[Child]
[child] She comes home tomorrow, musings on parenting and mortality
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This summer she has flown to California by herself. She is training back from Seattle tomorrow by herself. She has spent time with her grandmother learning to use the Portland area bus and light rail system, and is now allowed to make trips around town by herself. She is also seriously talking about what kind of job she wants next summer, when she’s fifteen and a half. One of the current favorites of hers is working in the office of our family attorneys (with whom she is friends) because, “Lawyers know how to get people to tell them things, and I’d like to learn that.”
I think my little kid is growing up.
Every step closer to adulthood, to maturity, is one less brick on my chest over the cancer. Perhaps my greatest fear is dying while she’s still in childhood. It is a terrible thing to lose a parent at any age, but that is the way of the world. (Consider the alternative, that the parent loses their child.) Losing a parent before you’ve really gotten a solid start on finding yourself is much, much harder.
As it happens, there has been a recent cancer death in Mother of the Child’s extended family, which has me pondering once again parenthood and illness. And of course, the leading echoes of what is to come for me on these next tests, as always. To see the_child
Love that kid.
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Posted: 5:45 am Wed July 18 2012 |
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I am happy that you are seeing some relief from those feelings. I can only imagine what my mother went through on that front as her cancer progressed (breast cancer metzed to the brain stem. It was the 70s, and the treatment protocols were nowhere near as effective as today’s) – I had just turned 9 about 3 weeks before she passed, and my little brother was a week away from his 6th birthday. I know her last thoughts were of “her boys”: she asked those around her if her boys — my brother, me, and our dad — were going to be okay. Family assured her that we would be, and she said, “Okay. Then it’s time for me to go.”
I tell this not to be maudlin or fatalistic, but to say we *did* turn out okay, and that is due in no small part to the things Mom set up, even when she wasn’t really able to move. The extended family stepped up at her request (not that *that* was any real surprise). She, along with family and friends, stage-managed Dad meeting my stepmother (Early on after the brain stem tumor was found, she told Dad “This is going to kill me. When I’m gone, you need to find a good woman and marry her, because you need a wife, and my boys need a mother.” Dad was resistant, understandably, so Mom just started making things happen. As she did), even though she was essentially bed-ridden in a long-term care facility.
And I see a lot of what she did in what you’ve been doing with The Child. She has that extended family support. And you’ve done all you can do to give her the tools to be a successful adult.
I certainly hope that you are able to stay free of the cancer and live, happily, a good many more years, and that those things you’ve put into place for The Child are ultimately a bonus to her, rather than an essential backstop. I’m sure I’m but one of a legion of those who consider you a friend, even though we may not yet have met in person. Selfishly, I’d like to see more of your stuff — the thoughtful and thought-provoking blog posts, the pictures, and of course the great fiction you write, so I hope you’re around and healthy for a good long time.
Jim, thank you very much for the kind words and good wishes, and especially for your story. Like every parent, I want to best for my child. Sometimes the path is tough. I have immense admiration for what your mother was able to do for you.