The Dive

It has been almost 48 hours since my son Griffin walked out the front door of our home and through the door of his new home, albeit a small one...about 12' x 12' for two college freshman.  I fully anticipated the grief I am feeling.  That doesn't make it easier.  I object to the dismissive notion of an "empty nest" which reduces me to a caretaker who has lost my job.  Instead, I am grieving for the young man I have come to know in these last few years.  I am grieving his friendship and the way he fills a room.  I am grieving the way he balances a home that is too often filled with illness and urgency or too much quiet.

(Griff, Cesare)

I've been thinking back to when my twins were about five years old and they learned to swim at our town pool.  We spent most of our summer days there, until it became clear that Cesare's occasional attacks of fear and anxiety were not that at all: he was developing epilepsy. The freedom to swim about and search for colorful toys on the bottom of the pool were no longer  options for him.   Summers filled me with dread knowing that Cesare would demand the same freedom his brother had and that I would have to curb that freedom.  I met with the pool staff, outfitted Ces in neon swim trunks and had him wear a distinctive rainbow bracelet so that all of the young lifeguards could spot him and help me keep an eye on him.  But his freedom was, and forever would be, curbed.

Griffin and Cesare loved the diving board.  I did too.  I'm not a great swimmer, but I can swan dive!  What a feeling that is...arms stretched out to embrace the sky, back arched and head held high before setting for the plunge: arms come together, head down and laser focus on the entry.  I've spent all of Griffin's life trying to prepare him for the dive.  Embrace the world, hold your head high...reach.   I don't know that I've been the best coach.  I've been distracted and infinitely fallible.

Perhaps it was foolish, but I could not deny Cesare the same opportunity to learn to dive...or simply to run freely to the end of the board and jump into the cold, blue void.  I would cajole the lifeguards into allowing me to tread in the dive area to await his plunge.  I'd hold my breath and zero in on Cesare's face, looking for any sign of a seizure creeping up.  He would shriek with delight and hit the water still smiling.  I'm still in the deep end with Cesare.  Watching, waiting, protecting.  I hope for the day that his entry into the world doesn't have me treading a few feet away.  

48 hours ago, Griffin's toes left the board and he's in the arc.  It's too late for coaching now.  I need to give him room, keep breathing and witness the entry.  He's allowed a flop, I've had so many.  He need only get in line again and try to perfect his approach.  It is his challenge now.