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Saying Goodbye Today, I will lose a child. Not in the horrible, never-going-back way of a death. Not in the terrible, why-did-this-happen-to-us way of a terminal illness. Not even in the how-could-I-have-said-that way of an irreconcilable argument. No, this is more common and prosaic. Millions of people have been through this, so why can’t I handle it? Today, Jennifer, my daughter and oldest child, is going away to college. Of course, she’ll be back for holidays and vacations, but it will never be the same. Her time away will change her, as permanently and indelibly as any other life experience. A birth. A death. A marriage or a divorce. A new job in a new city. In reality, Jennifer is going through each of those experiences. Becoming a college student precipitates the birth of a new self, in a new job, and eventually eliminates the last traces of the little girl she has always been. Learning to share a room with a stranger matches some of the early stresses of a marriage, while leaving the nest and her family could be compared to the most amicable of divorces. And I am left with the empty feeling of the one who stays behind. “Promise you’ll call at least twice a week.” I say. “Oh Mom,” she tells me. “You knew you had to let go sometime.” Of course I knew that. I’ve known that since the day, no the hour, she was born. They told me I needed to let her go so she could be weighed, cleaned, and foot-printed. It was hard then, letting go, and it’s hard now. She doesn’t see it that way. She can’t wait to go. At eighteen, she’s pushing as hard as she can to step away, get some distance, find out who she is out of the protective cocoon of our family. And that’s how it should be. That’s what I say. But it’s not how I feel. ******** In every dorm, there is that one student that everyone turns to. She’s the one who has the sewing kit, the band-aids, the extra thumb tacks or paperclips. The only one who thought to bring the sticky-back Velcro. That gives this student a certain standing, an automatic in. I want this for Jennifer, to start with an edge. I try to convince her while we’re college shopping. “Oh Mom,” she says. “Where would I put all that stuff? The rooms are tiny.” I suggest an under-the-bed storage container or a plastic night table with drawers. “I don’t want to feel cluttered and hemmed in,” she says. “I want some space.” I know what she’s really saying. Back off. Give me some room. Let me breathe. I’m trying. ******** As we drive onto campus, the roads are clogged with cars and parents who follow their student to a dorm, up the stairs, down a hall. This has a feel of familiarity, we’ve played this game before. Following our children around the playground and spotting them on the monkey bars. Driving them to soccer/ballet/piano lessons. Sitting up bleary-eyed on the couch until they hear their child’s car pull into the driveway, or key turn in the lock. We are all standing by, ready to bandage a skinned knee or kiss a bruised forehead, while our children continue their test flights from the nest, their exploratory journeys from the mother ship, each time voyaging a little further. It’s a universal pattern, matching the one Jennifer and I have played out on our way to this day. She knows she’s ready to fly. I hope she’s right. ******** There are breaks in this readiness. “What will I do,” she says, “when I don’t have you to get me out of bed in the morning?” “How will I manage,” she asks, “when you’re not there reminding me to get my homework done?” I tell her she’ll be fine, and that I’m still there, just a phone call away, but she’s not listening anymore. “Maybe my roommate and I can do that for each other,” she says. “There has to be a way. Everyone else manages.” I smile and nod, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. ******** Different groups of people develop their own special languages. Medical professionals talk of remissions and exacerbations, teachers talk of learning styles and sound/symbol relationships, and the lawyer’s language of contracts and courtrooms is the most incomprehensible of all. Parents whose children are leaving have a special language too. We speak about freshman orientation, Thanksgiving break, and parent weekends. We all count the opportunities we’ll have to see our children. The college admissions department talks about a successful adjustment to campus life and bonding with their peers. It’s a delicate way to tell us to step back, to let go, to stay away. It’s a message they give every fall to a new group of parents. To the college, to the new students, it’s an exciting time. We parents tell ourselves the same thing. We try to embrace the experience with the same enthusiasm. We only give ourselves away occasionally, subtly. Some quick eye blinks. A hug that’s too tight. Biting a lip. Not every language is verbal. ******** Now it’s time. The car is unpacked, the dorm bed is made, the two new roommates are verbally circling each other. “I brought extra snacks.” “I love your posters!” “Do you have an iPod or an MP3 player?” I should leave, but I can’t make my feet move. Jennifer sees this – of course she knows me as well as I know her – so she comes up and puts her arm through mine. “I’ll be right back!” she calls to her roommate as she steers me toward the door. “Call us after your first day of classes,” I start to say. What I mean is, let me know you got up on time. Reassure me you ate three meals, nutritious ones. Promise me you’ll be okay, even though I’m not there to look out for you. She shakes her head in exasperation. “You know I’ll be fine, Mom.” But I don’t. And suddenly it seems that she doesn’t either. Her arm tightens in mine and her head droops and lands on my shoulder. I know what to do. Unlike trying to let go, this is a role I’ve played thousands of times. “Of course you’ll be fine,” I tell her, pressing my cheek against her head. “I just want to hear about all the cute guys you meet.” She lifts her head and wipes her nose, then manages a smile. “I got you something for the ride home,” she says, and presses a small square package into my hand. “Don’t open it until you’re in the car!” A quick round of hugs and she’s gone, and the air is already empty and flat. I walk back to the car by feel, my toes bashing into curbs and my feet dropping unexpectedly off sidewalks, as I grope for tissues in my purse. Once in the car I open the package. It’s a small photo album, filled with pictures of Jennifer and me. Starting with baby pictures and on through high school. She must have raided our photo albums. How did she know? How did she know what I would need today, and tonight, and again tomorrow morning? Who told her how to best fill the gap? On the back page there is a note. “I made one for me, too. I love you, Mommy. Jennifer.”
Cathy Strasser is a freelance writer who has been published frequently in local newspapers for sports and school related topics, and writes a weekly column for The Manchester Union Leader. She was a finalist in both the 2005 Alligator Juniper and 2005 RRofihe Trophy Short Story Contests. She is a member of Writing.com and Forward Motion Writing Community online writing groups. Cathy is a member of The New Hampshire Writer’s Project and co-founder of the New England Chapter of the National Association of Women Writers. She lives in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire with her husband and two children.
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