My son, 16-almost-17, was given a writing assignment recently that he told me he was unable to complete. Not for lack of talent or lack of time, or even his most common lament: "I can't think of anything to write." The piece only had to be 2-3 paragraphs, he was given an hour, and the subject was dictated:
His own eulogy, as if written by me upon his unexpected, premature death.
The assignment was an exercise in teaching kids the dangers of drugs/drinking/careless driving/other stupid behavior (take your pick), and helping them see the potential outcomes of certain situations. Situations that teenagers tend to brush off as "It's nothing, Mom."
(Alternatively: I know what I'm doing, leave me alone, you're overreacting, I'll be fine, it's not dangerous, you're worrying over nothing, stop worrying about me, don't be stupid, do you think I'm stupid?)
Situations that keep parents sleepless worrying about car accidents, failed classes, injuries, overdoses, lost opportunities, comas, prison, addiction.
Or, worst of all, about having to write their child's eulogy upon his unexpected, premature death.
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My kids and I are emotionally close. They have always felt free to talk to me about things, and they know I won't avoid the tough or awkward or difficult topics. They understand it's my responsibility and my love for them that keeps me drilling home the lessons about drugs and underage drinking; these have long been on our regular discussion list. But they definitely tune me out at times and there are occasions they make it clear they don't agree.
(I know what I'm doing, leave me alone, you're overreacting, I'll be fine, it's not dangerous, you're worrying over nothing, stop worrying about me, don't be stupid, do you think I'm stupid?)
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My daughter has always been pretty easy for me to read. There was a familiarity with her mind and her thought process that I swear existed from the moment in my pregnancy that I knew it was a girl. But my son . . . it's harder for me to know what's going on in his head. There is a nightmare that I have had occasionally throughout his life, in fact, even before he was born. It involves me losing his infant body under very dark, murky water that I am also in but am unable to see into and I keep reaching out with my arms and searching the water in every direction to rescue him, aware that every second he's falling farther away and I begin panicking that I can't find him and time is running out and . . . that's when I wake up. I've long tried to convince myself that the dream just symbolizes my fears of doing something wrong raising him, or of losing him emotionally someday. But I never quite lose the little nagging fear that it means more, that it is more than a dream, that it is a vision, a premonition.
And that it means I would have to write his eulogy upon his unexpected, premature death.
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So I would say I try doubly hard to make sure my son hears my messages. And about this writing assignment, well, I was very in his face about it and told him I thought it was great. Designed to make kids think - not of what might happen to THEM: the accidents, comas, overdoses, etc. Because of course teenagers are immortal and those things will never happen. Those things are unfathomable to them.
(I know what I'm doing, leave me alone, you're overreacting, I'll be fine, it's not dangerous, you're worrying over nothing, stop worrying about me, don't be stupid, do you think I'm stupid?)
But what a brilliant idea to make him think instead about what writing his eulogy would be like for me. How I would want to mention all the many things he was in life: the joy he brought, the milestones he reached, the laughter he created, the lives he touched.
Everything he was from the moment I saw the positive pregnancy test in my hand until the moment of his unexpected, premature death.
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He still hasn't finished that assignment and I don't know that he ever can, actually. That's fine with me, though. I think he tried to do it, and it didn't even take one sentence before he sensed just a tiny bit of the enormous black pain that would crowd out everything else in my being - would crowd the life out of me - were I actually trying to write his eulogy. He couldn't write it because I wouldn't be able to write it. He understood that I would not be able to breathe, let alone pick up a pen or form a sentence. That I would be as good as dead myself. Some part of him woke up and grasped the fact that he doesn't ever want to be the cause of that.
Somehow, in some way, that has given me a small reassurance. Parents never stop worrying about their kids, I'll never stop worrying about either of mine. I know I'm going to continue hearing lots of the same:
(I know what I'm doing, leave me alone, you're overreacting, I'll be fine, it's not dangerous, you're worrying over nothing, stop worrying about me, don't be stupid, do you think I'm stupid?)
But that assignment in some way tied him to me. It's not a rope, yet, just a string, but it's made me a tiny bit less afraid now of losing him in the murky water. He may never finish the writing of it, but I'll give him an A for effort.
