Okay, I thought I was dealing with the empty nest pretty
well. I survived those 17 days of my
daughter’s pre-college wilderness experience. That was challenging. Sequoia
didn’t get to bring her computer into the wilderness. Or her cell phone. So I had a hard stop in communications. Seventeen days of silence.
I flew to
Sequoia emailed every day. We talked twice on the phone. All seemed well. But then, after mailing the second package in two weeks, she fell silent. No response to my Thursday email. None Friday. Nothing Saturday. Nothing Sunday. Monday I decided to send an “R U alive?” text. But first I checked her Facebook page.
Yup, she was alive. She’d changed her status at 6:08 that morning. Okay, maybe in the Midwest it was 8:08am. Her status read: Sequoia “is finally willing to admit that she's sick. But she's really not happy about it.”
Sick?! That felt completely different in my mother-gut. How sick? I’d always taken care of her when she was sick. Did she know when she needed to go to the doctor? Had I taught her what she’d need to know in times of sickness as well as health?
I sent the text. “What do you mean, you’re sick? Are you alive? Love, Mom”. Two hours later I heard back: “Barely. I miss your honey and lemon tea.”
That did nothing to calm my fears. I always made honey and lemon tea when she had a sore throat. I texted back: “Is it your throat? Surely your ace food service could make you some honey and lemon tea.” Her food service was rated among the best at any campus in the country. Couldn’t they make my sick little girl some tea?
The response came more quickly this time: “Yeah they can. But yours is better. And it’s my everything. Nose throat and head especially.”
I wasn’t ready to let go of the throat issues. “Are your lymph nodes enlarged?” The response was almost instantaneous. “Yup.”
My mind flew to how sick her brother had been when he got mono. And how sick his fiancée had been with mono her freshman year. I texted back: “You know you're in prime mono territory. Have you gone to health services?”
I didn’t like her response. “No. They jump to mad conclusions. They sent my roommate to the hospital because she was dizzy once six months ago.”
Grateful for v-text, and the ability to text from my keyboard, I fired back: “Can we talk? Swollen lymph nodes mean the presence of infection, which only something like penicillin can counteract.”
Her return text let me know I had overstepped my boundaries and was trying to control from afar. “Ok then they aren’t swollen. I made it up.” I should have stopped there. But I didn’t. I asked more questions. “Can you swallow food? Did you go to class today?”
“Yes" and "yes.” Now I didn’t know if she was just trying to get me to let it rest. “Do you have a fever?”
But then she sent her final text. “I’m fine, mom –it’s just a cold that’s going around our floor.” And she turned off her cell phone. And I’m back to silence.
Ah, the fine line of mothering long distance. She thinks she's fine. Or at least she wants me to think she's fine. And there's not much I can do if she's not fine. She's surrounded by people who, even though she only met them a few weeks ago, already care about her. If she had a serious fever or seriously swollen glands, she couldn't have gone to class or eaten at the food service. And I planted the seed about mono, so she'll be on the lookout for symptoms. So she's fine. She's in good hands. I'll pray that she is fine. And let it go. I can do that. I think I can.
That is so cool that you are swapping text messages with Sequoia! It's a different world now. Sounds like you have jumped in with both feet with parenting via text! ;)
Posted by: Bonnie | October 08, 2008 at 10:47 AM
Wow. Thanks for that glimpse of what's to come! An encouragement to me to remain tech-savvy!
Posted by: Jane | October 08, 2008 at 08:49 PM