Hidden in the shower, my eyes rain with the falling water and grief constricts my throat. It’s embarrassing because I’m crying about a joyous milestone. My only child is college bound, heading to a lovely school out of state. So why do I feel my heart shredding?
When my baby girl was born prematurely, we had a precarious start. While she spent weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit; a sepsis infection landed me in intensive care. Clinging to survival, I prayed I would live to raise my daughter.
And now, eighteen years later, here we are. Thirty-three percent of our family is vacating the premises, and I’m struggling with good grief.
Life is busy with my job and lovely husband. But the concept of a childless home looms large. Am I ready for days without the spontaneous pivots and vibrant teenage crew generated by my daughter’s schedule? A coping strategy is in order.
My midwestern husband and I concoct a plan—after we’ll drop our daughter off at her east coast school, we’ll hit the road. The nest won’t be empty if we don’t go home, right?
On Our Way
The plane’s engines roar, lulling Liza to sleep. She rests on my shoulder, unadorned in her navy sweatshirt, cutoff jean shorts, and Birkenstocks. I gently touch her long amber hair as Stevie Nicks’ Landslide resonates like a haunting loop in my head.
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Damn you, Stevie Nicks.
The weight of sadness threatens my composure, so I cover my red-rimmed eyes with sunglasses. Suspended above the clouds, an overwhelming wind of change blows—moving at over 500 miles an hour toward Liza’s new home.
Dorm Move-In Day
“Birkenstocks or Converse?” Liza asks, while holding up a shirt. She settles on a charcoal gray sleeveless shirt, black leggings, and her white canvas Converse.
I will miss fielding her questions about shoes and shirts. Until this point, our connection happens through such small everyday decisions and moments. Closeness through proximity. What will it be like when far-ness replaces nearness?
We haul in the slew of “essentials” procured at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. (I call it Bed, Bath, and Beyond my Budget to zero laughter. Tough crowd.) Storage units in place. Bed made. Room ready.
We say our I-love-you-s. “See you soon,” I say with a forced breathy lightness.
“Okay, Mom. Love you.”
My chin betrays me and does a little dance. Pull it together. I bomb myself with inner pep talks: Keep it happy.
Then Dirk hugs her and holds on longer. His mouth trembles and tears pool in his eyes.
“Oh, Dad…. No!” Liza says as she sees his facial expression melt.
Liza and my eyes connect in a quick beat. She tips toward excitement—I tip toward sadness. It’s confusing, this bendy pretzel of joy and sorrow.
Goodbyes complete, Liza and her new roommates walk away down the campus green. The weight in my chest expands as our college girl strolls into her future.
The Aftermath
“What’s next?” Dirk says. He means where we should go now. My mind jumps to the bigger what’s next that pivots at the crux of this milestone. We exit the campus and launch into the “what’s next?” stage of our lives.
That night, the white hotel sheets and duvet offer a crisp contrast to my messy mind. I bury myself in my husband’s side and proclaim, “I am going to cry now,” That’s when my suppressed chin dances with wild abandon like the kids at the end of Footloose.
A text from Liza interrupts my thought treadmill. A thank you for helping her move in. Good night, Liza, I tap back. Good Night Moon comes to mind. Didn’t I just read that to her?
On the Road
Connecticut
The next morning, Dirk greets me with a bright toothed smile and a dark roast Starbucks.
We head to a must-see aquarium and stand in a snaky line with mostly parents and kids. I view everything through a kaleidoscopic lens, distorted by sentimentality and time. These young children make me miss the girl Liza no longer is. It’s like missing a ghost.
Rhode Island
Headed towards Newport, Rhode Island. I roll the windows down, turn the music up, and sing loudly out of tune. Dirk’s head bops to the beat. Flinging my sandals off, I try to paint this moment as road-flying freedom. As my husband and I travel this bridge in sync with the same rhythm, maybe we are crossing over to something new.
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Massachusetts
Leaving Rhode Island, we travel to the lower Cape and meet our friends for dinner (also on a drop-off journey with their daughter). I ask Sonya how she feels bumping into empty nester status.
She says, “It will be fine. These girls are so ready. They’ll call us, they’ll text us, and they’ll come home during breaks.” No need to ask if Stevie Nicks haunts her; she has a firm handle on this.
I lambaste myself again. Get a grip. I know there are legitimate sorrows in the country and the world.
The Return Home
During the two-and-a-half-hour flight home, I replay our perilous start in the neonatal and intensive care units. I shudder from the chill of it having been otherwise, that alternate sliding door version that didn’t lead us here.
That frosty echo redirects my perspective. What a gift to raise my daughter into adulthood.
“Please prepare the cabin for arrival,” the pilot announces.
Please prepare me for arrival.
I squeeze Dirk’s hand and appreciate the Midwestern expanse beyond the window. What’s next? I hope Liza will relish a buffet of opportunities. As might we. With the spirit of road-flying freedom, we will all cross over to something new.
Sonya’s words replay: “They’ll call us, they’ll text us, they’ll come home during breaks.”
Someday, I will know she’s right.
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