I’m not doing very well right now. I’m sure part of it is about the fact that it’s 3:45 am and I’m sitting at the airport in Nashville, but most of it is about my irritated eyes and the tightness in my chest. All of this came upon me suddenly a few days ago.
I was doing a college tour at a school in Pennsylvania with my wife and oldest daughter, Jacquelyn. I’ve done a number of these tours and have never felt anything but excitement on them. I’m honestly not sure why this tour was different, but it was. Maybe it’s because of how Jacquelyn’s eyes sparkled as she took in this specific campus, or maybe it was something about how the fall colors in PA looked just different enough from the colors back home to remind me how far we had traveled to be there. I think it had a lot to do with the man from the financial aid department telling us that he could expedite the process so Jacquelyn could apply early decision if she wanted. Meeting that deadline would wildly shorten my mental timeline for making my daughter’s departure from home official. All of these things probably affected me. But mostly, it was Fergie.
We were in the cafeteria getting lunch when she got me. The tour guide had let us all know this school was rated #1 for best food in Pennsylvania colleges, and Jacquelyn had visibly swooned. I pointed out that Pennsylvania was not known as a particularly good “food state” and that we have very good things to eat in South Carolina, but Jacquelyn was unmoved. I emphasized my point by taking an extra-long time to decide what to eat beyond some corn from the vegan/Indian food station. The tour had moved on to sit down while I was still deciding what to get, and that’s when it happened. I was browsing the dessert table (which was not as impressive as dessert tables we had seen closer to home) when I noticed the Fergie song Big Girls Don’t Cry on the overhead speakers.
“And I’m going to miss you like a child misses their blanket, but I’ve got to get a move on with my life. It’s time to be a big girl now… and big girls don’t cry.”
Suddenly, my chest constricted and I had to put my hand on the juice bar (which really did not have all that many different kinds of juice on it.) There was a lump in my throat and my eyes burned. The realization that my daughter won’t be on the couch when I get home from work anymore and that there will be an empty chair at the dinner table every single night washed over me and I haven’t been the same since.
The Lie of the Joyful Departure
No one told me that having your child leave the nest is awful. Everyone acted like I would be thrilled to have one less teenager to manage, and that I would feel a great sense of accomplishment as I helped pack up her stuff. All lies!
There will be a few of you reading this who knew me when Jacquelyn was born. It was my 4th year in veterinary school, and sharing pictures of her was the reason I made a Facebook account. Later, writing stories about things she said and did got me the encouragement I needed to start writing and sharing things about my professional life. Needless to say, we have come a long way together.
My wife has asked me why I am not excited about the life and adventures that await our daughter out in the world, but I am. I think that’s the lesson I am learning today. I am thrilled for Jacquelyn, and I want her to do what she is passionate about and to follow the best path for her. I know she will be a good person and that she is ready to be out from under our wing. I’m excited to see what our relationship will be like when my role is more of an outside advisor and a friend. At the same time, this all really hurts and makes me deeply sad.
The Wisdom of Ted
There’s a scene in the show Ted Lasso where Ted is trying to explain both the love and anger he has for his mother. At one point, Ted says to his mother:
Thank you for flying all the way here to come see me. And fuck you for not telling me you were coming. Thank you for all the small, silly little things you did for me as a kid, you know, like hiding notes in my lunchbox or putting googly eyes on the fruit at the supermarket just to make me laugh. And fuck you for not working on yourself or seeking help after we lost Dad, and for not talking to me about it, either. Just glossing over the whole thing and acting like everything was all right.
Let me be clear here and say that I am in no way frustrated with my daughter for having the audacity to grow up. Rather, in this scene I want to point out the complexity of human emotions that we so rarely talk about. As Ted Lasso strongly feels both love and resentment, right now I feel both pride and sadness.
The experience of living a life is not as simple or straightforward as we like to believe. Our true selves are complex, multifaceted, and messy. We are made to feel conflicting emotions, and the mixture of joy and sadness, love and resentment, or hope and despair makes our lives richer than any non-human could understand.
Navigating Intertwining Emotions
As veterinarians, we see this intertwining of emotions – sadness and gratitude – in the exam room as we help a beloved pet pass from life into the beyond. People who wonder what it’s like to be a vet often ask me if euthanasia is the hardest part of my job. I tell them it’s not at all, but I struggle to explain why. It’s hard to tell them that, while these events are deeply sad, there are so many other emotions involved that make the experience something beautiful. When I put a family’s companion to sleep, I feel their sorrow but I also feel the love that they are grateful to have had. I see both their pain and the powerful bonds they have forged as a family.
I would never compare my daughter’s graduation to a euthanasia. Yet, it is those experiences in the clinic, like witnessing the deep intertwining of grief and gratitude, that makes this storm of conflicting emotions feel familiar. I said at the beginning of this piece that I am not doing well, but now I don’t believe that is true. I do not feel like I’m doing well, but I know I will be just fine. I am taking the same advice I give grieving families: I am accepting this pain as the necessary price for all the good times. I’m reminding myself that the end of a chapter in life is often sad, but only because we don’t know what the next chapter will bring. And most of all, I’m trusting that sorrow is not a weakness. Pain doesn’t mean I was “lied to,” and it is a vital part of growth, inextricably entwined with the deep pride and happiness I also feel.
As I try to tell pet owners in grief, sorrow is often the truest measure of a life well-loved. I am grateful to be this sad.
