Laugh, cry, goodbye

Last Sunday I was awakened by the retro phone ringtone of my cell phone. It was a little past 8 in the morning, earlier than I typically want to roll out of bed on a Sunday; but this wasn't a typical Sunday. This Sunday I was hurriedly yanking on my jeans and sweatshirt to go downstairs and give my son Daniel a farewell hug as he departed for his new life, thousands of miles away, in Portland, Oregon.

I already knew how hard this goodbye would be. This wasn't the first time I'd bid farewell to a child of mine. Several years ago I'd hugged my older daughter, Jess, and swallowed tears as she set off for college in Houghton. She felt so far away, although it was less than a two-hour drive. I'd been accustomed to having all three of my kids either under my roof, or at least in my ZIP code. Close enough to stop by for Sunday breakfast or mid-week spaghetti. For a few years my house had a revolving door quality, as the older two left, then bounced back home for a while, then moved out again.

Three years ago I hugged my younger daughter goodbye on a muggy late Saturday afternoon in September. She was beginning her freshman year at a small liberal arts college in Minneapolis. As we ate dinner at a picnic table under a shady tree we grew increasingly quiet, much unlike our usual selves. Words and tears knotted in our throats. When Melissa whispered, "Uh oh, oh no," I looked over and saw tears spilling down her cheeks. We hugged, laughing and insisting we weren't crying, we were fine.

When it was time for students and parents to separate, I gave Melissa one last squeeze and walked away quickly. I swiped tears from my cheeks and snuffled softly until I rounded the corner of a dorm building; then I let loose. My friend Susan, waiting for me on a park bench in the courtyard, began weeping in sympathy along with me.

I sobbed on and off on the drive to our hotel and wept a bit on the drive home the next day. When I got home I went directly up to Melissa's room, picked up a pillow she'd left behind, hugged it close, and wailed. I felt every mile of the distance between us. I felt as if I'd been ripped open at the center, and out of that jagged tear poured sorrow and loss. There was nothing to do but give in to the sorrow and cry it out. 

In my drinking days I maintained that I couldn't stand to feel pain, and had to drink to obliterate it. How very special I was, right? Poor, delicate me. Sobriety taught me that not only could I stand pain, I could endure it, survive it, and  - surprise! - move on from it. All pain, at least all the pain I've experienced, has a shelf life. It eventually dissipates, either disappearing or only aching when reawakened. This same equation applies to happiness - which, when I drank, had a desperate quality to it. Quick, grab it and hold on like grim death! You may never be this happy again. In recovery I learned that life isn't a buffet. You cannot choose only happiness. 

That first week Melissa was gone I kept my tears at bay by reminding myself that she was where she wanted to be. She was happily, excitedly beginning her life as a young adult. 

Three years and five months later I stood in my kitchen, stretched on my tiptoes, hugging my son, blotting tears on the shoulder of his woolly coat. He squeezed me tight, crying a little, too. We laughed as we re-hugged several times, reluctant to let each hug be the final one.

Then he was gone, off to build a new life in Portland with his girlfriend. I cried on and off all day Sunday, thinking about the miles that would separate us. I'd never not seen Dan for more than three weeks at a time. Now I probably wouldn't be seeing him until August. On a frosty February morning, summery August felt light years away.

So I sobbed into my pillow, cried on my dog's neck, wept on my partner's shoulder. Life gave me a little corrective when I went on Facebook that afternoon. I saw a photo of a tree posted by a friend whose son committed suicide several years ago. She planted the tree in his memory, and posts photos of it changing with the seasons. 

My son is a phone call, an email, a Skype away. I know where he is, he is safe and well, and I will see him again. Ditto for my younger daughter. My older daughter now lives in Marquette, with her partner and their adorable baby son. 

Happiness and sadness are part of the same soup. As hard as I tried to strain out the sadness with alcohol, all I did was compound my misery. Today I choose to feel my feelings, knowing that I can survive them, knowing they will pass - both the sorrowful and the joyous ones.

Commencement Day

Today I watched my youngest child receive her high school diploma. Virtually anonymous in a sea of bright red caps and gowns, I only saw her face when she was walking across the stage to accept her diploma and when she carefully maneuvered back down the stairs in her high heels for the walk back to her seat.
Melissa's face, like the faces of her classmates, reflected joy, relief and excitement: It's over! We did it!
I imagine that sentiment was echoing in the minds of every parent, as well. And, like the graduates, our joy was tempered by a throat-tightening recognition that an era was ending. Our children are free of our sheltering/smothering oversight. We are free from the mantle of vigilance and daily responsibility we've worn since the day we became parents.
I am a veteran of high school graduations, having seen my older daughter and son collect their diplomas seven and five years ago. But seeing my youngest, the baby of our family, reach that milestone, tugs a little harder at the heartstrings. Even Melissa's big sister and brother are sentimental over it.
Yes, it's sentimental. And also, for me, surreal.
For the first time in 25 years, I will not be the mother of a public school student. No more permission slips to sign, no more lunch boxes to pack, no more sitting in a crowded, stuffy auditorium for an hour and a half to see my kid sing or play an instrument for 12 minutes.
Am I going to miss all that? I imagine so. But being a person who's allergic to "have-to's," it's also going to be a relief. My days are going to be my own, with only myself to consider.
At times like this it's hard for me to do what my recovery program advises: live one day at a time.
Each of my children's graduations have opened up my overpacked closet of memories, and for every happy one there's a prickly remembrance of the times I let my children down, the times I wish I'd been better to them, better for them. That chapter of their lives is over, though, and all I can do is acknowledge the times I was hurtful and be grateful for the good times, and for the fact that, despite a far less than charmed childhood, each of them - Jessica, Daniel and Melissa - has grown into an openhearted, intelligent, loving young adult.
My recovery program also promises that, in time, I will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. I don't think that's possible for a parent. But if I can't not regret the past, I can most certainly be grateful for the gift of the present, for a program that's given me sobriety, the ability to make amends to my kids for the times I failed them, and a heart full of gratitude and pride for each of them, including my newly minted graduate.

Ask us why we love our dogs

So one day last week I asked my daughter Jessica if she would walk partway to meet me as I walked home from work, and if she would bring my dog, Indy, with her. This would give wild man Indy a nice walk, and spare tired me from having to walk him after walking to and from work that day.
When I stepped outside it was about 20 degrees colder than I expected. That, and looking forward to meeting up with Jess and Indy, added speed to my stride.
I saw them from a distance, Jess in a pink sweater, pink-cheeked, long hair floating on the wind. Indy was a fluffy gray cloud on springy legs, tugging at the leash, eager as always to take in the whole world simultaneously.
Crossing to their side of the street, I waved at Jess until she spotted me. As I reached the curb across the street from them I called "Indy!" He was busy watching the car coming up the street, which stopped at the corner, blocking our view of one another.
As I waited for the car to pull out I thought about how I'd been hoping that Indy would be excited to see me coming up the street. Now I thought, he's so wired about being out for a walk he'll barely notice me.
But as the car pulled away and I gave it one more try, calling "Indy!" I saw his head snap up and his attention focus on me as I crossed the street. As I approached I could hear him whining as he danced on his hind legs, trying to get to me.
Jess and I "aww"ed as Indy leaped up to nuzzle my face. I felt like a war hero returning to cheering crowds and a ticker tape parade. I felt like exactly what I was: the center of Indy's life, the center of his heart.
I'm always going to remember that moment when I hear anyone wonder aloud why some people love their dogs with such ardent devotion.
Not since my children were small have I been greeted with such unrestrained enthusiasm. Dogs not only let us love them as much as we want to, they thrive on it. The more time, patience, affection and care we offer them, the more we receive of their love, devotion and undiluted displays of joy at the very sight of us.
I hate taking Indy outside to pee when it's bitterly cold or pouring rain. He has a shrieking bark that could shatter glass, he's a pain in the ass to walk and he's so jealous of my cat Sadie that he comes running every time he hears me talking to her.
He also runs to the window to catch a last glimpse of me whenever I leave the house, glues himself to my side whenever I'm home, and presses his head into the crook of my neck whenever he sees me crying.
And my every homecoming is a joyous ticker tape parade.