“My passport is either on our tour bus or it is lost, I’ll let you know when I get back on the bus.” So read a text from our beloved eldest son on the last day of his school trip to Greece. It was 6:32 in the morning my time and this text replaced what would have been my morning coffee. Within 10 minutes, I had contacted my connection to the State Department, settling in for the evening in his home in a completely different time zone. “Theoretically what does one do when their 16-year-old lost his passport on a school trip to Greece?” I asked. “Easy fix. Give me a call.” was his prompt response. This friend, one from my wild and crazy days in Venezuela, has been a constant since 2001. Unwavering in support, wisdom, and southern charm, I have relied on his sage advice for a very long time. I kid you not, he will be our president someday (I hope) and save us all in the way that Jimmy Carter intended. We have semi-jokingly figured out his cabinet over the last 25 years. I was told I get a slot and I certainly think I could do a better job with the Department of Education than the WWF lady but I’ll settle for speechwriter. “It was on the bus. I was right.” was the text from J.D. only seconds after I had potentially solved this crisis with someone half a world away. “He found it on the bus.” I told my friend. “I’m going to age a thousand years. I have to remind myself that I was once illegal in Venezuela.” True but long story for another day and probably why my place is best behind the scenes.
After all this back and forth before 7:10 AM, my heart was pounding and I felt sick to my stomach. What a way to wake up. Having a child far away is difficult as I imagine it was for my parents when I took off for Venezuela. At least my child was chaperoned, bussed around, cared for when he was sick, and scolded when he erred. I was footloose and fancy free on the streets of Caracas during a time of political turmoil and with a limited grasp on how to survive in the real world. This trip for J.D. was as much a test for him as it was for me. Can I let go? Can I release my control? Will he behave? Could he die? The thoughts that course through the mind and veins of parents are wrought with worry and pride, robbing us of sleep and stealing our youth when we finally manage to rest a minute. I didn’t see this coming when I became a parent. If there had been newborn clothes with built-in bubble wrap, I would have bought it. My generation, with their electronic tethers to Google, have gotten themselves in a total pickle of hovering over the minute details of their kids’ lives, planning their days and trying to prevent so many of our own fears. For what? We are raising the next generation of humans to inherit the earth and we all need to slam on the brakes and let them grow into their inheritance. It was an expensive bullet we bit but that trip was as much for J.D.’s Mom and Dad as it was for him. The good news? We all passed the test. Bad news? Our baby is growing up.
My best friends and I have a text thread that has been ongoing for as long as I can remember. Within that thread we share the ridiculous, the laugh-out-loud, and the utterly painful. For example, Meg’s sister (a nurse) attended the honor walk for a coworker and friend’s child this week. The child, a senior in high school, had tragically passed in a car accident while on spring break and was flown back to MGH in order to become an organ donor. “It is your worst fear giving kids their freedom and then having such tragic results. Life is really just too precious.” Meg admitted before I lightened the mood with a silly joke. The world feels impossibly heavy at the moment. Balance that against the backdrop of raising children in a crumbling empire, you have yourself a recipe for existential crisis. This is why we watch stupid reels on our phones and fall down rabbit holes of watching videos of Martin Short interviewing celebrities as Jimminy Glick. We can only take so much until we can no longer and need a release. As parents, we share a unique bond in that we want to see the story continue and flourish. Taken aback by the loss of others, whether it be parents in another town or parents in Gaza, we connect on a different level feeling that pain as our own. When I thought my kid could be stuck in another country, I sprung into action without batting an eye. Clearly, my DNA has been altered by this chapter of life.
Over the past week, Mom and I have been watching The Pitt as a byproduct of me having HBO at the moment. I had heard it was great so decided to give it a try. Suddenly, within one episode, I felt like it was 1994 again watching ER on Thursday nights in my living room. With Noah Wyle’s voice a constant in the series, it is difficult to separate the two as he appeared in ER as a baby doctor and now in The Pitt as the seasoned OG. On one episode, an old man was dying in front of his two adult children which brought back Dad’s passing for both Mom and I in a very significant way. “It reminds me of Dad” Mom said, through tears. “I wasn’t here when he passed.” I said to her, “Are you OK to watch this?” I asked, pausing the show. She nodded, I unpaused the show and heard Dr. Robby ask the two siblings “Is your family religious?” to which they respond “Oh, God no. No God.” He goes on to explain that his mentor taught him about ho’oponopono, a Hawaiian way of saying goodbye that’s simple but works. Desperately looking for a way to find closure, they ask him what it is. “I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me.” The scene wrecked us both as the siblings said their goodbyes. Mom, able to talk about what happened in this house two years ago seemed sad but relieved, a cathartic moment of pure emotion. While J.D. was on his Grecian adventure, Mom and I had a lot of meaningful discussions about Dad’s passing and our future. “I sometimes feel like something has shifted in me, that I’ve come full circle. I find myself thinking about early memories more which I never used to do.” Within minutes of this epiphany, J.D. bounced down the stairs, un phased by the jet lag. “Hi Nana!” he said, excited to see her again, giving a big hug (he’s the hugger of the bunch). She had teared up earlier in the week looking at pictures of him on the isle of Rhodes. As she bombarded him with the questions as only Nana can, and I watched him happily chat and answer them all, I had a full circle moment myself and push the tears down so as to not make a scene. Meg was right. Life really is just too precious.