Monday, August 11, 2008

Changing Roles

Michele’s nostalgic post made me remember the good old days. The days when the kids were small, when we used to pack them into their car seats and take them anywhere we wanted. To the grocery store, to the doctor, on vacation. Or even further back when they were just abbreviated people, tiny infants, completely reliant on me. I loved those days…those fragile fleeting moments when they didn’t yet belong to the world, when they were all mine. This is my daughter when she was just a wee one.

Well, times, they are a changin’. I was aware of those changes, of course, but the immensity of those transformations recently became clear to me.

A few years ago, my eldest adventurer began talking about Mt. Whitney. He’d get a dreamy look in his eye and tell me how it’s the tallest mountain in the lower 48 states and how he was going to climb it someday. I would respond as I used to when they would say things like, “When I grow up I want to fly to the moon.”

“Sure honey, you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it.”

But he’s not three anymore, so instead of becoming distracted by toads or shiny rocks, or spider webs, he started planning a trip. Eventually, he asked if I’d like to climb mountains with him, his sister, and her boyfriend Bob. Now, I’m not entirely stupid. I paused, I thought, then I said, “Sounds great. What a challenge. Hooya!"

Okay, I saw the potential problems, (oxygen deprivation being right up there with maternal death) but really, when your 24 year old son and your 19 year old daughter want to spend time with you you can hardly say, “ask me again in 10 years.” It’s now or never. Do or die.
 

So three weeks ago we packed up Bob’s van (the Green Demon) and headed west on our grand adventure. To make a long-winded story a little less breezy, the first two mountains we tackled were fine. Harney Peak in South Dakota was, quite literally, a walk in the park. Mt. Elbert in Colorado was more challenging, but I won’t soon forget singing Rocky Mountain High with my daughter as we hiked along above the world. It was grand.

Except for the projectile vomiting which started a few hours after returning to our vehicle. I began feeling sick at about 10 pm but I didn’t want to wake the kids. I mean….you know, they’re my kids and I'd spent five years of my life trying to get them to sleep. But eventually, the pain was out of control and I woke Travis with something like, “I’m sorry to bother you, dearling, but my body seems to be trying to launch of my internal organs through my esophogus." (Or it might sounded more like "aaggghhhhck!")

Still I didn’t have any plans to go to the hospital. I assumed I had something innocuous like the flu (or the bubonic plague) plus I didn’t know where we were…much less where there was a hospital, but the kids took control. They insisted that I get into the van and hang on. A half hour of teeth grinding agony later I was in the emergency room in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, sporting a kidney stone.

Word to the wise…if you have a choice, do not…I repeat NOT develop a kidney stone unless you're seriously bored. As it turned out, though, the experience wasn’t all bad. I got to lie down on a bed, which I hadn’t had for a week…I got drugs…and holy cow, had I known what a kick that was, I would have had a lot more fun in the 70’s. Annnnd I got some rest. Two days later, however, the doctors kicked me out and told me to go climb the rest of my mountains. So that’s what I did. I stumbled back into the Green Demon and headed for California. Turns out 14,500 feet is a lot of altitude, but we summited in about ten hours and descended in about half that time. (I was trekking longer than I usually stay awake.) After I reached the van that night, I literally crawled inside, covered my head and refused to emerge. The boys cooked supper and shoved a plate under the blanket to me. I ate lying down, pushed the plate back out like a convict, and promptly slept for ten hours.

But the thread of this story is this: I am no longer the caregiver in this family. And although it’s nice in some ways…kind of a weight off my shoulders…it scares me. In the years since my children were born I’ve become a caregiving addict. I need to be needed. And what now? The kids are already taller, brighter and better educated than I. What happens next? In two years will I be tottering around combing my ear hairs and mumbling about mutton chops and hairspray while the kids spoon feed me strained carrots?

Changes are scary. At least for me. Do they frighten you too? Which parts are the most terrifying and what do you plan to do about it?