I’ve been
walking my way into another joint surgery for the last several months,
negotiating the timing and the logistics of pulling the family lynch pin for
many weeks (possibly as many as twelve).
My doctor warned me mightily ahead of time—about the pain, mostly, but
also about the inconvenience and loss of control. “You weel hate me for three months,” he
assured me seriously in his charming Brazilian accent. “It is only after six that you weel begin to
forgeev me.” I had to answer questionnaires
about my mental health and support system (both of which are excellent—perhaps
the latter a bit more than the former).
I geared myself up for it and I reviewed the family calendar literally
dozens of times as my outbox and text messages and color-coded family calendars
can attest. I knew what I was giving up,
and we all agreed the timing was best.
Spring and summer are our best family times. Winters are spent racing from one activity to
the next, and we all decided that my missing a few games and activities was
less impactful than giving up spring break travel or summer at the lake. I knew it would be difficult and I knew I
would be left out of some things. I saw
it coming and planned for it. Not crying.
We scheduled
the surgery for after the state championship—a precaution I know in hindsight
was unnecessary. I threaded the needle
of my daughter’s final volleyball season as tightly as possible—3 days after
the final state game, 4 days before the end of year banquet. Surely after 4 days I would be well enough to
sit in a restaurant with my daughter’s beloved team and share one last meal
with all the girls and parents. Less
than a week after my hip replacement last year, photos of me dancing on
crutches at my cousin’s wedding surfaced on the internet (they were mostly
staged. But I WAS there, in a party dress
with make-up. Though I ventured
cautiously onto the dance floor for a few photos that my weird family begged me
to pose for, I actually spent most of the reception holding sleeping babies
with my aunts on the sidelines while my siblings and cousins cavorted on the
dance floor). But a hip replacement is
not a 12-stage, 6 hour foot surgery and I was nowhere near up to leaving my
house for the volleyball banquet. Not
crying.
My husband
told me I would “be an idiot” to try and go (while a strong and dedicated caregiver, his bedside manner can be a bit abrupt), and my daughter gave her
characteristic shrug and “I don’t care,” before she bolted off to some event up
at school with a careless “I’ll meet you there,” tossed over her shoulder on
the way out the door. Not crying.
This
volleyball road has been such a fraught one for me and Grace. We are so heartbreakingly different in so
many ways, and as she’s grown and matured I’ve struggled mightily to connect
appropriately with her. She’s aloof and
matter of fact about every decision in her life (gets that from her dad) and
the emotion I bring to every interaction is distasteful and untrustworthy to
her. Every time I hug her these days I
tease her by emulating her stiffness and asking, “Are you done yet?” Because my
girl—with all the wonderful characteristics that I love so dearly about her—is
not a hugger. Not crying.
But
volleyball was such a bridge for us. I
wrote this back when she was a freshman and deciding whether to play volleyball
or swim in high school, and every word of it still rings so true for us. So much of her perspective, and her
experience, differ from mine. Except in
this one way, we have been through the exact same thing. 25 years before she did it, I wore the Wahlert
Golden Eagle volleyball uniform and played for a team that brought home a 3rd
state title. We played the same position
(she was spectacularly better than I).
Her coach and I share a coach.
It’s a link. It’s something. It’s not nothing. And I missed the last ever chance to share
that with her. Not crying.
It seems
brutally ironic (is there any other kind of irony, really?) that part of the
reason I spent the hours she was receiving her final high school volleyball
recognition flat on my back with my leg propped up on a cushion was because of
injuries I suffered during my own high school athletic career, or possibly
during my pregnancy with her or one of her siblings. I couldn’t be there for her last hurrah
because of injuries I suffered during my own or in the great hurrah of bringing
her into this world. Or it’s possible I
lay there for no justifiable reason at all, just cruel dumb luck, and my trying
to make connections that didn’t exist was a stupid waste of time. Not crying.
It is also
FINE that she doesn’t miss me at events like these. That she sits with her friends and tolerates
the photos we snap when we manage to be there.
My friends texted them to me anyway—it’s nothing to cry about. The fact that I wasn’t missed means I DID MY
JOB, because she is ready and willing to be in the world without me. We both learned the hard and spectacular
lessons that varsity athletics have to teach, and, like Tom Hanks famously told
Geena Davis in one of my all-time favorite movies, “There’s no crying in
baseball!” (Or volleyball, or any sport for that matter). And so I’m not. Crying that is.
Grace is so
confident in my love that my presence or absence at awards ceremonies like
these is just a calendar conflict or matter of unfortunate injury. She won’t remember my missing this because in
the course of her life, I made it a point not to miss much at all. She might not remember this one time, but I
will. Not crying.
Besides, not
every awards assembly this spectacular girl attends is an epic and
extraordinary symbol of her achievements.
Indeed, it is much lamented by my generation just how much we celebrate
every tiny accomplishment of our offspring.
This event in no way reflected my pride in her, or my devotion to her
utter joy and success in life. It’s just
cheeseburgers and certificates and small talk.
It’s just a game we happened to both play for a few years when we were
young. It’s just volleyball. I’m not crying, you’re crying.
No comments:
Post a Comment