Fear

I was never a particularly cautious or fearful parent. I remember toddler playgroups, gathered for children Megan's age and extending younger as siblings arrived. Ryan was one of the littles and one of the most determined to explore new heights. More than once another parent interrupted the mom-chat to point out that Ryan was near the top of an "older kids" play structure.  "Do you see him?" they'd ask, with worry in their tone.  "Yes," I'd answer, "I see him, I'm not worried."  I usually didn't point out the care he was taking with the placement of each hand and foot, always with three of his limbs connected to the structure. Climbing was the right thing for him, the risk was minimal and appropriate to his needs and development. I really wasn't worried.  

It was good practice for mothering my older teen who took to the skies as soon as we let her. Again other parents would see her high above the ground, flipping this way and that on a trapeze and ask me, "Doesn't it make you nervous?" It didn't. Megan has always been serious about safety protocols, she knows her limits, and she loves what she does. The risk is real, but managed, and very much in balance with the benefits.  It wouldn't have helped anything for me to worry, and I didn't.  Until now. 

Now I'm finding that things that might have given me pause before are raising my heart rate and sometimes reducing me to tears.  When Megan doesn't respond to a text I catch my breath and hope she's OK. I remind myself that she's 19, she's not supposed to respond immediately or reliably to her parents. My imagination runs away with falls and broken lines and the very real, but also very well mitigated, danger of her chosen career. It's the sort of fear I've heard other parents describe. It makes sense. And it's never before been mine. It's a feeling I notice and wonder how long it will be with me, but also something I accept. 

Today is harder. Today, 18 days before he becomes my husband, I'm having to put the love of my life into the hands of the same medical system that failed my son. It's the sort of thing they do every day. Put him to sleep, remove the kidney stones, wake him back up and send him home. It is absolutely routine. Just like prescribing SSRIs to a depressed teen is routine. The risks listed in small print on the legal paperwork aren't anything one needs to think about. The chances are small. The risk of long term harm, even death, as the result of general anesthesia isn't even worth talking about because it happens so rarely.  Just like suicide as a side effect of SSRIs isn't worth talking about, although we did.  The doctors have good reason to brush aside my concerns, to reassure me that whatever I've read on google isn't relevant to my family. It doesn't matter to them that google isn't where I learned what I know.  

I'll write another day about why Ryan died. His case was complicated and complex and mostly incomprehensible. Jamie's kidney stone is entirely different. If Jamie doesn't come home with me tonight it will be simple bad luck. But I'm not writing about what's actually happening. I'm writing about fear as a whole new experience for me. I'm writing about knowing that I'm far more scared than I have reason to be and still I can only sometimes stop my imagination from spinning out agonizing stories that feel far too real to ignore. 

In the end is comes down to this: I don't know how to live without him. I especially don't know how to live this year without him. In May I'll hold him tightly as my baby should have turned 18. In June he'll hold on to me and walk me through the day that isn't graduation. But what do I do if April 17 is not the day I marry him? Who would I reach for then? 

I didn't know grief Before. I hadn't met loss. I had always been strong enough for what life brought me. My imagination didn't know how to compose a story I couldn't find my way through. After is different. In After there are things I can't fix and never will. There is no credibility in saying to myself, "That isn't going to happen." because I said it that Tuesday and by Wednesday it had. 

Deep breaths. Pull myself together. Imagination is not serving me. Jamie needs stability, comfort, confidence and care. Today is not my day to fall apart. So I will notice the fear and name it. I will recognize it as one more unexpected and understandable artifact of grief. I will let it pass through me and in writing it I will let it go. Some. 

I will turn my attention to happier things, to blue skies on a sunny spring day, to wedding plans and flower arrangements and all the joy we're planning for April 17. 

Grief, as I'm learning, touches everything. It filters the light and permeates the flavors. It imbues life with a layer of sorrow. But it does not, unless I let it, change who I am. So for today I will be who I am - the strong and devoted partner my love needs, a happy and excited fiancé, ready and able to hold his hand, to offer strength, to calm nerves and live in hope. 

Grief can have it's way tomorrow.  

Postscript: Jamie is home and well. They took very good care of him. They weren't so kind to me, giving me only misleading information and zero updates. By the time I got back to Jamie I'd spend over an hour wondering why the surgery was well beyond it's predicted finish time and in the end completely losing the battle for hope. If there had been anyone there to see me I might have been embarrassed to be sobbing openly in an empty waiting room.  As it was I cried alone with no way to know that reassuring  information was on the other end of a phone just a few feet away from me. I really hate hospitals. The post-op nurse agreed with my list of half a dozen opportunities the staff had had to save me that anguish and will do what she can to help them do better the next time.  I'm recovering slowly, mostly due to the attentiveness of my loving partner.