The Pain of Leaving
This is so damn hard. My heart and stomach are fluttering with the thought of leaving the girls again. This time it's for New Orleans, and only for 10 days, but it might as well be forever. This time is harder because I spent six months apart from them, living in D.C. and spending a week every month with them in California. I was aching to come back for good. The travel is not so bad. It's the leaving that kills me.
I have to go, that much is certain. Freelancing is tough and I need this trip to pump up my resume, get experience and hopefully make some money. I'm the breadwinner in this family, so it's crucial. Then there is the adventure. I don't know how I'm goint to get to New Orleans from where I'll be dropped off, where I'll sleep, how I'll carry everything, or how I'll get to Houston for my return flight (9/30- early). I'll also be traveling to the Balkans for a month at the end of October and am so excited. Still, the thought of leaving my girls is breaking my heart. Same goes for my husband.
I’m not alone: Mothers who have to go back to work after so little time with their babies that they leak breast milk around 11 a.m. Mothers and fathers who spend more hours at work than with their children, many at jobs that don't pay enough to do much more than survive month to month. Mothers (and fathers) from poor countries who leave their children behind while they seek work in the U.S.
Judy Woodruff, one of the highest paid journalists around, has three children, one of whom has been completely disabled (mind and body) since childhood. The first time I heard about it was in a documentary about women journalists shortly after she gained fame because of her multi-million dollar contract with CNN. My friend Sarah's 10-year-old son is autistic. He requires intense attention to keep him physically safe and to try to help him to some day live somewhat independently. She went to law school so she could make a better life for her two sons and grappled with her decision every day because it took so much of her attention away from Thomas and her older son, Mitchell. I heard about a women from New Orleans who was separated from two of her three children because she could only carry one during the evacuation. She carried the youngest, who couldn't swim. She's still searching for her babies.
So I'm lucky. My heartache is self-made. My daughters are healthy and joyful and support me, although they'd rather not be apart again. When I was commuting from D.C., an oppressive weight would begin to push down on us the closer it got to my departure date. Leaving again, the same lead is descending upon me. I can't find a good description for how it feels. George Orwell, the master of the metaphor, probably could but words fail me. Even though I can do literary tribute to others' pain, I can't name my feeling because I don't want to feel it. I know I'm not alone.
I have to go, that much is certain. Freelancing is tough and I need this trip to pump up my resume, get experience and hopefully make some money. I'm the breadwinner in this family, so it's crucial. Then there is the adventure. I don't know how I'm goint to get to New Orleans from where I'll be dropped off, where I'll sleep, how I'll carry everything, or how I'll get to Houston for my return flight (9/30- early). I'll also be traveling to the Balkans for a month at the end of October and am so excited. Still, the thought of leaving my girls is breaking my heart. Same goes for my husband.
I’m not alone: Mothers who have to go back to work after so little time with their babies that they leak breast milk around 11 a.m. Mothers and fathers who spend more hours at work than with their children, many at jobs that don't pay enough to do much more than survive month to month. Mothers (and fathers) from poor countries who leave their children behind while they seek work in the U.S.
Judy Woodruff, one of the highest paid journalists around, has three children, one of whom has been completely disabled (mind and body) since childhood. The first time I heard about it was in a documentary about women journalists shortly after she gained fame because of her multi-million dollar contract with CNN. My friend Sarah's 10-year-old son is autistic. He requires intense attention to keep him physically safe and to try to help him to some day live somewhat independently. She went to law school so she could make a better life for her two sons and grappled with her decision every day because it took so much of her attention away from Thomas and her older son, Mitchell. I heard about a women from New Orleans who was separated from two of her three children because she could only carry one during the evacuation. She carried the youngest, who couldn't swim. She's still searching for her babies.
So I'm lucky. My heartache is self-made. My daughters are healthy and joyful and support me, although they'd rather not be apart again. When I was commuting from D.C., an oppressive weight would begin to push down on us the closer it got to my departure date. Leaving again, the same lead is descending upon me. I can't find a good description for how it feels. George Orwell, the master of the metaphor, probably could but words fail me. Even though I can do literary tribute to others' pain, I can't name my feeling because I don't want to feel it. I know I'm not alone.
posted by A.W. Woodall at 8:25 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home