Boohoo to Woohoo

Since I began writing my thoughts about the journey to empty nest-hood, I have talked with colleagues and friends who have all said they have or are experiencing similar emotions of loss.  It is an interesting phenomenon. Oh, they’re happy that their kids are embarking on this new, wonderful life experience; but they are also burdened with intense sadness—they use the word grief.  ‘scuse me?  I hadn’t heard people associate grief with this happy event before.    Did I suddenly tap into peoples’ emotions?  Have I given them permission to show their grief as I mopped through my day? 

Grief is a pretty strong word.  It carries an unambiguous meaning, and people don’t typically misuse it.  So I am wondering what it is we grieve.  Our kids aren’t dead—the texts and Skype calls can bear witness to that.  So why the long faces?  

When Nolan was just two or three years old we lived in the Sierra foothills in California.  It was five of us back then too, me, Shannon, Nolan and two boxer dogs.   We had the dogs first, thinking, since neither puppies nor kids come with an owner’s manual, if we could manage to not ruin the dogs, maybe we could chance a kid.

One warm summer evening about 15 years ago, life as we enjoyed it came to a sudden halt.  I’ll spare the grisly details; but our older dog, Banner, had to be euthanized.  Banner was not old; he was barely four years old.  He was fun loving, but he was the serious one.  He was the “achiever.”  He was the classic, first child, and that night Shannon and I made a gut wrenching decision to end the life of our “first son”.  All the talk about being humane, while true in my logical mind, was little consolation to my suddenly shocked and torn heart.

We were devastated.  Not like, “wow, that was sad.”  We had lost a child.  After a week, we sought grief counseling with our, then, pastor. She helped us to understand the emotion of grief and how it is so different than just being sad.  She helped us comprehend that when you love someone deeply, a child or a dog, their loss leaves the same big hole. She showed us that a big part of what we grieved was not the loss of companionship, but the loss of what could have been; of “unfinished business.”

We are now a little over a week into college.  Nolan has survived through a weekend.   I’m pretty well past the Bohoo, but I’m not quite to Wohoo either. 

I think I am beginning to grasp why the act of walking away from the dorm that first Sunday was so damned hard.  The son I created in my mind died.  The one in my mind and the real Nolan bore close resemblance, but they are not the same.  Nolan, the person, continues—he was and is.  The one in my mind was not ageless, but timeless.   I would always have another day with him—enough time to do the “bucket list” that all parents have before their kids are all grown up.  That day, that Nolan ceased to exist. 

The hay was in the barn, as we used to say.  What I didn’t get to do—or do enough of—with him as a boy is done.  Sure there are hikes and fishing trips, and vacations and movies and myriad other things that we will still do.  But he will do those with me as a young man.  The terms of the deal have a nuanced, but palpable difference, easier felt than explained. 

In this moment, my image of Nolan is blurred.  Just a fraction out of focus is the other Nolan.  Each day that Nolan gets a little more out of focus—a little left behind.  I see the real Nolan in clear relief and in a new and impressive light.  I like what I see... I love what I see.  I grieve for the Nolan of my mind; I will regret those things in my bucket list I didn’t do with that Nolan. But now I think I understand why the word grief came so easily from my mouth that Sunday afternoon.  And with that, I think I can a hear tiny little "wohoo."