Nothing Has Changed, Yet Everything Has Changed

My son chose to go back to class today, just about 48 hours after surgery. I drove him the ten miles back to campus. As we went to leave the house, I reached for his backpack.

"I can get it, Mom," he said. An indulgent smile, a slight roll of the eyes.

I hesitate. The doctor said he was not to lift more than ten pounds for the next month. On Wednesday, the backpack was definitely more than that. But he's since removed the laptop, so perhaps...

Still, I hesitate. This would be a kid who's carried his own backpack since kindergarten. He is strong, and independent. Nothing has changed...

Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed. Now, he is battling a life-threatening illness. But I sigh, and hand him the backpack.

This is a new dance we are doing now, he and my husband and me. We have suddenly, forcefully been reminded of the fragility of his life. And yet he, himself, has not changed. He has been living independently for two years now. It's important that this continue.

And yet... And yet... How can we let him go?

It's not so different from when he was a toddler. One second he is grasping your hand tightly, and the next he has released it. He turns to look at you, and his face is defiant, and frightened, and proud. You analyze the danger, and his need for independence... And you let him go.

It's frightening, and it hurts, but you let him go.

He is out with friends tonight. Just over 48 hours after the surgery. And he is planning to move back to the fraternity tomorrow. It's what he's done for the past two years. It's what he needs, right now, in his life.

You want to protest. You want to hold him close, for at least one more day.

But instead, you let him go.

It's frightening, and it hurts. But you let him go.

Nothing has changed. Yet everything has changed.

And still, with fear and pride, you let him go.