It would take an act of God for me to give birth right now.
But there are times when I feel like I’m in labor.
This weekend, midnight, 1 a.m., 2 a.m. I am waiting, watching, breathe in, breathe out, for my young-adult daughter to finish driving 1,732 miles from Montana to Ohio.
She is driving the route by herself.
And I am up in the night, tracking her progress via FindMyPhone:
Montana, South Dakota, Iowa, Wisconsin, Illinois. Twelve degrees and snow flurries in East Shannon, South Dakota. God, does South Dakota never end?
She’s done this drive before, I keep telling myself.
Also: “Don’t forget,” my friend reminds me, “You did this, too.”
’Tis true lest I forget; when I was in my 20s, I crisscrossed the country a few times in a VW bug with a bad boy and his German shepherd named Blood.
I did a few other things I know gave my mother pause.
And now the torch is passed to this descendant of mine who skis back country and climbs mountains and doesn’t just drive home but insists on doing so without stopping overnight.
“I’ll just pull over in a hotel parking lot if I get tired.”
Erg.
I trust her judgment. I’ve stood beside her and watched her make good decisions for 28 years, which does include pulling over when she gets tired. Still, she is human. I am Mother. And it’s 3 a.m. and snowing.
Add to the maternal knot: She isn’t just driving home.
She’s driving home to me.
For me.
I’m not old enough for this role reversal.
Neither is she.
Unfortunately, I have cancer. The time has come when I need help.
And so it was a few weeks ago, that this emerging adult child of mine, whose courage is only surpassed by her empathy, popped up and said: “My contract job in Montana is over. The lease is up on my apartment. The timing is perfect. Why don’t I just come back home to Ohio and help you?”
“Oh honey."
“Shouldn’t you be searching for your soul with the buffalo, not bringing your mother oatmeal in bed?” I say.
“Nope, this is right where I need to be,” she says.
There would be many more conversations, as mothers and daughters are wont to have.
And now, 3 a.m., 4 a.m. The tracker shows no movement. That means she’s stopped to rest.
I will sleep only sporadically until she gets here.
I will sleep only sporadically once she gets here if she doesn’t also allow herself to be 28 while she is bringing me oatmeal.
I tell her this before she comes.
“I will ask that you not let me overtax you, that you get your needs met while you are here and that you always remember: I am still your mother. I still want to be your mother. Please still call on me to be Mom. Please always tell me what you need from me.”
“I promise to tell you what I need if you promise to tell me what you need,’’ she says, repeating words we’ve said to each other many times over the years.
I stand in the kitchen, 5:15 a.m., my hoodie wrapped around my skinny arms like a cloak. She stumbles in the door with her quilt.
“I’m so tired,” she says.
We are mother and daughter, two individuals, joined by family, love and the test of time, on the cusp of something wholly different, with only the trust of our past relationship to rely on.
It is the best starting point.
I hug her.
“Go to bed now,” I say, our labor complete. “Rest.”
“You do the same,” she says, her strong, capable arms nudging me to my bed.
____
