I slowly backed out of the driveway, every fiber of my being dreading the drive to Lubbock on that rainy Monday evening in May of 1998. My car was filled to overflowing with everything a 41-year old graduate student might possibly need to survive a summer semester. Everything but that handsome gray-haired guy sadly waving goodbye from the driveway.
As I watched the blurry, fading form of my husband through the rear view mirror, I could not believe that I was leaving my family at a time when all I wanted to do – needed to do - was pull them close and hold them tight.
Just two days prior, I had buried my Daddy. My husband had lost not only his father-in-law, but his surrogate Dad. My sons had said goodbye to the only grandfather they had ever known.
When I realized our battle with Dad’s cancer was nearing the end, I surrendered all intentions of going ahead with grad school. I felt that I needed to be with my family, to grieve with them. Besides, I couldn’t imagine how this heart of mine could endure losing a parent AND pump enough blood to my brain to learn new concepts. The three-year masters program that had once seemed exciting, now loomed ahead like an insurmountable mountain. At least from my forlorn perspective.
Not so much from my family's perspective. Nobody would listen to my sound reasoning for dropping out. All of my excuses were blasted to smithereens. At one point I was even told: “Your Dad would have wanted you to go.” Nah. My Dad never wanted me to do anything that I didn’t want to do. Nevertheless, there I was - driving off in the rain - completely sure I was doing the wrong thing. Or maybe it was the right thing, but definitely the wrong time.
I thought there would be plenty of time to prepare my bachelors-to-be for the separation. Instead of cooking and laundry lessons, our last few weeks had been spent in hospital and hospice rooms. I found myself leaving behind a trio of ill-prepared knuckleheads: The Dickman, who had never done a load of laundry in his life (and considered Campbell’s soup home cooking); 17-year old Lucas, blinded by visions of his senior year; and 14-year old JP, my sensitive one who hated changes and separation. Instead of culinary lessons, I had no other option than to leave handwritten instructions for my hapless guys.
And instructions I did leave. The house was plastered with them: hanging in the laundry room with instructions to NEVER wash colors with whites; taped to the kitchen cabinets outlining recipes for one-skillet meals; notes on the desk listing phone numbers and contact info. Everything my husband and sons needed to know about running our household had been quickly reduced to notes – designed for them, but in reality written to make me feel better. Because even though I was only driving 120 miles away, even though I would be seeing them again in 5 days, we all knew I was going somewhere that would change our lives. I was taking a solitary trip that would impact us all. I remember wishing I loved them less, so leaving them would not have been so painful.
The gloomy weather matched my mood. I soon gave over to it and cried all the way to Lubbock. Not the sweet, silently tragic tears that you see in the movies. I wailed and sobbed and wiped copious amounts of snot away until my nose was nigh to bleeding and my eyes were puffy slits. The only bright spot was that by leaving home at the very last minute, I arrived in the darkness of night. I pulled up to a silent dorm parking lot, praying my secret superhero power of invisibility wouldn't fail me now. I loaded my arms with everything I could carry in one trip. As I ran through the rain towards the girls' dorm (kill me now, Baby Jesus) my pillow fell into a puddle of mud. I kicked that blasted pillow – hard! – stomped it once for good measure, and left it to rot forever in the muck and mire. Finally I made my way into the sanctuary of my tiny dorm room, quietly closed the door…and slumped down on the floor in my own puddle of muck and mire.
**********
As I watched the blurry, fading form of my husband through the rear view mirror, I could not believe that I was leaving my family at a time when all I wanted to do – needed to do - was pull them close and hold them tight.
Just two days prior, I had buried my Daddy. My husband had lost not only his father-in-law, but his surrogate Dad. My sons had said goodbye to the only grandfather they had ever known.
When I realized our battle with Dad’s cancer was nearing the end, I surrendered all intentions of going ahead with grad school. I felt that I needed to be with my family, to grieve with them. Besides, I couldn’t imagine how this heart of mine could endure losing a parent AND pump enough blood to my brain to learn new concepts. The three-year masters program that had once seemed exciting, now loomed ahead like an insurmountable mountain. At least from my forlorn perspective.
Not so much from my family's perspective. Nobody would listen to my sound reasoning for dropping out. All of my excuses were blasted to smithereens. At one point I was even told: “Your Dad would have wanted you to go.” Nah. My Dad never wanted me to do anything that I didn’t want to do. Nevertheless, there I was - driving off in the rain - completely sure I was doing the wrong thing. Or maybe it was the right thing, but definitely the wrong time.
I thought there would be plenty of time to prepare my bachelors-to-be for the separation. Instead of cooking and laundry lessons, our last few weeks had been spent in hospital and hospice rooms. I found myself leaving behind a trio of ill-prepared knuckleheads: The Dickman, who had never done a load of laundry in his life (and considered Campbell’s soup home cooking); 17-year old Lucas, blinded by visions of his senior year; and 14-year old JP, my sensitive one who hated changes and separation. Instead of culinary lessons, I had no other option than to leave handwritten instructions for my hapless guys.
And instructions I did leave. The house was plastered with them: hanging in the laundry room with instructions to NEVER wash colors with whites; taped to the kitchen cabinets outlining recipes for one-skillet meals; notes on the desk listing phone numbers and contact info. Everything my husband and sons needed to know about running our household had been quickly reduced to notes – designed for them, but in reality written to make me feel better. Because even though I was only driving 120 miles away, even though I would be seeing them again in 5 days, we all knew I was going somewhere that would change our lives. I was taking a solitary trip that would impact us all. I remember wishing I loved them less, so leaving them would not have been so painful.
The gloomy weather matched my mood. I soon gave over to it and cried all the way to Lubbock. Not the sweet, silently tragic tears that you see in the movies. I wailed and sobbed and wiped copious amounts of snot away until my nose was nigh to bleeding and my eyes were puffy slits. The only bright spot was that by leaving home at the very last minute, I arrived in the darkness of night. I pulled up to a silent dorm parking lot, praying my secret superhero power of invisibility wouldn't fail me now. I loaded my arms with everything I could carry in one trip. As I ran through the rain towards the girls' dorm (kill me now, Baby Jesus) my pillow fell into a puddle of mud. I kicked that blasted pillow – hard! – stomped it once for good measure, and left it to rot forever in the muck and mire. Finally I made my way into the sanctuary of my tiny dorm room, quietly closed the door…and slumped down on the floor in my own puddle of muck and mire.
**********
This year marks the 10th anniversary of my graduation as a physical therapist. I will forever look back upon those 'school days' as some of the best and worst years of my life. Although I gained a career that I passionately love, and am blessed to have patients that remind me that I am indeed doing exactly what I was born to do...I’m still amazed that we all survived those hard years.
Undoubtedly, the credit goes to my spectacular wealth of family and friends…the ones who lifted me up with their prayers, held me together with their hugs, cheered me on with their love. My three guys who did indeed learn to do laundry without ever reading my notes. Who learned to cook at least well enough to sustain their bodily functions. Who hopefully learned to never ever give up.
It was a collective effort of sacrifice and love and commitment. That is why it was important to find a way to express my love and gratitude when it finally came time to walk across the stage at commencement. I wanted to make a statement...but how?
The evening before the graduation ceremony we were required to attend a meeting on ‘how to graduate’. When I heard the speaker tell us that we were in NO WAY allowed to write anything on our graduation caps…that decorating mortarboards was HIGH SCHOOL TACKY and beneath the DIGNITY befitting a college commencement…my plan was clear.
As the oldest graduate in the TTUHSC PT Class of 2001, I was gonna break the rules and spell out my love in bright red TACKY glitter on the mortarboard of my hat for everyone to see. Dignity be danged. I wanted my message to glitter loud and clear, a message my family would recognize at once: S.H.M.I.L.Y.
♥ SEE HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU ♥ 
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