Melissa Anne Cohen

My days with her are whittled down to squares on the calendar. Julie has a calendar she keeps on the wall in the living room, and wherever I sit, I can see it. I haven’t counted them up yet, but I can’t quite help myself from counting the weeks. Three full weeks left. Two partial.

I haven’t written about this because it is so emotional. It’s painful and scary and so wonderful that I’m afraid to breathe too deeply for fear of messing it up. My daughter is going to one of the best colleges in the country, she’s going to have opportunities that she can’t even imagine yet. She’s so beautiful, and empathetic and kind and brilliant, and I’m so proud of her, and incredibly aware of how lucky I am to have her.

Our relationship quite simply saved me. At a time when I was broken beyond belief, when everything I thought I knew was false and nothing seemed stable or real, Marc loved me so endlessly, and gave me Jessica. And she made my life okay. Being her mother, and then Sam’s and then Julie’s mother, gave me an identity and place to anchor myself.

And in three full weeks and two partial ones, that relationship, that foundational relationship that my whole world pivoted on – that’s going to change. It’s fundamental to who I am – being Jessie’s mother, being responsible for her. Not just the nuts and bolts, like food and clothing, but her emotional wellbeing, her character, her ability to self regulate and remember to eat, and to be kind to herself. I was in charge of all of that. Teaching her the skills, stepping further and further back, but knowing that I could swoop in and save her all the time.

That’s going to change. Forget swooping in, I might not even know that she needs me to do it. She’s going to have to save herself. She’s going to be an adult – and I don’t know what that means for me. I know that I love my mother more than anything, and that we transitioned into a healthy mother/daughter relationship between two adults. But right now? With three full weeks and two partial ones left of me being a full time mother to her, before I officially pass the baton to her. it seems so unbelievable to me. Not sad, not scary, not anticipatory – but unimaginable.

It’s not really unimaginable. It’s fascinating – what will college do for Jessie? How will she change, how will she grow when she’s on her own? How will she define herself, her relationships to others? How will her ambitions change, her goals, her philosophies? What will those relationships look like a year from now?

I’m just going to miss her so much. Yes, I’m enormously proud, and so lucky to have had the last 18 years with her. I’m excited about what the future holds for her, for our family as we adjust to being a family of four at home. I’m looking forward to all of that – and I’m clinging to that. Trying desperately not to focus on the fact that in three full weeks and two partial ones, she’ll be living somewhere else.

I mean, counting down isn’t good for anyone. I know that. It’s like googling a medical condition. Everyone says it’s a bad idea, but I do it anyway. More knowledge is better than less.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

But there are five weeks left until Jessie moves out, and I’m… wordless. I don’t have words. Everything is huge, the pride, the gratitude, and the impending sense that I’m going to be losing daily contact with my first baby and I don’t know what my life looks like without her here every day.

I imagine it. And its lovely. I mean, I’m going to miss her the way I’d miss my right arm, but I still have Sam and Julianna home with me. I have a husband I love, a slightly insane dog, a hamster with psychotic escape tendencies and a fish named Squish. Everything will settle in – she’ll text me, I’ll get busy with the kids, the dog – it’ll be fine.

It’s a new stage, and there’s a part of me that’s looking forward to it. I focus on that. There is still a LOT about my life that’s lovely and exciting and rewarding. But my baby. My little baby girl who I brought home eighteen years, four months and six days ago, the one who’s been at my side ever since.

Five weeks.

I remember her first day of kindergarten, how Sam cried so hard. He was angry that I let her walk away with her class. She’s my first, so I’m always figuring out how to do things with her. I think sometimes we miss that reality – that we’re always a new mom when it comes to the oldest. With Sam and Julie – there’s a sense of “Oh – I remember this.” I’ve survived a tween hiding in their rooms forever. I’ve survived fifth grade math (or at least learned the websites I can check to relearn what I need to know). I’ve handled middle school binders, high school class selection. I can do this.

I’ve never done a high school graduation before.

I know she’s got her cap and gown. I’ve raved over both potential graduation dresses. I know that on a Tuesday night in a few weeks, I’m going to watch her accept her diploma and officially end her childhood. Because that’s what this is. College isn’t full on adulthood – she’ll have training wheels. She’ll have a cafeteria, and someone else handling all the details of paying the electric bill and shoveling out the walkway. Her job will be studying. And making friends, learning who she is as an independent person. But she won’t be a child anymore.

I think I’m ready for this. I think I’m prepared. She pays for her own clothes, her own coffee. She doesn’t run everything by me anymore. Most things, the big things, sure. But she used to tell me everything. She doesn’t need to anymore. She’s suddenly bigger, older. She’s holding down a job, two, soon to be three, with another babysitting job on the side. She’s managing roommate questions, following up on celiac accommodations. Ordering clothes, organizing what she needs for college. She’s outgrown most of what I do. She doesn’t need a wake up in the mornings, or for me to do her laundry. I don’t need to make sure she brushes her teeth or does her homework. I haven’t needed to do any of that for such a long time – but it’s suddenly hitting me that she’s outgrown so much of what we think of as “mothering.”

Our relationship has been changing since the moment she was born. She was always feircely independent, deciding for herself when she’d fall asleep and how, when she’d nurse, when she’d transition to solids and she walked when she was damn good and ready – not at all on my time table. She’s danced that line between being a mini-me and being her own self. She’s everything I wanted her to be. She’s smart and beautiful, kind and empathetic, polite and wickedly sarcastic. She’s maternal and has an ability to know what to say at the right time to make someone laugh when they’re terrified or so scared they can’t see straight. She’s the quintessential big sister, and I’m going to miss her like I’d miss my right hand when she moves away.

We’ve had fourteen months of staying at home. All the time. I mean, I went grocery shopping, visited my parents once a month or so, but otherwise, that was it. I went WEEKS with nothing on my calendar. And suddenly, it’s over. Jessie’s working three different jobs (soon to add a fourth), finishing up end of year testing and actually going into the school for a few days. Sam’s got orientation and mobility sessions once a week, adding in zoom sessions plus he’s got end of the year testing and Julie’s up to 2x weekly therapy sessions. I’m totally overwhelmed and living by my calendar, convinced I’m double booking myself most of the time.

Did I mention that Sam’s allergic to everything? Not just all the dust, and all the trees and all the grasses. We did a pedi food panel test, and he came back flagged for every.single.thing. Except for, oddly enough, pork and chocolate. And brewers yeast (although since he’s allergic to rice, wheat, barley, corn and oats, there’s nothing to bake). We haven’t added in visits to the allergist, but that’ll get added on this week, I think.

It wasn’t a good day.

I struggle with Julianna’s anxiety. When she gets anxious, she shuts down, withdraws and wants to be alone. And it kills me. It breaks my heart that she’s alone with it, and I want so badly to comfort her and help her and let her know that she’s not alone. I don’t know how to handle her anxiety. I understood Jessie’s temper tantrums that, looking back now, were coming from a place of anxiety. I understood Sam’s anxiety, and his panic attacks. They needed me beside them, telling them that I was there, that I was with them, I was on their side, I would be right there and they weren’t alone. Julie wants me far away when she’s anxious and it hurts and it makes me worry that much more.

Plus there was just a lot of other things going on yesterday. Sam’s finally starting to get services for being visually impaired, but it involves a LOT of talking and discussion and arranging. Jessie needs a heart monitor for two weeks, and that’s probably nothing but it freaks me out anyway. Because the idea that it might not be nothing is terrifying.

It was just a big parenting day – it felt like all of the kids needed a lot of administration and parenting. Jessie and I are navigating new territory, finding ways for me to step back and her to step up – and it’s more complicated because she’s asking to step up on things that most kids her age don’t have to deal with, like getting accommodations for celiac disease and arranging for a heart monitor with two different medical companies. That’s hard, emotionally and administratively. Sam is still finally feeling better, after years of feeling sick, and that’s so amazingly great, but also new and we’re feeling our way into what a healthy Sam is like. What does he want, what does he need? And Julie – she got slapped in the face with MCAS testing next week and completely withdrew. Literally. Went into my room, shut the door, cried, and refused to come out or talk to me for two hours.

It was just one of those days when I felt overwhelmed and inadequate all day – capped off with Marc refusing to allow me to move his tomato plant outside because I couldn’t be trusted to do it delicately enough.

And so it’s Tuesday, and I’m really, really hoping for a better day. I lobbied hard to opt her out of MCAS, and I’ll continue that fight today. I might not be able to – and maybe I shouldn’t. She took the two hours to melt down and panic, but had pulled herself together by mid-afternoon. We even worked out a bribe (lets call it a reward or incentive) of slime when she finishes up the week. I just need to get an emergency 504 in place – I had refused one when offered earlier because there was an opt out offered. Sam’s been up since three, so I sent him back to bed for a while, and Jessie’s hard at work. She’s got another four weeks until high school is over altogether.

Passover takes on a different meaning when your son is diagnosed with celiac disease just before it starts. It’s not that it’s meaningless, because we had the Seder and it was lovely. But adding in Passover restrictions seems pointless when we’re grappling with a permanent dietary restriction that goes beyond matzoh – which isn’t gluten free.

And so our Passover observance this year was limited to just the Seder on the first night.

I’m trying to keep my head above water, and feeling overwhelmed and on the edge of drowning. Jessie’s getting college decisions, and she’s gotten accepted or waitlisted at half of the colleges she’s applied to – she’s also gotten rejections at some she didn’t expect. Getting waitlisted at Smith was hard, and then rejected soon after by Tufts and Vassar didn’t help. But she did get accepted to her dream college, with a fantastic financial aid package.

I think she’s struggling a little bit with the anticlimatic end of senior year. Plus all of the concerns around eating at college, paying for college (a fantastic financial aid package doesn’t mean full boat), getting ready for college, etc. So that’s hard.

Sam is still not doing great. Overall, better than he was, but he was starting at such a low point. It’s discouraging to both of us that he isn’t magically better. I want magic. We’re meeting with a dietician next Wednesday, and I think that’ll help him feel more empowered and more in control. Mainly, I just want him to feel better – no pain. It doesn’t seem like a big ask, but…

My Julie – TECCA is not going well with her. She hates it, and constantly ends up in this situation where she’s fallen a day or two behind, and then is panicking to catch up. I don’t mind her falling a bit behind, but the panic and anxiety are awful for her. And getting her to understand that the choice to delay doing the work is going to cause the work to build up, and cause more panic and anxiety… it’s a battle. Just a battle, and I hate watching her go through it. We had one melt down earlier, and she seems calmer, more relaxed. I just have convince her that I’m on her side, and not someone to fight.

Sam was diagnosed with celiac disease today.

It’s been eight months since he started vomiting daily. Two rounds of antibiotics, one endoscopy, multiple rounds of blood work, two allergists, one ENT doctor, two GI specialists, and a final round of tests that I asked for out of desperation. We got the bloodwork back two days ago, and I’ve made approximately 57,000 phone calls since it was drawn, begging for results, then begging for referrals and finally just begging for guidance because I knew that every bite of celiac was making him sicker.

After a long talk with his GI today, we concluded that it was entirely appropriate to diagnose celiac disease based on seralogical results, the genetic testing we had done after Jessie was diagnosed, a baseline negative celiac test two years ago, and eight months of excruciating belly pain.

I worried so much that it would be triggering for him. That he’d go back to that place, after the accident, when his food choices were so limited, and there were so few things that he could eat. But I think his dominant feeling is mainly one of relief. I didn’t realize how depressed he had been, because he never seemed sad. But he’s so much lighter somehow now. He spent virtually all day out in the living room with us. He still doesn’t feel great – but now he has a diagnosis, and hope that he won’t always feel terrible.

I didn’t realize, until I had to explain to multiple doctors and nurses over the past few days, how truly bad it had gotten. How Sam rarely left his room for long, because it was close to the bathroom. How long it had been since he felt “good.” And how incredibly draining and devastating it is to have him sick and not know why.

Yeah – I’ve started the countdown.

We’re all preparing for Jessie to move out. She’s been accepted at 7 out of the 8 colleges who have announced acceptances so far, and at least two of them are currently contenders. And the financial aid is so much better than we had hoped.

She’s going to college.

Last night, she really wanted vanilla ice cream with peanut butter cups. I drove her to Dairy Queen to get it. Because I thought “five months and two weeks from now, I’m going to be happy that I drove my baby to get a treat when she really wanted it.” And this morning – when I started yelling the countdown (I loudly announce the time at 7:00, 7:10, 7:15 and finally 7:20) until she staggers out of bed to get to online class at 7:22 – instead of being aggravated that she doesn’t wake up on her own, I realized that I’ve got another two months and two weeks until I’m done with that entirely for her.

I’m processing the missing her, the recognizing the gravity of the milestone. Hoping that if I just feel it, if I let it wash over me and don’t fight it, that somehow it’ll be easier when the time comes.

I’ve got one kid who’s basically hiding in my bedroom 24/7, staring at her phone and refusing to do schoolwork. Another one who’s fine with school, up to date with everything, but constantly anxious, he just doesn’t know why. And another one who, with three months until the end of senior year, is breaking down over her phone’s inability to load photos onto google classroom and pleading with the universe to somehow magically end this semester so she doesn’t have to do online school any more.

Oh – and my sister lost her sense of taste/smell, so I think we all have covid-19.

There are lots about the past year that I’ll look back on with gratitude. I know that. Lots of family togetherness, fun memories, etc. But cramming five people into one small apartment and cancelling almost everything they loved about their lives isn’t a recipe for success.

We just have to get thru March. Then April comes, and warmer weather and sunshine. More vaccines, and AP exam prep. The exams are in May, and everything gets easier for Jessie then. Julie just has to survive this semester, then I can put her back into public school and she can spend time with peers, have friends, etc. Sam… well, I think his life will get easier too, just because the overwhelming mood in the house won’t be of despair and misery.

It’s not all despair and misery. Just Monday – Thursday, really.

But I can’t wait until this part is over.

There are some wounds you don’t heal from. Some blows that you just don’t move past or recover from. And that’s part of life, and it’s hard and it hurts and there are certain songs that will play and instantly bring me back to a part of my life that was so exquisitely painful that I instantly start sobbing.

It always takes me back to that place. And there are really only two songs that I respond to like that. One of them is Travis Tritt’s “It’s a Great Day to Be Alive” and the other one is Pat Benetar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” Neither artist is one I listen to on a regular basis, and those are the only songs I actually know.

“It’s a Great Day to Be Alive” played in the car on my way to see Marc, just after the miscarriage. It was playing when I drove past Fowler Junior High in Maynard, and once I heard it, I started crying so hard, I had to pull over because I couldn’t see well enough to drive. I was so sad, and couldn’t imagine ever feeling good again. I was missing the girl I used to be, the one who hadn’t lost her babies, the one who was just happy. Optimistic and ready for whatever. I couldn’t fathom how I’d get back to that place. Everything was dark and sad and awful. And even though it’s been almost twenty years, three kids, and a whole bunch of joy and contentment since then, all it takes is the opening chords to remind me of how much it hurt.

“Hit Me with Your Best Shot” is a song that puts me in a place of feeling like my kids are being attacked. It’s my cathartic song, the one I play when I need to muster up the strength to keep going. It’s celiac diagnoses and IEP meetings, it’s legally blind certifications and anxiety diagnoses. That’s the song I play when I need to grieve and be angry and feel like I need to fight. Like, we’re going to keep going, and get thru this even though it seems like things keep getting thrown at my kids over and over again.