10:55am Writing Practice 41° Boise
Dithering around this morning. Got up late because I got to bed late ... again. Long phone chat with Clint Sturdevant again. He seems to like me and I'm getting to like him, too. Then I find out that he's got $300K in mutual funds and I'm wondering why I bought him a magnet and didn't ask him to pay me. Sheesh. I hope he doesn't turn out to be stingy ... I can't abide a stingy man!
I just got up to let the cats in and said out loud on impulse, "StevieRoo, where are you?" And I heard a faint response, "I'm right here." Yes, I liked that! Not an hour goes by without him in my thoughts in some way. It's hard to describe how much I miss him. He's my amputated arm that I need to function properly, the arm I can still feel but can no longer see. I'm out of balance without him in the world --- everything is harder, nothing is straightforward; simple tasks require a whole new set of skills to accomplish. And yet the more time goes by, the more I adapt to his absence and I can't stop the adaptation, no matter how much I want it to stop.
When Stephen was 13, we signed him up for theater camp in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. We lived in Quincy, Illinois at the time and we had to get him prepared and put him on a bus. It was at least an eight hour drive, a very long way from home and we had to turn him over to strangers. But he wanted to go, was enthusiastic about going, and so we coughed up the money, even though we were not financially solvent at the time.
While it seemed like a good idea at the time and perhaps a way for all of us to have a nice break from each other (because, let's face it, living with a freshly pubescent teenager is no picnic), the reality was surprising and very emotional for me. That first time, John and I drove him to the pick-up location, got his bag out of the car, hugged and kissed him and watched him turn away from us and join the others who were going on the trip, I left a sense of loss spark inside me that bloomed and expanded with every moment that passed after that. I had no idea that I would feel like that ... fearful of losing him, guilty for the pile of wrongs that I had built up and stashed in the dark corners of my memory, sorrow and grief that he was going to be out of my life for such a long time. Was it a week? Two weeks? I don't remember, but at that moment and the moments following his departure, as we got back in our car and drove away (the very same car I still drive today), I was bereft in a way I had not expected and had never felt before. It hit me in waves of grief, fear and panic. I had to control myself in front of John because he didn't appear to have any of those feelings.
It turns out that that was a preview of life to come. As a mother, the love of their children is a complex mix of so many emotions all fit tightly into a bundle labeled Love. And nothing could show me how much I loved my son like the experience of losing him, even for a short time. I felt sick for several days, careening between fear and love, imagining all the things that could go wrong, all the things that were out of my control, how it would feel to actually lose him, be forced to live without him for the rest of my life. It was torture, a nightmare, imaginable only because I have such a terrific imagination. A blessing and a curse, the ability to imagine so vividly.
I have this event written in my pages somewhere, I want to go hunt for it now and confirm the dates and the locations. But I can do that later. For now, I want to stay with this feeling of grief and worry, but safe in knowing that he's OK somewhere else, out of my sight but still existing on another level, still with me, still sending me songs and ideas. And right now I can feel him, almost hear his voice, and while it hurts, it also gives me hope. Because I simply could not go on without him.
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