I was enjoying a beautiful spring afternoon in the Bay Area. The weather was delicious enough to host my monthly tea group at the table in my garden. We were having a delightful conversation when my husband came downstairs to tell me that my youngest boy had injured himself. A cloud came over the sun.
My guests, all being mothers themselves, knew that I was no longer "at" the tea, and that my heart and mind were with my boy. They graciously excused themselves, and I raced to the phone. I needed to find out right that minute what happened to him, how he was, and what I could do to help.
We'll be seeing him next week. We're heading for Seattle to attend his graduation from Cornish College of the Arts. We organized our trip to also catch a performance of the play he's been in for the last three months; A Midsummer Night's Dream with the Seattle Shakespeare Company.
He's been loving this play, the company, and his part. Reports of standing ovations and nuanced and bawdy performances tickled our ears and warmed our souls. It was his first professional gig, he was doing great, and we were proudly and eagerly looking forward to our place in the audience.
I dialed his number and heard his voice. He had been having trouble with his knee, but didn't think it was too serious until right in the middle of the play. He made an overenthusiastic gesture and felt a wrenching pain. Well, the show must go on, so he limped through the rest of the play hiding his injury as best he could. Now he was in the emergency room, and from the looks of his knee, this was going to be his last performance of Midsummer Night's Dream.
Ahh, the woulda/coulda/shoulda song started. If we had know this was going to happen, we would've changed our plans. We should've gone to see the play earlier. If we had left for Seattle even a week earlier and planned a longer trip, we could've seen the play. Woulda/coulda/shoulda will drive you mad! None of that was going to help our boy. But what was?
This question inspired wild plans of action. Thoughts of driving 14 hours straight to get to him, of flying to Seattle earlier to help out, of recruiting local friends for support . . .we longed for something to do to help.
But who, really, would we be helping?
Well, we'd be helping us to deal with our feelings of disappointment and helplessness, and to have a bold story to tell when it was all over.
What we truly needed to be was just an audience for what was happening to him. The drama of his own life was in his hands, and only he could deal with it. He had insurance, had found a hospital, got the pain meds, and was going to be all right. Plus, he had built up a network of friends to support him and colleagues he could count on to help him do whatever was needed.
We were learning to be patient, stand back and watch it unfold. As we watched, we saw he was in the best hands possible: his own. In our latest phone call with him, he had this to say about his experience with disappointment and pain: "Mom, I learned how loved I am."
What a great lesson to learn.
Life has such interesting ways of teaching us what we need to know.
Love,
Kristine
