Helpless and Holding My Breath

I didn’t know what it was like to hold my breath for four months, until I was finally able to exhale. I didn’t know what it was like to have one of my children away – really far away, 7000 miles away – and how difficult that would be. And I didn’t know the relief and the incredible release that her return would bring.

My elder child’s study abroad semester in Kenya was a learning experience for all of us. It felt like a long time. It felt like that old joke: I spent a month with my in-laws one weekend.

While the departure was difficult, it now feels like the easiest part of the journey. The random panic attacks, sudden teary eyes, and overwhelming anticipation of a video chat became rituals to which I never fully adjusted.

And then the early morning phone call:  At 6am on Saturday, September 20, it rang. I was half asleep when I answered it; my daughter said, “Daddy, I’m fine.” Great, I thought, “Why are you calling? What is going on?” There had been a terrorist attack at a shopping mall about two kilometers from her apartment. The siege on that mall would last several days. Only later would my daughter tell me that, at the time of the attack, she and her roommate were on their way there.

My brother called and said we should bring her home. Now. And having her home would certainly have been good for my blood pressure and racing heartbeat. Yet, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. The university told us she was safe. My wife pointed out that there are dangers everywhere. Most of all, my daughter did not think it was necessary to leave. I had to rely her judgment. Her judgment is excellent, and I have come to trust it. My emotional and protective side wanted her under my care. But I knew that I could no more protect her here, than I could there. She was going to have to navigate these situations on her own. And although I knew she could, I wanted to be by her side. I wanted to continue coaching and parenting. I couldn’t and I shouldn’t and it was one of the most difficult things NOT to do.

Things did calm down. Life returned to the new normal in both Africa and our home. We scheduled a weekly video chat. We exchanged occasional text messages and emails. I can’t say I got used to it. I would race home from Sunday school and set up for our weekly sighting. And when she didn’t want to say goodbye, I wanted to reach through the screen and hug her.

There were the little illnesses, difficulties with classes, and the usual bumps that any college student or world traveler experiences. I watched her handle them beautifully.   I worried when she wasn’t feeling well and wondered about where she could get good medical care if she needed it. Being thousands of miles from campus, I marveled as she registered for next semester, applied for a job, and arranged for housing from afar.

For one week, she was staying in a home in a distant part of Kenya. Rural week, it was called. She didn’t know if her hosts would have electricity, running water, or would even speak English. We talked the day before she left and then we crossed our fingers.

Midweek, my phone rang! She was checking in! Fortunately, she was staying in the home of a government official and college professor! Other students had much more primitive lodgings. She could use her cell phone to call us and I was relieved. It worked out fine.

That, I guess, is the theme of this entire experience: It worked out fine. I knew that she could take care of difficult challenges without me. I learned that I could not only let her do that, but I would survive standing on the sidelines and being so far out of the action.

And now, she is back in the arms of the family. After a grueling two-day journey, we are back together, and I can breathe again. I wanted to fly to Africa and accompany her home. I exercised all my bad helicopter parent tendencies on the last leg of the journey. I tracked her flight and touched base at each of her five cities. I raced to the airport to meet her. I got there too soon and paced and fretted.

And I know the big lesson: we are going to do this again – and again and again. I better get used to it. I don’t know if I will. I was jealous of parents whose kids came home for Thanksgiving. I was jealous of parents of students studying in London, Rome, Madrid, and even Perth. But that isn’t my child. My child will be going to learn in much more remote and unusual locations. And I am going to practice breathing.