Empty Nest Syndrome: a pleasant euphemism which conjures up mother birds who have gently encouraged their young fledglings to take to the air for the first time. The nest is empty… and next year mommy bird will build another one, lay her eggs, and go through the same process all over again.
Empty Nest Syndrome. We watch our children leave home one at a time, but our feelings are not always the same. With some of our children, we are more ready to have them go. They’re young adults, and it is time for them to be at least partially self-supporting. We’ll miss them, but they’ll be back. Like human boomerangs, they’ve been coming and going for a long time. Move out, move back, move out, move back. We love them, but we want to see them stand on their own. A little distance is good for everyone involved. Besides, there is still at least one bird left in the nest. It is not yet truly “empty.”
And then the last bird takes flight. For some mother’s it might be a relief, to finally have the place to themselves. Responsibilities shift. There are less demands on your time. You can do all those things you never had time to do when you were raising progeny. This is a good thing.
Not necessarily. For some of us, "Exploded Identity Syndrome" might be a better name for having our last child leave home. For decades we have been “Mom” – the one responsible for changing diapers, wiping tears, helping with English papers, cheering at baseball games, smiling through choir and band concerts, consoling through relationship trials, serving as chauffer, nurse, social secretary, teacher, wardrobe consultant, comforter and confidant. It was our job to keep them safe, to guide them into good choices, and, whenever possible, to keep them from making painful mistakes. If we ignored our responsibility it made us a “bad” mother. But then, over a relatively short period of time, our accepted role changes radically. It is no longer our job to advise, direct or suggest alternatives. That would be interfering. We are to “let go” and allow them to do whatever they choose. And what’s more, we are to release them happily, with joy in our hearts at their independence. More charitable friends and acquaintances might give us a few months to feel sad and miss that last child, to experience Empty Nest Syndrome. “She’s gone away to boot camp – I won’t be hearing her voice for months” – but a well adjusted mother accepts that this is for the best and moves on with her life, right?
I am obviously not a well adjusted mother. Having my daughter leave home and move across the country was like having my heart dug out of my chest with a sharp rock. And that was only the beginning. She would come home many times over the next few years, but each time ended with her flying away again. She married, and decided to move to a distant state. We had a lot of phone contact – I saw her several times a year – but what I knew in the depths of my wounded heart is that she would never really come home again. And as hard as I tried to accept her absence, it was like a constant stabbing pain in my gut. I tried with some success to build a new life for myself, but there was always this daughter-shaped space inside of me that ached with emptiness.
Time has passed. I’m accustomed to only seeing my daughter once or twice a year. All her possessions are gone from my house, except for a few keepsakes that I am saving to give her when she has children of her own. I talk to her on the phone 2 or 3 times a week, and we have a mother/daughter relationship that many parents would envy. But it occurred to me today that at least a part of the deep depression I battle with so often is still about her loss. She is not sick, not dying, not suffering in some horrible situation – in fact she is relatively healthy and happy, and excited to be carrying her first child in her womb. She is simply far away, and I miss her terribly. I miss her smile, her energy, her light. I miss being part of this wonderful experience she is going through now, as she prepares to be a mother herself. I will miss seeing her belly grow round – will miss being there the first time she feels her child stirring inside her. I will hear about it by phone, and might even see her at Christmas, but I will not be there for each small miracle. I am missing her life… and missing her.
I have a dear friend whose only child – a 39 year old son - passed away last year. I cannot imagine her pain. I have been with her through this loss, watched her grief, tried to support her in whatever small ways I could, and still, I cannot fathom what her experience must be like. I cannot conceive of losing one of my children in that way. When I look at her, I feel guilty for my own grief. It seems selfish to be so sad when my son and daughter are still so much a part of my life. It is a pain I find difficult to share with my friend, because it is too petty and small in comparison to her own tremendous loss. How could I possibly respond to my own life with anything less than gratitude for what I still have?
Today, when the awareness of my longstanding grief about my daughter came to me, another awareness came as well. I love my daughter deeply, and would never want my behavior to have a negative affect on her life. Allowing her absence to drag me into the pit of depression does not serve either of us. I am not improving her life by suffering so much in her absence. In fact, the contact we do have is sometimes tainted by my sadness, no matter how hard I try to hide it. She knows me too well… knows my tone of voice and my energy. Even if we dance around the subject, she knows I am unhappy, and she worries about me. She worries about me because I am so absorbed with missing her that I sometimes can’t get my head above water. How twisted is that scenario?
Empty Nest Syndrome. I am trying to accept that, like so many other things in life, it is essentially what we create it to be. I can wallow in my loss, hoping that it will somehow change and things will go back to the way they are “supposed to be.” Or I can try to accept that things already are exactly as they are “supposed to be” and get on with my life. Seems a lot easier said than done. But in truth, what other reasonable choice is there?
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