On Losing a Daughter . . . . to College

It should be easier, to send child number two to college. Reverse separation anxiety, child leaving parents, not vice versa. This should have worked itself out of my system, shouldn’t it?

            I should rejoice that she is departing for her life’s grand adventure, especially since she wasn’t the easiest child to parent. There was sass, a season of dishonesty. A lack of enthusiasm for chores, a regular pile of clothing to press. Much chauffeuring.

            And yet, she’s not just my daughter; she’s my friend. She adores art and music and fashion and theater. Me too. We can talk for hours on those things or the mysteries of human behavior. I enjoy her. I can’t imagine her not here.

~~~~~

Half a lifetime ago I didn’t even think I wanted children, maybe not even a husband. I thought I was New York City-bound, an advertising executive to be. Surely someone would pay me scads of money upon graduation, based on my cleverness and lively personality.

            I was wrong. As they say, first comes love, then comes marriage (Who wouldn’t marry their best friend if the best friend asked?), then comes the pushing of the baby carriage.

            Children were never my plan. I figured I could talk the husband, who wanted six babies, out of his madness. Instead I found myself consenting to have one, just one, “for you.” I wonder if he was devastated by that word: one. Or did he know there’d be no way I could stop there?

~~~~~

I try to imagine life with only the boy child here. The money we were paying for her voice lessons can go into his college fund. I won’t have to buy tiny tubs of hummus for her lunches. There will be no more driving her six blocks down the hill to high school at seven in the morning because, “I’m wearing heels, Madre.”

            There won’t be any more sitting beside her at the kitchen table as she methodically dices avocados, bell peppers, and onions, cilantro and jalapenos for her fabulous guacamole. No more trips to the consignment shop where she tells me I bring her luck. No more listening to her belt, “I Dreamed a Dream” over and over in the shower for thirty minutes or more.

            When a child leaves home, life may become easier, but it will also be harder.

Afraid Again . . . Naturally

I am afraid. Again. An ordinary woman with extra ordinary concerns, surely more than the average female.

            The fear comes to greet me each time a child prepares to fly-be-free. Anxiety bids me to taste it and I obey, cannot resist though I know the flavor hasn’t changed, has not improved one whit since the last time.

            Afraid’s mouthfeel is that of rust, peat moss, a scab slicked by a child’s tongue then dried by the wind. Burnt Sienna Crayon flaked on a box grater. A crushed cigarette eaten with no water to wash it down.

            Is all fear—of life, not death—like this? Suffocating, strangling? Causing one to quake like corn kernels in a heated and covered pot, skittering frenetically in order to avoid death by drowning in high temperature olive oil (not canola oil as it is really RAPEseed oil).

            Surely death, or considerable damage at the very least, is inevitable if I grant my fists permission to unfurl. Instead I clutch my balled hands in my lap, relocate them after a time to beneath my thighs so as to prevent their becoming manacles around her delicate wrists, the means by which I hold her here, close to my heart, gasping for breath.

            All I want is one person to acknowledge my angst, recognize it as a higher form of love. I need someone to watch me cup my hand over my mouth to silence my sobs, my keening. Will someone please applaud as I murmur, “You can be anything, accomplish whatever you set your mind to. I’m sure of it.”

            For eighteen years I’ve known this was coming, the severance of a second umbilical cord, this one invisible—a rope of me, her, her papa, and God—encased in a gleaming moist sheath which is love. It thrums with the possibility that each goodbye may be the last. Unseen hands tug the strand from “gone forever” to “wildly successful and full of joy.”

            Someone please fetch that box over there, the one lacquered almost black with open heart pink satin lining. Inside I’ll arrange the grayed strips of paper which when ordered correctly read: I can take better care of her than she can, He can.

            Now I need a brick, a hammer, or a gun so I can obliterate the square in one fluid WHAM! Next I’ll locate a sheet of diaphanous yet metallic vellum and a pen with silver ink. At the dining room table I’ll make loops and swirls on scratch paper to guarantee flow then I’ll form calligraphy letters big as baby fingers: I TRUST. After I trim the statement, the affirmation, I’ll fold it again and again till it’s the size of a vein, a whisper.

            Where is the wee velvet box my husband snapped open on a pier over the ocean two decades plus ago? I’ll tuck my trust wisp into its white satin cleft, let the lid bite shut then nestle it at the bottom of a fireproof chest hidden in the secret place. Surely it, she, will be safe then . . . 

*Tamper Resistant*

I woke up early today. Tiptoed downstairs. Rattled scoops of dry food into pet bowls. Slurped yogurt and crunched toast. After that I headed for the calendar, knowing I shouldn't. I couldn't help it though. The days and weeks seem to possess some crazy gravitational power. In my defense, I did white-knuckle-grip the kitchen table but in the end, the calendar won. I counted the squares—27. Collapsed onto a kitchen chair. Pressed a cloth handkerchief to my nose. Lately I've made sure there's one in every room.
            In 27 days you, my oldest daughter, will make like John Denver and leave on a jet plane. Fly halfway around the world. For three whole months. To do good things. You'll come back for 30 or 40 days then off you'll go again. For another long, long time.
            I feel as if I've been diagnosed with something awful.
            "It's bad," the doctor in my mind says. "We're going to have to cut out a third of your heart. The other two thirds are fine. For now. They won't have to come out for, let's see . . . three years and seven, respectively."

After lunch I climbed the stairs. Squinted when I passed your little brother's room. He was flopped on his bed, dressed, a pillow over his face. I went to him, laid my hand on his shin. He peeked out, his eyes small and red.
            "What's up, bud?"
            "They wouldn't let me play Capture the Flag," he said.
            I sat beside him and twirled one of his silver-blonde curls around my finger.
            "I'm sorry."
            He rubbed his nose with his palm. "It's not so much they wouldn't let me play," he said. "It's more that— She'll be leaving soon and . . ."  His voice trailed off.
            "It's what's supposed to happen," I told him (and me) as I stroked his lightly furred, 10-year old limbs. "Kids grow up. They start hanging out more with friends than family. Then they go away."
            He buried his face in my side. I scrunched his hair with my berry-colored fingernails.
            "It's normal but that doesn't make it easier, does it?"
            I felt his no against my ribs. We lingered there for a minute. Silent. He pillowed his face again. I patted his leg and stood.
            Out in the hall my nose burned, then my eyes. It didn't take long for them to give up the tears that seem always ready these days. I know I hurt, but my little guy does too?  That feels somehow heavier. My sadness plus his grief equal more.
           

"When you left for college, your dad got depressed."
            I'd smiled when Mom told me that a few years back. "Really?"
            That is so sweet. I'd put my hand over my heart. Imagined his light blue eyes. The way they almost disappeared into the nearby crowsfeet when he smiled. He loved me that much?  Awww.
            Now it’s happening to me. I suppose it's that whole what-goes-around-comes-around thing. I thought about it as I made my latte after lunch. I pressed hard on the tamper. "Apply approximately 30 pounds of pressure," the espresso machine directions said.
            “I'd have to apply way more pressure than 30 pounds to tamp down all the stuff inside me right now,” I told the kitchen. “I'd need to practically put my whole weight to it. To hide it.”

            See, I don't want you to notice how close to the surface my tears are. My fears are. Thing is, this is your time. This is the biggest, best thing you've ever done. Going south of the equator? To teach English to golden children with glossy, no moon night hair? You're looking as forward to your adventure as I am dreading it. I don't want you to worry about me. To feel guilty that I'm such a wreck.
            Sometimes I step into the dining room. Gaze into the mirror over the mantle and smile. Well, I try.

            "I toured Europe for a summer when I was 22," I say. "Now it's your turn." 
            I stand there, mouth hitched up on one side until I think of something else.

            "And your cousin, Rachel?  She's been a nanny in England and Spain. Spent a year in Buenos Aires too. If she can do it, so can you." 
            I came up with another one yesterday. "In eight months all your travelling will be done and you'll be home for good." I cupped both sides of my face and grinned. A minute later I had another thought and my shoulders sagged.
            "But then you'll be off to college," I said. "At least there you'll only be four hours away instead of half a world."
            Half a world away. Where I can't fix you supper, pet your Pantene-scented curls, take care of you if you get sick. What if you get sick, baby?
             Then there were tears. Again. I'd dug my fingertips into my wet eyelids and hissed.

            "I'm not going to drink any more water. Ever. Then you'll go away. Dry up. Right?"

Tonight after supper, I phoned my best friend from high school. She has a grown up girl of her own. I hadn’t planned on sobbing but I did.

            “She'll be fine," my friend said. "She’s a good girl. Super smart. She’ll do fine.”

            I sniffed, nodded, hung up. So she wouldn’t hear my crying hiccups. I decided weeping’s like Advil when I have the flu. It helps for about four hours then the symptoms—tears, runny nose, urge to clutch at my heart—return. When I’m heartsick, the tears are always there, simmering, just below the surface. Threatening to uncurl my eyelashes and wend little creeks through my blush.
            Oh, heaven’s. Look at the time. It's after midnight now. You know what that means, don't you?  Just 26 more days.

Tamper Resistant

I got up early today.  Ate breakfast after I fed the animals.  I walked over to the calendar, knowing I shouldn't.  I couldn't help it.  I had to.  It's like the days and weeks had some crazy gravitational pull.  I held onto the kitchen table, but in the end, the calendar won.  I counted the days.  Twenty seven.  I collapsed onto a kitchen chair.  Pressed a cloth handkerchief to my nose.  Lately I've made sure there's one in every room. 

In 27 days you'll make like John Denver and leave on a jet plane.  Go halfway 'round the world.  For three whole months.  You'll come back for 30 or 40 days, then off you'll go again.  For a long, long time. 

I feel as if I've been diagnosed with something awful. 

"I'm sorry," the doctor'd say.  "We're going to have to cut out a third of your heart.  The other two thirds are fine.  For now.  They won't have to come out for, let's see . . . three years, and seven, respectively."


After lunch I went upstairs.  I squinted when I walked by your little brother's room.  He was lying on his bed, dressed, with a pillow over his face.  I went to him, laid my hand on his shin.  He peeked out.  His eyes were small and red.

"What's up, bud?"

"They wouldn't let me play Capture the Flag," he said.

I sat beside him and twirled one of his silver-blonde curls around my finger.

"I'm sorry."

He rubbed his nose.  "It's not so much they wouldn't let me play," he said. "It's more that . . . she'll be leaving soon and . . ."  His voice trailed off.

"It's what's supposed to happen," I told him (and me) as I rubbed his lightly furred, 10-year old legs. "Kids grow up. They start hanging out more with friends than family. Then they go away."

He buried his face in my side.  I scrunched his hair with my berry-colored fingernails.

"It's normal, but that doesn't make it easier, does it?"

I felt him nod against my ribs.  We sat there for a minute.  Quiet.  He put the pillow back over his face.  I patted his leg and stood.

Out in the hall my nose burned, then my eyes.  It didn't take long for them to give up the tears that seem to be always ready these days.  I know I hurt, but my little guy feels it too?  That's somehow heavier.  My sadness plus his grief equals more.


"When you left for college, your dad got depressed."

I'd smiled when Mom told me that a few years back.  "Really?"

That is so sweet.  I'd put my hand over my heart.  Pictured his light blue eyes and the way they almost disappeared into the nearby crowsfeet when he smiled.  He loved me that much?  Awww.

Now it's happening to me.  I suppose it's that whole what-goes-around-comes-around thing.  I thought about it as I made my latte today.  I pressed hard on the tamper thing.  "Apply approximately 30 pounds of pressure," the espresso machine directions said. 

I have to apply way more pressure than 30 pounds to tamp down all the stuff inside me right now.  I need to practically put my whole weight to it.  To hide it.  See, I don't want you to notice how close to the surface my tears are.  My fears are.  Thing is, this is your time.  This is the biggest, bestest thing you've ever done.  You're looking as forward to it as I am dreading it.  I don't want you to worry about me.  To feel guilty that I'm such a wreck.


Sometimes I walk over to the mirror on the dining room mantle.  I look into it and smile.  Well, I try to.  "I went to Europe for a summer when I was 22," I say.  "Now it's your turn." 

I stand there 'til I think of something else.  "And your cousin?  She's been a nanny in England and Spain.  Spent a year in Buenos Aires too.  If she can do it, so can  you." 

I came up with another one yesterday.  "In eight months, all your travelling will be done, and you'll be home for good." I held both sides of my face and grinned.  I had another thought, and my shoulders sagged. 

"But then you'll be off to college," I said.  "At least there, you'll only be four hours away, instead of half a world."

Half a world away.  Where I can't fix you supper, pet your curls, take care of you if you get sick.  What if you get sick, baby?

Tears.  Again.  I press my fingers against my eyes and hiss.  "I'm not going to drink any more water.  Then you'll go away.  Dry up.  Right?"


I called my best friend from high school after supper.  She's got a grown up girl of her own.  I hadn't planned on sobbing, but I did.  I've decided crying's like Advil when you have the flu.  It helps for about four hours, then the symptoms--tears, runny nose, urge to clutch at your heart--come back.  The tears are always there, simmering, just below the surface.  Threatening to uncurl my eyelashes and run little creeks through my blush.

It's after midnight now.  You know what that means, don't you?  There's just 26 more days.

Signs, Miracles and Wonders

Let me tell you something.  You stick around me, you're gonna see miracles.  Why just last year, I got stabbed in the heart and here I am today.  Alive and kicking, and telling the story.


It was last summer.  I walked into the kitchen--mailpile in one hand, antique letter opener in the other.  I made it to the stove, and then the pain came.  Like someone was trying to use chest spreaders on me while I was awake.  No.  It was more like someone drove a corkscrew through my skin and into my breast meat, right next to the mole I need to get looked at. 

My breath sounded like I had a tracheotomy--gaspy, rattley.  I turned around.  No one.  I backtracked in my mind.  What was I doing when the pain came? 

I looked at the mailpile, now on the floor.  Oh.  Yeah. 

"Come to this college!"  And, "Have we got a university for you!"

The tears came out of nowhere.  My baby.  My firstborn.  She'll only be with us one more year.

I pulled a chair out and let my knees bend.  It wasn't Anthrax, but it made me sick, just the same. 


On December 1, you came into the kitchen where I was making your dad's lunch.  You sighed noisily 'til I turned around and faced you. 

You grinned.  "All my college applications are done!"

In the middle of February, you and Daddy wrastled FAFSA, that monstrous, financial, how-much-we-gonna-give-you beasty, to the ground.  He raised his hand at the dinner table.  You laughed and slapped it.

March arrived and I considered taking up nailbiting again.  The end is near.

The third week of April came and went.    On the days I beat you to the mailbox, you'd find me.  "Did I get mail today?"

And then, there they were.  Yeses.  Nos.  Waitlist notifications.  Only thing was, you didn't want the yeses.  Not the ones you got.

I scowled at the sheet of fancy schmancy college letterhead.  "What do you mean, 'no?'  Do you know how smart, beautiful, and special  she is? 'Cause if you did, you wouldn't have said, 'We regret to--'"

Your dad stood in our ruby red foyer and shook a college letter.  "Are you crazy?  You'll only give her $10,000 a year when tuition is fifty grand a year?  You can take your financial aid and--"

The letter fluttered to the floor. 

I nibbled my lower my lip.  This isn't the way we thought it would be.  They're all supposed to want her.  They're all supposed to give her full rides.  Because she deserved it.  Her grades and test scores were amazing.  She was president of this club, historian of that one.  She had extracurricular activities and service hours out the wazoo.

I couldn't find you after supper that one night. 'Til I peeked in your room.  Picked my way through the piles of dropped jeans and open AP textbooks.  Followed the sounds of sobs and sniffles.  Did you know I was there?  I heard you tell your pillow, "I worked so hard.  For nothing.  No one wants me."

I backed out of the room on tiptoe.  Went to the bathroom.  Blew my nose.  Wiped my eyes.  I looked up.  I have no idea what you're doing, God.  But please.  Fix this!

I tried to sound casual at dinner the next night.  "What about that one school?" I said.  "The small liberal arts school in Virginia--Washington and Lee.  They accepted you.  We just haven't gotten the financial aid packet."

You stopped chewing.  "So?'

"We should take a look.  Since it's--"

Your eyes narrowed.  "My only hope?"

I winced.  "I was going to say--'"


"So how did you like Washington and Lee?" my Facebook friend, Becky, wrote on my wall.  "I know a gal in admissions.  Want me to put in a good word?"

"It was gorgeous," I typed.  "All brick buildings with big, white columns.  We saw the stable where Robert E. Lee's horse, Traveller, lived.  Can you please ask your friend when we'll get the financial aid offer?"

Two hours later you got an email.  "There's a problem.  We never got your parents' tax info from last year.  There's no financial aid money left.  If you accept, be prepared to pay full tuition and board.  All four years." 

I put my hand over my mouth.  One year is a brand new car--a really nice car.  I wiped the sheen of sweat off my upper lip.  I guess I could get a job.  Not be home for the other two.

I snapped my fingers.  Think.  Think.  Who can help?  I looked up.  "Help.  Please?"

Then I remembered.  Bob.  Bob can help.  Bob was my high school buddy.  We'd been in choir and Latin together.  He graduated from Washington and Lee.  Alums have influence, don't they?  And he did.  He called the admissions department and said nice things about you.  Then he called me with a plan A and a plan B.  Plan A was good, but Plan B was great. 

My heart felt like it was going pitty pat as I walked through the house looking for you.

"What would you say to a gap year?" I said.  "If you take a gap year, you can re-apply for financial aid, both meritorious and need-based, for the following year."

Your mouth fell open.  Your tired-from-crying eyes brightened.  You started to smile, then I saw you stop yourself. 

"I've always wanted to do a gap year, but Daddy said no kid of his would ever--"

I put my pointer finger on your full, cherry-colored lips.  "Hush.  You leave Daddy to me."

And then the oddest thing happened.  Before I even practiced the conversation in my mind, your dad came up to me as I was typing away on the computer that night.

"I was just thinking," he said.  "As I did the dishes.  What if she joined the Peace Corps for a year?"

I stopped typing and turned to face him.  "That's a gap year."

"No, it's not.  Travelling around the world partying, that's a gap year."

"They both are, silly rabbit."


Bob said the gap year had to be worthwhile.  "No working at McDonald's," he said.  "Have her do something like Americorps Vista or Habitat for Humanity."

"Or a mission trip," you said, when I got off the phone.  "Can I? Can I?  Hunh?  Hunh?"

And then the next week our pastor told Daddy, "I know this guy.  He has a ranch for disabled kids in Honduras--"

I shook my head.  "No way."

Your dad grinned and nodded.  "Way."

I watched you when Daddy told you the news.  I could tell your heart was probably going pitty pat inside your chest. 

You spoke so quietly, I could barely hear you.  "It was so awful.  So very awful.  And now it's great.  Really great."

Daddy's chest puffed out.  "I told you two all along this would work out.  I had faith."

I stuck my bottom lip out.  "I trusted God too," I said.  "I just wasn't sure what he had in mind."

You looked at me, and it felt like your gaze might burn a hole in my cheek.

"He answered your prayer," you said.

I tilted my head.  "He what?"

"Remember that night we went to church?  And you prayed for me?  You said, 'Lord, please shut all the wrong doors and open the right one.'"

I squinted my eyes to remember, then I smiled.  "I did pray that, didn't I?"

You nodded.  "Yep."

I cupped your cheek with my hand.  "It wasn't that those schools didn't want you, baby.  It's that God didn't want you at those schools."

You put both your hands over your heart.  "It's a miracle," you said.  "My very own miracle."

I lifted my chin and held up my pointer finger.  "Oh, there will be more," I said.  "Trust me.  You stick around me, you're gonna see more."