“I’m Good. You Can Head Out.”
Yesterday, my family and I moved my 18-year-old son, two hours away, into his dorm room. We unpacked his belongings, took him to Target to get more things and then had lunch. We wandered around the campus. He was nervous and a few times asked if he should be talking to people and if he was isolating. At 3 p.m., the college president had an address. It was the unofficial unspoken message that after this, parents, it’s time to go home.
As we walked over to the speech, Owen ran into a couple of his new volleyball teammates. I pulled the family a few steps forward to give him space. My middle daughter Annelyse said, “this is awkward.” I hushed Annelyse and asked to give Owen space with his new teammates.
As I watched Owen, I saw the anxiety and worry evaporate. He then walked over to us.
“I’m good,” he said. “You can head out.”
My wife gave him a hug and told him she loved him. I hugged him with all my might. I had no words. My windpipe was too constricted. I let him go and stepped back. As I turned to leave, that’s when the tears I’d been fighting (mostly unsuccessfully) really started pouring down my face.
The strange thing was, I wasn’t worried about him. I was only worried for those first few uncomfortable hours and days when he’d have to figure out the lay of the land.
I knew he’d get through it. And he did. Right on time.
Then I saw the evidence right there.
He was okay.
That’s what broke me. I wasn’t crying because I was afraid he couldn’t handle what came next.
I was crying because I knew he could.
I Saw Each Moment Of His Life Rewind Before My Eyes With One Hug
The memories of his life ran through my mind. It felt like yesterday.
The 49-hour labor and then the day after discharge, rushing back to Children’s because he was so yellow with jaundice.
His first words watching me iron a shirt. “Da-da! Hot!”
Watching him get dressed up in his fireman outfit to teach us about fire safety.
When Grammy died and at 4 years old, he was the one comforting others.
That first day of him taking the bus to kindergarten and all the first days after.
Seeing his confidence struggle in youth soccer and in freshman basketball. Then seeing him find his people in volleyball and blooming into the amazing young man he is today.
The trips from one town to the other all those weekends in the winter to play at one lousy facility after another in club volleyball.
Eighteen years. What seemed like a flash in time, went backwards like a VHS tape rewinding and then playing back, getting us to this moment.
And now it was time to go. To leave him. Because it was the right thing.
A Version of my Life Ended Yesterday
For the last eighteen years, being his father included Owen being physically woven into the ordinary structure of life. Once he got his license (and commandeered my car), he was around less and less. He worked at the town pool, went to practice, hung out with friends. He rolled downstairs, ate breakfast, disappeared to the gym or wherever, showed up at night and then went to bed.
Yesterday morning, he woke up in his room, in his bed and lived in my house.
Yesterday night, he slept somewhere else because that’s where his life is now happening.
I thought my job was done. The job of protecting, feeding and teaching him. The work of being a hands-on, supervisory version of being a dad, where your kids need you to watch them. He doesn’t have to be watched anymore. He can take care of himself.
Nothing Went Wrong
I sat in that minivan riding home thinking, “my job is done.” I raised him, guided him as best I could and now I’m delivering him to his new life as an adult. We usually associate grief with tragedy, failure, death, divorce, a breakup, illness as something we desperately wish hadn’t happened.
Sometimes those feelings of grief happen for a different reason. Those intense emotions well up because something happened exactly as it was supposed to.
Someone retires.
You leave a job you loved.
Friendships change.
A season of your life ends.
Something can be right and still hurt like hell. You don’t have to choose. You don’t have to decide between gratitude and grief.
Being Sober Allowed me to Feel and Not Need to Numb
When I drank, I did so to get drunk and to feel that buzz. But I also picked up for other reasons.
I got a new job.
I got married.
I lost a job.
Someone passed.
I was shy.
I was bored.
I drank in response to these things, good and bad.
I got in the car, got on the Mass Pike, hurt, and cried.
I stayed present for my life.
What recovery taught me was this: the ability to experience something painful without requiring the pain to stop.
The Problem Wasn’t That I was Worried Everything Wouldn’t Be Ok. The Problem Was that I Knew It Would
Owen is exactly where I spent eighteen years preparing him to be. I am so excited and proud of him!
And I miss him so much.
They are not feelings that can or should cancel out.
My daughter is only three, I am already preparing myself for this day. Thank you for sharing and being vulnerable.