March 15, 2016
Yesterday we dropped Travis off at the airport in Austin at 10:00 a.m. Today at 11:00 a.m., our time, he departed another plane (his third in 25 hours), in Nairobi, Kenya. I ache.
This is his fifth trip to Africa. His first three were as a med student or medical resident, trips of three-weeks or so to help staff a clinic in far western, rural Kenya. Last year’s trip was for 4.5 months as he earned a diploma from the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, entailing NOT setting foot in London, but rather studying in Uganda and Tanzania. This time he’ll be gone for 1.5 years. And I ache.
The man is 33 years old. Of course, I realize that life is different now than it was when I was growing up. When I was 33 it had been over 15 years since I had spent as much as seven days in a row in my mother’s company, and my list of international destinations included only Nassau, Montreal, and Nuevo Laredo. I can count 15 flights across the Atlantic for Travis (7.5 round trips), and I’m probably forgetting at least one trip. Add in one trip to Australia, one to Fiji, one to Panama, several to Hawaii, and many other snowy take-offs and landings and I am not surprised that I am totally grey-headed. I once kept a plane aloft in the winter sky between Detroit and Amsterdam for nine hours (not to mention effecting the de-icing with my own will, from 1000 miles away), and as it turns out he wasn’t even on the plane; he had gotten aboard an earlier flight. Did I mention I ache?
THIS time he has quit his job, sold his car, ended his apartment lease, saved enough money to cover his
school loan payments, and headed off to Kenya to teach in a hospital. We will get to see him for a few
weeks in June, then he’s going back, under the auspices of the Peace Corps/SEED, to either Malawi,
Uganda, or Tanzania.
After his apartment lease expired he lived with us for the past month. As he would say, we were
roomies!! It was unimaginably fun. He loves us so, and is free and creative in demonstrating such. He
would cook at least once a week, trying to model for us (explicitly, sometimes chastisingly) how to eat
healthily. Also he modeled for us a positive attitude!! He and his brother gave us an Apple TV for
Christmas, and so often, if we found ourselves at home, together, in the living room, near bedtime, he’d
say “How about some Fraz?,” (pronounced like “Frazier,” without the “er” — FRAYzh). And the three of
us would watch a sitcom and laugh a bit, sometimes more than a bit, before going to bed. Early on I had
predicted that we would not like being roommates for more than a couple of weeks. How I
underestimated his tolerance of us. His delivered joy. The influence of his positivity. Our intentional,
though certainly unsuccessful, attempt to fully embrace the finite hours we had with him (with
anyone!). Every day was a delight, as the silent, miserable-warm countdown went on certainly in our
heads, if not in his. Later in the flow I predicted, more accurately, that this month would make his
departure harder, for all of us. We were re-re-reminded how much we enjoy each other’s company.
And indeed, we grew – who’d’a thought it possible? – even closer.
A few months back he had had to give me some tough-love. He and Cheryl and I met at this favored
wine bar for dinner. Somehow he had communicated that he had something he wanted to tell us.
When he arrived he got in my face pretty seriously, perhaps like never before. “Look. When I tell
everyone else about these opportunities, they’re excited for me. When I tell you,” (he was talking to
both of us, but mostly to me), “you slump your shoulders and get all sad looking. Please just stop that.”
We assured him that we WERE proud of him, WERE happy for him, WERE glad that he knew himself,
knew what he wanted to do, and that he was pursuing his dream. We were just concerned about his
safety. He encouraged us/me to just get over it. He parried our concerns with the usual, the predictable
– “I could die, here, driving to work.” “If I die, I am doing what I want to be doing.” That sort of thing.
“Predictable”? Predictable because he had said it all before – “postdictable”? But this time I heard it. I
had disappointed him, and I never wanted to do that again. For the first time, the prospect of his
getting hurt or sick or killed was less distasteful to me than the prospect of my disappointing him.
So I heard it. I heard him. And from that moment on I started manufacturing joy about his trip. And
I’ve succeeded. Really. No, really. I am glad he has sought and scored this opportunity. I have finally
embraced the fact that this kid, this man, has a vision that extends much beyond helping people in north Austin with their allergies. I have internalized, mostly, that his life is his to live, and any worry of mine, well-founded or not, should have zero influence on his chosen path. He belongs to the world. His mother and I often look at each other and one of us will say, “Who is this person? And where did he come from?” And we realize that if we didn’t love him so much, nor he us, it would be easier. The only reason it is hard is because we have had 33 years of close, loving, fun, caring relationship in which everyone elevated the other’s needs above his or her own.
I am full of joy and happiness and pride and inspiration. And I ache.
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Randy, I am writing this with tears streaming down my cheeks. I know, and I ache, too. It has been almost three years since we have seen Margaret and her family. Her younger daughter, Helena, is now older than her sister, Evelyn, was when we saw them last. Margaret and Bruno have been in Switzerland for nine years now, and deep down in my heart of hearts, I still harbor a hope that they will move to the US. But realistically, I know that they won’t — and my heart breaks that they are so far away. They have made a life there — jobs, friends, girls in school. I have always known that I am a selfish person, and I admit that I resent the fact that Bruno’s parents only live 45 minutes away from them — that the little girls spend weekends with them, and holidays, and birthdays. I tell myself that we have raised wonderful independent children — that was our goal, right?! But did we have to do such a great job at it? And does it have to hurt so much as we try not to let them know?
I’m sorry, dear Marilyn. When we figure out who taught these kids to think independently heads will roll!
Great stuff as always. Takes me back to my older daughter’s moving to Austria and Germany to sing opera. You literally have to let them fly. That is our job. Thanks for putting into such beautiful words.