Don't Cut the Cord!

This morning I turned on the television while I ate my oatmeal and a commercial for Office Max almost made me cry. It was a back-to-school-supply-themed commercial, filled with scenes of moms saying good-bye to their kids. Four hours earlier, I had gotten out of bed at 3:15 a.m. to say goodbye to my mom who had been in town for the weekend. Barefoot and bleary-eyed, I stumbled down the stairs with her suitcase and hugged her before she climbed into the shuttle that would take her to the airport. It was our zillionth such goodbye.

My brother and I call the sadness we feel after such visits "post-Mom depression." This morning when I got out of bed for the second time, I did my best to keep it at bay by immediately tearing her sheets off the couch and her towel and washcloth off the rack and stuffing them all into the laundry bin. I find it best to remove all traces of her as soon as possible. I have to be thorough. Otherwise, I am sure to feel an ache in my chest at the sight of something she touched. This morning, I was feeling fine until I saw the tea cup, spoon and teabag she had been using all weekend. She had put them all together on a shelf by the stove for safekeeping to reuse. I tossed the tea bag and washed the spoon and cup.

I am, in fact, a self-sufficient adult. Oh, sure, Tiffany and I have cultivated our own special co-dependency--we can't pick out a brand of shampoo, for instance, without a series of checks and cross-checks with each other--but we are both responsible and productive members of society on our own. In other words, yes, the doctor cut the umbilical cord attaching me to my mom when I was born.

How to explain this deep sadness then? Well, for starters, it isn't anything new. When I first left home ten years ago to go to school in Boston, it was before security requirements kept non-ticketed people out of the gate area. I hugged my parents at the entrance to the jetway and walked into the tunnel on my own. On the plane, I settled myself into my seat. I found that I could keep from crying by continually swallowing the lump in my throat and also by not opening my eyes. And then the flight attendant tapped my knee.

"Excuse me, honey," she said.

I opened my eyes.

"Were those your parents crying outside the jetway?"

I closed my eyes again, barely managing a nod.

Over the years, my mom and I, more than anyone else in our family, have said goodbye to each other over and over again. That's because we fly to see each other more, finding it nearly unbearable to have a three-month span without a visit on the calendar.

In other words, the cord that connects my mom and me--which we have carefully built up to sustain us through good times and bad--is now an extension cord. But it only extends so far.