August 11th. The day I jump in the car, drive to Kansas City, help Brianna unpack her life into a small apartment. I'm already expecting to cry. I've been crying a lot this year anyway. Why not one more time. Or a few more times. Her plan is to drive home every weekend. I'm trying to talk her out of that. Not because I don't want to see her. But because she needs to be away to find her own life, to begin building her own world.
Brianna has had a life controlled by others for so long, she needs a life where she makes the decisions now. Having been diagnosed with a life-altering, chronic illness at 12, 3 years after she began getting sick, changed her teen years. She didn't get to dig into ice cream and Doritos with her friends, not without thinking of the consequences. Her illness caused her to miss many big events at school: dances, Homecoming, parties, being on Gold card for good attendance. (I always felt a little bitter that a child with a disease that causes so much pain is punished for missing school, but I digress). Sometimes she had to leave events early to come home to rest, the illness flaring up and sapping her strength, causing her so much pain.
Last year, she fought to get better, took all of her medicine, prayed so intently, all to accomplish one of many dreams: Go to the Dominican Republic. And when she left to board the plane, I cried. Not only because I would miss her and was apprehensive about sending my daughter to a third world country, but because I knew the battle she fought to get there. She called the first few days, homesick and well, just sick. But after that, no more calls. It was a good sign. She was doing well, spreading her wings, living fully in a dream she had since childhood.
It only took about a month after being home for things to get bad. Really bad. We spent a lot of September to November inpatient. She could no longer tolerate food. She lost weight. Blood pressure dropped. And then the feeding tube was put in. I left the room after the doctor left, called my brother and through sobs said, "I can't do this. I cannot do this. I just . . . can't". But I did. We did. She did.
And after 6 months, the tube was removed. And she soared and did what we all expected: spread her wings and flew. Away. For the first time since I held her as a newborn, we were separate from each other. And I was angry. And sad. And scared.
Did I fail as a mother?
What could I have done better?
If only we had fought less . . .
Until I stopped being the "poor victimized mother" and became someone on the outside looking in. This was necessary for her. This needed to happen. I spent the majority of my life, outside of marriage, doing what I wanted, making my own decisions, being the only one accountable for the outcomes. She never has. Not once. Not really. She would rebel and eat what she wanted. She got sick. She decided to stay out late and miss out on sleep. She missed two days of school to recover. She has never had the freedom to make her own decisions without someone else stepping in and stopping her.
But now, she can. She is. She has to. She is going to live alone. Granted, within 10 minutes of her hospital and doctors. But she makes her own decisions. She decides if she goes to class. She deals with the consequences if she doesn't. She decides if she comes home every weekend . . . or once a month. Or only for holidays.
But sometimes, still, when I walk into the room she shared with her little sister and see her side of the room so bare, just a few scarves still hanging up and most of her clothes and pictures gone, my heart hurts. I miss her already so much, it feels as if she's moved to another world. Which she has. She has a life, daily, that doesn't include me. I no longer know what she's doing all of the time. She no longer has to ask me for permission to do things. I don't know her work schedule or what she did last weekend. But I know she's okay. We still talk. We have times we do things together. But I still miss late night conversations. I miss game nights.
And I think the emptying of the nest is a bit sadder for me more because her younger sisters are so quickly getting there as well. The twins are 16. They have a car. They drive. They are still more homebodies than not, but the separating is happening, even now. And it's normal. And Erin, almost 15, she's acquired quite the social life this summer. She is busy a lot or in the kitchen with friends who come to visit, or in her room watching movies or playing video games. They all speak of their future plans and where they want to move. And I realize that the future is not so far off. It feels more like the present every day.
I'm realizing, now more than ever, how much I need to separate as well. How important it is for me to discover my dreams, separate from them. How important it is for me to make my own decisions for my future, knowing they won't be in that future daily. Not like they are now.
And this Friday, the 25th, my birthday nonetheless, I'm going to probably one of the last doctor's appointments with Brianna I'll need to attend, to see what the new step is. Where do we go with her getting sick again. But this time, I'm the onlooker, there for support. I'm not there to make decisions for her. I'm there to watch her make her own decisions.
I guess, though, this is what parenting is about. Being actively involved, doing what I feel is the absolute best, and then getting to sit back and see the results of so many years of being a mom.
I just wish someone had told me, when I was holding her in my arms for the first time, that when the day comes that you get to witness your child become an adult, it doesn't always only feel amazing. Sometimes, it's a mixture. A mixture of joy and pride with sadness. And how much you don't realize how much a part of you your children were until they no longer are.
