I'm a Mother Therefore I Worry

 

 

I’m a Mother Therefore I Worry

Do you remember the first time your child wandered away from you in a store, or the library or in a parking lot?  The sudden sickness in your stomach.  The worry dense behind your eyes. 

Do you remember the rising panic when your child didn’t arrive home for hours and hours after a school event, or after they had just received their license, or after a date with someone your gut told you not to trust?  Can you recall the pain in your chest as you answered the phone and heard, “This is the police, we’re calling about…”?  Or the weakness in your legs when you answered, “Hello this is the hospital.  We’re looking for the parents of…”?

No matter how old or how competent my children and step-children are, if they don’t arrive when they are expected, I worry.  I know they will call…if they can.  For the first hour, I do well.  There are many reasons for delays.  After the second hour, I begin pacing a little and worry just a little more.  After three hours, my organized mind begins searching for scenarios and possibilities.  And when they are four or five hours overdue, I have to work hard at staying calm.

On Tuesday evening, I was nauseous, pacing, tight-lipped and teary.   My inner calculations told me they should have arrived at least four hours before they did.  And anything can happen to bikers…other drivers, breakdowns, loose gravel, deer or moose.  Anything can happen, can’t it?

I was so relieved to hear the rumble of their bikes driving up our street and into our driveway, so happy to hug their bug spattered bodies, to see their road-dirt faces.  So relieved and thankful.

My children had been to Bike Week at Laconia, New Hampshire and were due here at suppertime.  On the way back, his motorcycle broke down just outside of Ellsworth, Maine.  Her cell phone had lost its charge.  We had no way to check on them, so were unaware the bike had died at the side of the highway.

It took over four hours to reach a motorcycle repair shop, have the bike checked and to buy a new battery.

Even though they are adults, the thoughts of losing a child still make my throat close and my chest ache.

I worry. 

I’m a mother.

 

Words and photo are copyright ©2011-2013 Carol Steel.

Resilience and Courage

 

 

Today I was going to write about birch trees.  I've been watching how they hang onto their small gold leaves longer than other trees in autumn.  I was going to write about how birch leaves look like tiny hands waving; about how their leaves turn colour more slowly than others--but I'm not going to do that--not much anyway.

Today, I want to acknowledge resilience and courage.  Yesterday and on into today, storm surges, electrical outages, fires, heavy rains and enormous storm damage have ravaged the northeastern parts of the United States, particularly in the New Jersey and New York areas.   My heart goes out to folks whose homes were swept away by flood or fire, to folks who lost power and water and sewer services, and who will be without them for days to come.

I am especially concerned about my daughter and her family living in New York.  Their home is on high ground so they are lucky, above the danger of storm surges, though not immune to excessive rainfall and winds.  The huge trees they lost fell away from their house, with no loss of life or damages to homes.  They have no power but are still so lucky.

The next few days in New Jersey and New York will be filled with many stories of resilience and courage, as people help others who weren't so fortunate.  Everyone will be dealing with the after effects of Sandy.  Those who are able to wave their hands and say, "We're OK," will be able to assist those who have endured greater losses, those whose lives have been stripped bare.

My thoughts are with the millions who, with resilience, must face losses, and clean ups and rebuilding.  And my thoughts are with those first responders who, with courage, will be there on the front lines of the disasters bringing help and hope.

I wish them all the best as they deal with enormous clean up and repair tasks.

To my daughter and family, I'm sorry that you are going though this and I send love.