Anna Lee Foster entered this world after thirty hours of back labor. My husband and I, like so many first-time parents, had our hearts set on natural childbirth, but after about fifteen hours of agonizing pain, I took the meds which, of course, slowed “progress” down to a crawl. I developed a fever and she began to show signs of distress, so they decided to go to plan B which was pulling her out with a baby-sized plumbers friend. The dance went like this: at the beginning of a contraction I would push and they would pull. We could do this only three times, they said. Then they would go to the dreaded plan C. We pushed and pulled unsuccessfully through two contractions. And then on the third and final push and pull out she came with a bruised and slightly misshapen head. The nurses scooped her up, cleaned her off and placed her in her father’s arms. She gazed into his eyes, breathtakingly beautiful.
Few rites of passage exist in our modern world. And fewer of them consciously acknowledge and value those corner-turning moments of our lives. However, something dawns on me when I look at photos from Annalee’s prom. The dress is sage colored. Strapless. Flows from a sequined bodice in the style of a Greek goddess. She smiles at us, a mix of bubbly soda and sophistication. Grace frozen in time. The moment is truly ceremony. A step toward leaving home.
A little family secret is that during most of her senior year, Annalee lived hermit-style in our house. Her room fell into an abysmal state. Like Thoreau she saw mostly no one, appeared for short mandatory visits at mealtime then disappeared again into some foreign and probably exotic place behind her bedroom door. I understood this need for disconnection and trod gingerly when gifted with her presence. Until, of course, I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Annalee…your room….the house will be condemned if anyone steps in there…” And “If you live like this next year your roommate will hate you.” And “…you need to get a haircut to boot.” She rebelled quietly. The room began to smell.
And then……she was gone.
The dance of push-me-pull-you is over and I am left with absence. Her vacant room has taken on a new identity. The door, closed for the past year, now always stands open. The bare bed she left behind has been remade with fresh sheets and a Mexican blanket. The room is clean. Floor, uncluttered. The books that did not go with her are neatly shelved. Old journals are stacked on her desk. I rifle through a couple of them. A few months ago Annalee would have howled at this invasion, but now, her ghostly presence just shrugs nonchalantly. An unopened carton of organic hearty chicken soup stock (good for colds!) sits left behind on her dresser. It is a reminder of how this corner-turning is about choice.
For Annalee and me, the daily dance of ‘push-me-pull-you’ is over forever. This truth hits hardest during my meditative stretching class. It is evening and the lights are dim. Soft music plays. As I reach my arms up to the sky, grief washes down over me like blood, and I feel the primariness of my relationship with my daughter flow out of my hands and disappear into the ether. My years of big influence are over. Even if she comes back to live in her room, our relationship will be different. I will step back so that she can step forward. Musical notes tumble out of the window into dusky night. As our stretching winds down, the wave of grief subsides, but I am glad for the soothing music and comforting darkness.