Her face tipped upward as I put my arms
around her. Her eyes, filled with a look of near-panic,
blinked rapidly, making the tears fall like drops of rain
from a shaken tree. Her lip quivering, she gave me one last
lingering hug, turned on her heel and, without saying a
word, walked resolutely away, bravely brushing the tears
from her face. She was embarking on her first week away from
us, her first real camping experience. I was embarking on
yet another exercise in “letting go.”
As I whispered goodbye to her receding
back, I felt a tear on my face, a huge lump in my throat and
a now familiar tightening of my chest. I was determined to
leave the camp without changing my mind about leaving her,
and without letting anyone know just how difficult this
“letting go” was. Emotions, so mixed it is difficult to put
a name on them, flooded over me. Pride … fear … joy …
anxiety … anticipation … and something so deep it defies
definition.
Each time I prepare to let go again, I
pray that this time will be easier than the last. I sit here
now, ruminating, realizing that I have had to do a lot of
this “letting go” thing, and I’m still waiting for it to
become easier.
I remember the many well-intentioned
comments sent my way as Laura prepared for her first “away.”
“She’s 16 now, you know. It’s time to let go.” “She’ll be
fine. You can’t hang on to her forever.” And the most
insightful of all comments, “It’s probably more difficult
for you than it is for Laura.”
I know that letting go is difficult – I
have done it enough to know. As I sit here thinking about
just how much more difficult it surely must be for me, I
remember the various people who have come into our lives and
gone again, to be replaced by yet another acquaintance. I
remember the various people who, being involved for such a
brief time, could casually comment on the need for me to let
go and then even more casually dismiss the emotions that
letting go bring about.
As I sit and reflect, I realize that
only I know what it is really like, and only I can find a
way to deal with letting go. I realize that the past 16
years, in addition to many other things, have dealt us a
series of “letting go’s.” And as I reflect on the events of
these past 16 years, a slide show begins in my mind – a
documentary of some of the many times I have had to let go,
sometimes willingly, sometimes with great resistance…..
Moments after birth when she was rushed
away from us, but we didn’t know why.
At three weeks of age when she was
rushed to surgery, and later when we had to leave her at the
hospital for two weeks, never being told if she would live
or die.
At three months of age and again at
six months of age when she was again hospitalized, again
never sure that she would pull through.
At four months of age when I had to
leave her with a care provider, and then each time we had to
change care providers when they were unable to cope with her
needs.
At 20 months of age when I left her,
crying and unable to communicate, at the Five Counties
Children’s Centre preschool, hoping and praying that they
could teach her the skills she needed.
Then, at age three when I left her at
the integrated pre-school, hoping that they had the
expertise to meet her needs.
Then each school year when I left her
in the care of another teacher who may or may not have
understood her needs.
Each time we left her with a new
respite provider, hoping that this would finally be the one
who could give us the rest we needed.
Each time we left her at the group
home, hoping that this staff would be around long enough to
help Laura adjust.
Each time I dropped her off at the mall
where she would enjoy time with her peers, hoping that her
friends would always be friends who would shop together on
weekends.
The first time she walked from our home
to the corner, unsure if she would safely avoid the traffic.
The first time she walked through our
neighbourhood park independently, and each time thereafter
when she would have to deal with kids’ mean comments and
stares.
The first time we left her at home
alone for five minutes, for 15 minutes, for half an hour and
then for two hours, hoping that she would be safe on our
return.
The first time she walked from home to
the neighbourhood store three blocks away, hoping that the
store’s staff would be kind to her and that she would
somehow figure out how much to pay.
The first time she went on a road trip
with Special Olympics, praying that nothing would happen to
cause an anxiety attack that could not be handled.
The first day of high school, not
knowing how she would cope in such a foreign world.
Her very first school dance attended
all on her own, assuming that she would be safe, but
wondering if anyone would take her under their wing.
Her first venture out on the city
busses all alone, sick with worry, wondering whether she
would arrive at her destination safely.
The first time she walked from the bus
terminal, through town to the YMCA four blocks away, knowing
that she knew the way, but worried about her becoming
confused or talking to strangers.
The first time she attended day camp
without a support person, hoping that the camp staff would
understand her needs.
And, just this summer, the first time
she went out of town, with no contact with her family for
one week, hoping and praying this would be a good experience
for her, but unable to relax long enough to enjoy the
break.
Not only have we had to physically let
her go, but we have had to let go psychologically and
emotionally as well.
I have had to let go of that prenatal
dream of the beautiful daughter who excels, not only
academically and athletically, but socially as well.
I have had to let go of the hope that
Laura’s peers would become friends who would share such
simple things as birthday parties and sleepovers.
I have had to let go of the notion of
my child easily and independently growing up, achieving a
diploma or degree, moving, embarking on a chosen career,
finding the perfect mate, starting her own wee family and
finding her place in the world.
And in letting go of these dreams, I
have been able to fashion new dreams that help to soften the
pain of “letting go.”
As I reflect on the emotions that came
flooding over me this past summer as I left our daughter at
camp, I realize I must come to terms with the fact that no
one will provide for Laura the way, or as well as, I do, and
that, despite this, she will be okay.
I realize that as each “letting go”
opportunity presents itself, I must take a deep breath, hand
her over to God’s care and send her on her way.
I realize that each “letting go,” for
Laura, is one more chance for her to experience freedom,
success and independence, and, for me, it is one more step
toward my saying good-bye.
