewarding if we cultivate the "right" attitudes toward those events and our lives.  This will become more apparent to you as this story unfolds.  I tell you this because it is not my intent  to make you feel depressed but to help you to cultivate attitudes in your own life that make even such times as those written above something you are grateful for.

"Real World" Advice

My most recent post was a bit out of character for me.  It was less philosophical and more "real world".  I was asked to post it on the website of life coach - Ann Daly.  If you have an on going career issue check out Ann's website for some good "real world" advice regarding such issues.  http://www.anndaly.com.  I will be back to my philosophical self -with a smattering of real world advice- tomorrow.

 

What about God? (Part Three)

“If you put me here I will block the aisle,” Brian said angrily.  I looked around for another place but there wasn’t any better place to put the wheelchair.  It wasn’t that people would get upset with us that we were blocking the aisle.   The issue was that Brian felt totally exposed and conspicuous sitting out there alone in the aisle.  People definitely stared at Brian from the moment we entered the church to the time we left.  Brian and I got something out of the church service so it was worth the embarrassment. 

The time church offered a respite from the demands of our daily lives.   It was a quiet time to mediate and contemplate.  We could forget, well almost, that Brian was dying.   Brian and I never talked about God but something about the service and being in church touched us and brought us closer together.   I can’t explain it any better than that.  That feeling would last for a few hours after we left until the demands of the terminal illness ravaged the feeling of comfort.

Time passed.  The chronic illness group meetings ended.  Brian’s condition worsened.  The memory of the nourishment of the group faded.  Oh I stayed in touch with the leaders of the group but it didn’t help.  Nothing helped ease the suffering, pain and anger.  Generally I was too tired to be angry.  Every day was an incredible struggle physically and emotionally.  I felt like a lone oxen pulling the wagon, loaded with Brian, the children, pain, sadness, anger up the steepest mountain known to mankind.   

I was just surviving and I felt lucky to be doing that.   My old unhealthy self, despite my best intentions, had taken control. With all of my resources being tapped to manage my daily life I did not have the strength to do anything but engage in survival mode.   The abyss was looming darker, colder and blacker than ever.

Eventually it was too difficult to get Brian to church.  We stopped attending.  No one seemed to miss us.

Brian would move from his bed to his special chair in the corner of the TV room to the bathroom and back.   If I had to leave the room, I would turn on the baby monitor which sat on the table next to him taking the other monitor with me.  He was awake asking for things constantly during night.   Occasionally I would try to take a nap during the day.  Just as I dropped my head onto the pillow and started dreaming of my escape I would hear a noise over the intercom. 

Anxiety, anger, hostility, fears, resentment ravaged our days and our lives.   Trying to shelter the children from the anxiety, anger and hostility and take caring of Brian’s physical needs was my job along with the typical daily chores.   Brian’s job was to get through each day.  As each day passed his anger grew and my resentment grew proportionally.  If only we could talk about it!   But that never happened.  Who knows if that would have even made any difference. 

The number and frequency of visitors decreased in direct proportion to the increase in the symptoms of the disease.  At the end Brian’s only personal contacts were the children, me, an occasional visit from his sister and her husband and the weekly visit from the hospice nurse.  Even the children started to avoid coming home although I would not realize that until much later.

I really didn’t want to interact with Brian at all that day.  For weeks now I so wished I could avoid him but I couldn’t.   As I entered the family room that morning, Brian looked at me with such hatred.   I looked back at him with an equal or greater amount of hatred.  I literally had to force myself to be in the same room with him that day. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, run away, and yell that I hated Brian, God, life and everyone else who is not going through what I am going through.   “God I hate you,” I remember saying to myself.  I screamed inside my head, “How long is He going to torture us?” and “I can’t take this anymore!”   My well of coping mechanisms had run dry.     Brian couldn’t’ talk but I could read his eyes and feel the hatred that was spilling out of them.  After our initial interaction, I tried to avoid meeting his eyes as I was afraid that he could read the hatred in my eyes as well.  I used to cope by closing my eyes and imagining that I had ran away and was living alone in a cottage on the beach in some South Pacific island.  That fantasy couldn’t even give me any relief by this time.

 “I can’t make it through even one more day.  I don’t deserve this!  I hate my life!  I hate God!”   were some of the things I screamed to myself that day and for many weeks before.  Every pore of my body oozed hatred.    Brian and I were trapped in a tomb out of which the air and light were being slowly drained until the time would come that we would suffocate in total darkness. 

No matter how either of us felt or what we wanted to do the matters of daily living had to be taken care of and so it was with this particular day.    I had just settled Brian into his lift chair in the TV room when the phone rang.    I was surprised to hear it ring since no one ever called our house anymore.   I answered it. “Hello” I said into the receiver.  The voice on the other end was unfamiliar and cheerful.    It had to be a wrong number.  “This is Deborah from the church.  I am new the new associate pastor and I realized that we have been remiss in visiting our sick church members.  Would it be all right if I came to visit you right now?”  she said.  I automatically said, “OK.”   I regretted it as soon as I had uttered it but I had already heard the receiver on the other end click.  I was definitely not up to having a visitor.  I had no energy to talk to anyone especially not a complete stranger and especially not a minister.  Brian couldn’t speak at all. 

  About 30 minutes later the doorbell rang.   I groaned.   This woman literally burst into the room.  She was vibrant, alive, upbeat, full of energy and smiling from ear to ear.  I was offended.  Doesn’t she know Brian is dying I wondered to myself.  Brian and I immediately exchanged a look but not one of anger or hatred.  That was at least refreshing. 

    She introduced herself to Brian and tried to shake his hand.  Good Lord I thought this woman is an idiot!    Why would she try to shake hands with him?  She obviously didn’t know anything about us or our situation.  Why was she here then?  If she sensed my hostility she didn’t show it. She seated herself on the sofa between Brian and me.  I didn’t listen to what she was saying. I was just waiting a polite amount of time before I could ask her to leave with the excuse that Brian was tired.   I was determined to get her out of the house as soon as possible. 

Was she actually doing that?   I can’t believe she would do that!  I didn’t notice she had it with her when she came into the house!  She was actually reading to us from the Bible.   I don’t remember how long she had been doing this before it kicked in – my awareness of the words she was actually speaking. “I hate God,” I blurted out.    I looked at Brian and he had a look of shock on his face – to put it mildly.    Brian chastised me with his eyes.      

            Deborah didn’t skip a beat, “That’s OK.   Don’t be afraid to tell God you are angry at Him.  He can handle your anger.   He won’t punish you. He loves you,” Deborah said.   I think secretly I had been afraid to say that out loud for fear that God would punish me.  But wasn’t I already being punished?   Could it get any worse?   The obvious retorts to Deborah’s statement popped into my head – He has some way of showing love and Maybe He could love me a little less. But I didn’t say any of this out loud. 

            Deborah turned the pages of the Bible. She started reading some of the Psalms – the ones where the authors are calling out to God in anger because they are suffering or feel abandoned by God.  I don’t remember the exact Psalms.  I have never been much of a Bible reader – then or now.   The words of those Psalmists struck a chord with Brian and I.   I connected with them and their anger over their suffering and at God.  They knew or had known the depths of despair that Brian and I were experiencing and worse.   As Deborah read, I felt a huge surge of relief and gratitude.   We are not terrible people because we were filled with anger and hatred toward everyone and everything including or especially God.   She read to us for a little while.   Those Psalmists expressed my anger and despair better than I ever could.  They survived their trials. Deborah showed us that it was OK to be angry even at God.   God understood.   He didn’t abandon the psalmists.  He was with them in their darkest hours. 

            Deborah left.  Brian and I looked at each other in amazement and relief. Deborah reached into the depths of our despair and lifted us up.   We were both so desperate – so pushed beyond our limits.   I honestly don’t know what would have happened if she had not come when she did.  When she left she left behind some of the solace and peace she had brought with her.  I felt it when I first met her at the door.   Of course the anger and suffering would go on but it never again reached the depths of despair it had that morning.  As write this I am acutely reminded that I have known the depths of despair.  Words are truly so inadequate to describe it. The blackness surrounds you.   It clings to you like saran wrap.    Eventually there is no air.   You slowly suffocate.   On that day I think we were both close to taking our last breath.  Deborah tore an opening in the wrapping.  You will laugh.  I want to laugh at myself.  I hesitate to say this lest I be labeled a nut case.   I have to say it.   An angel visited us that day and rescued us from the depths of despair.

What If Again!

I have been contemplating a career move for quite some time.  (Who isn’t these days?)  In what I have always thought to be a responsible way of dealing with such a huge change I started envisioning and evaluating the consequences of such a change.    It is good to evaluate the pros and cons.   However because I have recently been working on being more self aware regarding the way I deal with things and the messages I send myself I realized that I only evaluate the cons.  My internal dialogue is peppered with “What Ifs”.  For example:  What if I don’t like the change.  What if I fail at the new venture?  What if I am doing right now what is best for me?  What if……

I have really started to dislike those two words.  For me they seem to be the embodiment of negativity.  I rarely say, What If I am really happy at my new venture or What if I am a huge success.   The words seem to naturally be followed by a negative statement.

As I contemplate this huge change in my life I have decided to banish those two words from my vocabulary and my mind.  When I use them I am lamenting some long past choice that I made and wondering if it was the “right” choice or imaging a negative future. I don’t want to devote my time and energy to either of those ventures.  Traveling down the road of “what if” is a dead end.  Is it the same for you?  

Are We Lost? (Part Two)

Thirty years ago divorce was not what it is today.  Oh I am not talking about the legal system or its ramifications.   That has developed with the changing times.  I am referring to the social attitudes regarding divorce.   Back then, divorce was humiliating and shameful.   You were a failure.  It was all your fault because you didn’t try hard enough blah, blah, blah.   That “social status” of “divorce” meant the woman and her children were treated with veiled contempt.  You were not required, as Hester Prynne was, to have a bright red “A” emblazoned on your chest but the treatment was somewhat similar.    We were outcasts and pariahs.  Irene’s comment, made less than 10 years ago, is a reminder that, in some sections of our society, that attitude still exists.

“Jessica your grades have dropped.  What is going on?”  I asked her.  She was in fourth grade at the time.   She looked at me strangely and shrugged her shoulders.  I could tell I wasn’t going to find out what was going on from Jessica.    I called her teacher and scheduled a conference.     The teacher was kind enough to come to school early to meet me so that I could get to the office on time.  I arrived at school around 7:45 a.m.    The teacher was in the classroom.   We chatted a little bit about Jessica’s school work.   I detected a little hostility but I was awfully tired and stressed out in those days so I thought I was imagining it. 

“Jessica is not doing as well as she did last year or even earlier this year and she doesn’t want to come to school lately.  Is there something going on with the other kids that I should know about?”  I asked.   “No” was the response.   “Do you have any idea what may be causing this change?”   I continued to probe the teacher.  “No,” she responded again.  I asked, “Where does Jessica sit?”    I have no idea why I asked that question.   The teacher pointed out the location of Jessica’s desk.  It was located in the very last row in the far corner of the classroom.  It was the desk that was furthest away from the teacher and the chalkboard.   My facial expression must have reflected my surprise.  Somewhat sheepishly the teacher explained,   “I moved her there a few weeks ago.  “Why is she sitting there if she is having problems?” I asked.  “Shouldn’t she be in the front of the room?”   The teacher had stopped looking at me at this point in the conversation.    I pressed the issue. “Why isn’t Jessica sitting in the front of the classroom?”   I really can’t remember exactly what the teacher said.  I just remember that it made no sense and seemed to be a perfectly ridiculous explanation.  I trusted my instincts, for once, and said in a firm voice,   “I will expect her to be moved to the front of the room right away.”  There was no verbal response although I did receive a brief look of contempt.   “I hope I don’t have to go to the principal about this,” I said as I got up and left.  

Jessica was moved to the front of the room.   She started to enjoy going to school again and her grades improved.  Was I imagining the teacher’s hostility and contempt?  Was I imagining that the poor treatment was a result of my status as a divorced woman?   Maybe.  I tended to doubt myself and my perceptions in those days.  I still do.   Things certainly changed for the better for Jessica after my talk with her teacher.   Maybe by confronting the teacher regarding her treatment of Jessica she realized what she was doing.  Like Irene maybe she just wasn’t aware of what she was doing.  I hope that was the case.

The school Jessica attended was located in a wealthy suburban area which was primarily populated by married couples in traditional households.  Fortunately for us, and unfortunately for them, it encompassed more than just those types of families.   There were other similar incidents after this one.  Eventually I learned to intercede before the situation got really bad or maybe I just stopped giving the teachers the benefit of the doubt.   I am a slow learner. My children say I am bit naive.  Maybe so.    I wish I had learned that lesson sooner.  My children may have been spared some pain and humiliation.   Must everyone who is different pay a price?  Children of divorce may not any longer be considered “different” and subjected to such treatment but others are.

ADDENDUM AND CAVEAT:  I don't feel comfortable expressing myself other than through my stories. However several of my readers have asked repeatedly that I do so.  So I ask that you indulge me as I humbly offer up some of my feelings and opinions.  My life experiences have affirmed to me that we should cultivate an attitude of compassion for everyone. How do we do that? I believe one way is to start living with an attitude of gratitude for all we have and for all that we are.  Gratitude fosters an attitude of compassion because when we are grateful we recognize that we did not or could not achieve all we have or all we are without the help of others.  (For some of us others include God). We didn't do it all by ourselves. We lose the arrogance of entitlement.   I believe, regardless of  your religion or politics or belief system, that an attitude of compassion toward our family, our neighbors, our fellow Americans, our fellow world citizens unites us and evokes a softness in all of us which fosters a sense of caring and harmony. It doesn't solve all the world's problems or even our own personal problems but it is a good place to start.

Saying Goodbye

“You want to move into the dorm tonight?” I asked with tears in my eyes.  “What is the big deal?” Gary asks.  “It is only a day early”.  “I am not prepared to say goodbye to you today”, I reply.   “Are you saying you will be better prepared tomorrow?” Gary quips back.  “You are acting very irrationally right now”, Gary complains.   “So what”, I retort back. Gary walks away shaking his head.  “Ok I will move just a few things in tonight and move in permanently tomorrow”, Gary says exasperated.  “Great”, I say with a big smile. Gary is totally bewildered.  He wonders where his rational, independent Mom has disappeared to.   I wonder the same thing.

My heart is breaking today!  Gary has been my mainstay since his father died of Lou Gehrig’s disease some 15 years ago.  Taking care of Gary sustained me through some very dark days.

For the past year I have tried to prepare myself for this day.  Contrary to all my experience, I still think I can prepare myself and mitigate the emotional fallout.   I am only deluding myself.  Still that illusion offered me some comfort until the storm hit.  The feelings of loss and despair wash over me like the unstoppable and relentless tides of the ocean.   Perhaps that is because the mind is no longer in control – only the heart is.  Perhaps the best preparation is to be found in enjoying our relationship with them to the fullest when we are able.  I am comforted somewhat because I think I have done that.

“All packed”, Gary shouts to me.  I haven’t been able to help Gary pack.  I started to cry every time I try.  In my defense he really isn’t taking much stuff with him.   I look into his room.  “I have never seen it so clean”, I say to Gary.  “It’s not that clean”, Gary replies.  “Well I have never seen it without some clothing laying on the floor”, I retort.   As I look around I start to cry.  I close the door to Gary’s bedroom quickly. I don’t think I will be entering that room much I say to myself.  The emptiness and the way it echoes reminds me too much of the hollowness I feel inside.

“I loved being a mother.  It was always what I wanted to be more than anything else in life”,   I say to Gary in the car on the way to his dorm.   “You still are a mother”, Gary replies shaking his head incredulously. “I guess you wouldn’t understand”, I say to him.  “I am not sure I understand it”  I say to myself.

I watch my son, Gary, walk away from me weighted down with stuff for his dorm room. He’ll be back in a minute to get more stuff from the car.  I am glad there is no parking and I have to wait in the car.  Gary returns and gathers up the last bit of his stuff from the car.  He turns and waves to me as he opens the door to the building.  I wave back.  He is saying good bye to me and I am saying good bye to a way of life that has fulfilled and sustained me for the past 33 years.  I feel empty and useless.   How do I even begin to fill that void?  Is it even possible?

This is very anti-feminist attitude I say to myself.   I don’t know why I care about this but it popped into my head. I think I imagined sharing these feelings with some of my feminist friends.  Are a devotion to motherhood or even motherhood itself and feminism incompatible?  I don’t believe they are but that is perhaps counter to main stream thinking.  Still I am not going to deny that my primary calling in life was to be a mother.  I feel so alone because I don’t know anyone who I could share these feeling with and who would understand how I am feeling right now or perhaps more accurately admit they understand.    This is one of those times in life when I really, really miss Brian, Gary’s Dad.  He would understand.

“You can do anything you want to do now”, my son said to me as we drove to his dormitory.  “I have been doing exactly what I wanted to do,” I replied.  “I really wish there was something that I am dying to do but there isn’t.  What I want to do and be a part of is going off to college right now”.   “Are you going to cry”, Gary asked. “No of course not”, I replied.   I know I need the relief that comes from having a complete meltdown but I don’t want to do that in front of Gary.  I resist the urge hoping for some relief later. I know the urge will hit me at the most inopportune time like when I am waiting in the check out line at the grocery store.

I have been dreading this day for so many years it is almost a relief that it has finally arrived. That relief is fleeting.  Just a few minutes later the grief, loneliness and panic set in again. I know.  I will just pretend he is spending the night – well several nights- at a friend’s house.   How’s that for honesty?

Powerful emotions swirl around inside me as I watch him walk into the dorm.  As I sit in the car, I watch people going about their daily lives – business as usual. It feels like my world has come to an end.  I feel like I am drowning in grief and sadness. Silly maybe but I have vowed not to judge my feelings anymore.

My head says it is time to let go.  My heart says not yet. Gary has taken the best and biggest part of me for the past 18 years and I was only too happy to give that to him.   Now maybe I will have more energy to devote to others and myself. Rationalizations are great but today change still feels like my enemy.

This is death to a special bond we shared, Gary and I. Sharing the bonds of daily living is broken whether we are sending them off to their first day of kindergarten or off to college. The thread that connects us becomes more and more frayed with each passing year until it finally breaks.  A new and different connection will be forged.  I know that. But I also know that different is good but not always better.    I still miss the little boy who was my best buddy and used to give me big hugs and kisses and confide in me.  If only I could come back later today and pick him up like I did after preschool!  I hope through the grieving process I will come to see this change in a better light but that is not possible today.

Gary is gone now – disappeared into the building with his last load of belongings.  This is the building he referred to as “home” on the ride over.   When he said that it felt like he had stuck a knife in my heart.  I almost said, “That is not your home.  Your home is with me”, but thankfully I resisted.  What a grand adventure for Gary!  He is so ready for this.  He looked so happy and excited.  That is what really counts isn’t it?  I feel a twinge of pride that I have done a big part of my job as a parent. I have prepared him to be independent.  In spite of all my sadness I feel strangely energized as well.  This can be the beginning of a grand adventure for me too I say to myself.   I put my forehead on the steering wheel and cry.  Do the challenges ever end I lament as I drive away.

Saying goodbye to our first grader, college student, lover, spouse, friend is always a great challenge for me.  What has your experience been?