House is Hollow When Son Goes to College

The Boston Herald

It could be worse. You get into a car accident and the car is totaled, but it could be worse. Someone could have been hurt. When someone is hurt, when an arm's broken or stitches are needed it's still the same. It could be worse. Someone could have died. It's the way we live, rationalizing our lives away.

My son went off to college Sunday. A nearby college, 45 minutes from home. It could be worse. He could have gone to California. He could have gone in the Army. He could be fighting some war. You should be grateful he's in school instead of out on the streets. You should be counting your blessings.

I am grateful. I am counting my blessings. I know that a child's leaving for college is a reason to be happy, not a reason to grieve. I know this is the best that could happen, the natural order of things. I am not grieving for him. I am grieving for me. My tears are selfish ones. I miss him. I miss his questions, his demands,  his energy. The house is hollow, an emptiness in it, in me, without him. No heavy, hurried footsteps pound up the stairs. No, "I'm home. Have you  done  the  laundry? Can you make me a hamburger? Did you buy any Coke? Did anyone call?'' A silent phone. A silent room. After all the years of noise and chaos, all the "I wants. I needs. Can you? Will you? Why don't you?"  the sudden silence throbs like a wound.

Odd memories, unsolicited, unwanted, play in my mind. Sad memories. How at four he was tested for allergies, 40 needles in his arms, 50 in his back and he cried and the nurse said, "You're acting like a baby," and I hated  her because he was a baby and needed praise and support not scolding.

How he got attacked by bees when he was five and ran into the house screaming. How I didn't know what happened, what to do, couldn't understand his halting words. "What's wrong? Tell me!" and he sobbed and shuddered and I yelled and slapped him, to calm him down, to get him to talk - and hated myself for having done it, for frightening him more.

How at 11 he had full body X-rays, strapped into a machine, which, if lowered half an inch would have crushed him. He didn't cry, but I did, sitting, waiting, anticipating a diagnosis that would take him away from me forever. When it was over and he was okay, he went to McDonald's. He ate a double cheeseburger, French fries and a Coke. His father and I had  trouble  sipping coffee.

Bad memories. Frightening ones.

Anxiety, this is called. I'm worried about him because I have no control. Is he all right? Is he safe? The anxiety invades my sleep. I dream he is small and on a merry-go-round and it's spinning and he's smiling, waving, having a great time. Only the merry-go-round spins fast, faster and I try to get on but can't because by the time I reach it it's spinning so fast that he's a blur and I can't see him anymore. I know what the dream means. I know why I keep dreaming it.

“I miss Robbie,'' my youngest child moans.”  “I want him to come home.”

It's different without Rob around," my 15-year-old says.

Shopping, I watch a young mother push a baby carriage, a blond-haired toddler skipping along beside her. I used to be that girl. I look at her and her children and smile, walk on, think back over the years, and yearn.

"Pretend he's at work Pretend he slept over at a friend's. He's only 45 minutes away,” my husband says. '' It could be worse, you know.”

I know.

The deep voice, the driver's license, presaged his leaving. He hasn't been a child for years. Still, he came home to eat, to sleep. "Hi, Mom. Bye, Mom.” 

In the middle of the night I check on them. Close windows, adjust covers, steal a kiss. Old habits die hard. In the middle of the night when they are asleep, under one roof, I used to be content. Now I lie awake and remember.”

“How old are your children?" I would ask in conversations when I was young.” My kids are in college,''  a  person would answer and I would think, they're not kids at all. When they're in college they no longer count.

"He doesn't count," I say to my  husband.  "He  doesn't live  here anymore.” 

“It could be worse. He could be getting married,”  this patient man says.

It could  be  worse, I  know.  My  mind  recognizes  this.  My  mind understands.

It's my heart that refuses to listen .