Tag: family

Holding On to Moments That Last

A few weeks ago, I took my son to the airport. It was the first time he was going on a trip without me. And not just without me, he was traveling for the first time as an unaccompanied minor.

He was growing increasingly nervous leading up to his trip, and each day, his anxiety showed more on his face. I woke him up early that morning to give us plenty of time to check in and get my gate pass, which added a slow, sleepy haze to his nervousness.

We passed through security and headed towards the gate. I checked his boarding pass and looked at the signage. We were two terminals away and the gate was the second to last in the terminal, which meant we had a hike in front of us.

I led the way as he trailed behind me, his loaded backpack hanging over his shoulder, adding weight to his burden. I offered to carry it for him, but he declined. His face was blank, his mouth slightly open, drawing in air, as we pushed forward until we entered the terminal for his gate.

“I’m so hungry,” he moaned.

“Ok, pal, we’ll find something closer to the gate.”

We pressed on through a largely empty terminal, the stores and eateries closed. He reminded me every few minutes of how tired and hungry he was, in case I forgot. I said a little prayer that there would be a place for him to get food and that he would have enough time to get it near his gate. Fortunately, there was a food court with a Sbarro within view of the gate.

He slumped into a chair, dropping his bag off his shoulder, as I went to order him food. I glanced over, and he had the same exhausted, blank expression on his face. I brought him a slice of pepperoni pizza and a glass of water, placing them in front of him.

After it cooled, he hunched over and took a few bites.

“I’m too tired to eat.”

“Ok, pal.”

I packed up his food and picked up his backpack.

“Let’s get you to the gate,” I offered.

He stood up slowly and followed me the rest of the way.

His flight was already boarding, so I went to the desk to let them know he was there. We stood off to the side as they finished boarding, which is when there was enough of a pause for me to start missing him, even before he left my sight.

I thought about the previous day. When I dropped him off to school, he asked me if I would play basketball after I picked him up.

“Maybe,” I said. I knew I had a big day at work ahead of me, and I didn’t want to commit and then disappoint him if I was too busy or tired.

And I was. But the first thing he said to me when he stepped into the car was to ask about playing basketball. Every exhausted fiber of me wanted to say ‘no,’ but I knew I’d miss him terribly and wanted to spend every minute with him.

“Only if you want to lose,” I responded. The smile on his face, followed by him cracking his knuckles and neck, was everything, followed closely by our time on the court playing, and laughing, and being together.

Standing at the gate, I reminded him of our games the day before, including the game where he beat me 21 to 0. There was a glimpse of energy, and a smile, and I felt lighter.

The agent finished boarding the other passengers and came to us to escort my son to the plane. I gave my son a hug and a kiss, put on a brave smile as he disappeared down the jetway.

I stood at the window, watching the pilots finish their preflight checks before the jet bridge was retracted. The airplane pushed back and entered the flow of traffic to taxi to the runway. Once it disappeared from my view, I began my long journey back through the airport, to the car, and finally to the house, which felt emptier without my son.

It was terribly quiet.

But as I left later that morning to go to work, I saw the basketball on the floor of the garage and was instantly reconnected with my son through the memory of our games the day before.

He’s growing up so quickly. Each step he takes towards independence means there will be fewer moments like the ones we’ve shared. Each year, he’ll need me a little less, and that’s how it’s supposed to be.

But until then, I’ll seize every chance to create more memories, so that even when we’re apart, it feels like we’re still together.

More Than Survival

When I was young, I didn’t have a lot of support learning how to manage big emotions. When things got hard, I would go internal, like a turtle pulling itself into its shell. I’d get anxious and scared, pulling my extremities closer to my body to make myself as small as possible until the danger passed.

That was a survival skill, but while it helped me get through the danger, it didn’t address the fear and anxiety that remained. I never learned to regulate my emotions and nervous system. As a result, I spent much of my life being an anxious, introverted, scared little boy and hiding from the world.

I developed other skills to compensate. I found the courage to join the Army. After the army, I started a career, got promoted, and led teams. I got married and started a family. That’s when those compensatory skills began to fail, and I reverted to the safety of going internal, which had worked for me. Still, it didn’t work for deepening a relationship or dealing with difficult situations together.

The stress of starting a family is real, and it was terrifying to bring another life into the world and be responsible for keeping it alive. I knew I wanted to give my son a better childhood and life than I had, which felt like a huge responsibility especially considering I had no reference or idea what that meant. It was easy to do the fun stuff with him, but the stress and anxiety brought some of those survival skills back to the surface which created distance between me and my family. But we managed.

The bigger test was when we moved to Pennsylvania. We moved across the county into a new city for a new job and, within a few months, my son also began having seizures. Within that first year of moving, we spent nearly six months in the hospital trying to get his seizures under control, dealing with side effects from his medications, behavioral issues, and the fear of losing him, all in a new environment where we had no support.

Again, those survival skills that I learned as a child came back in full force. I forced my emotions down inside my shell and focused my energy on the logistics and on getting things done, rather than dealing with the fear, anxiety, shame, and despair that were trying to make their presence known.

That could be what was necessary. I needed to keep my job, maintain our insurance, put food on the table, and create a sense of normalcy in an unstable and unnatural time. While the crisis was happening, I needed that focus and detachment. But afterward, when the danger had subsided and what was left was the rebuilding of our son, that detachment became a divide, a chasm I couldn’t reach across to connect with my family.

I’ve spent a lot of time since then to cross that divide. Therapy, self-reflection, and the hard work of being present have brought me closer to my son, and I hope they have also set an example for him on how to balance survival with connection. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it because my son deserves more than just survival.

He deserves me.

Alone Together

I don’t know where you’re going, but do you have room for one more troubled soul?

That’s a line from the Fall Out Boy song Alone Together. The title itself is an oxymoron. How can someone be both alone and together at the same time?

There are a lot of ways to interpret it. Some people hear it as being about drugs. Others think it’s about two people in the same physical space, but still feeling isolated and apart.

That idea feels familiar. During the pandemic, my family and I were together in the same house, but often living separate lives. We ate in different rooms. We passed each other in the hallway with only transactional conversations. We were together, but we were also alone.

Sometimes, that distance can feel easier. It can be exhausting to be emotionally available all the time, especially when there is no break or separation. But if that becomes the norm, it’s a dangerous road. The road to ruin, as the song puts it, “and we started at the end.”

There’s another way to look at the phrase, though. You can also be physically alone from the rest of the world, but emotionally together with someone else. That’s how I often feel with my son. We are separate from much of the world—by circumstance, by hospital stays, by the realities of epilepsy—but in that separation, we are together. Us against the world. Not really alone at all.

That’s the tension at the heart of the song. It’s also the tension I feel as a parent and caregiver. Lonely, but not alone. Together, but sometimes separate. Finding connection even in isolation.

Let’s be alone together. We can stay young forever. Scream it from the top of your lungs.