I hadn’t planned to stop writing. As 2022 dawned, I’d said “Adios” to my lingering writer’s block. A renewed vigor had returned to my typing fingers, and I was excited about blogging more. I hadn’t planned on my world turning upside-down.
For three years prior, my son, Cowboy, had accomplished amazing feats - milestones for any young adult, but more profound for Cowboy because of the obstacles he had overcome. He became a Special Olympics athlete, joined a Texas Advocates support group, and had two different jobs. After working at a food bank for several months, where he received incredible feedback, he worked at a local retailer. Again, he received rave reviews.
“We love him,” his employer told Radar, Cowboy’s job coach and all-round life-changer. “He’s such a great worker, and we love having him here.” The manager was a great encouragement to Cowboy.
My husband, Flash, and I weren’t surprised; Cowboy’s strengths and talents had been obvious for years - detail-oriented, determined to finish a job he started, and proud to work. But hearing praise from employers boosted Cowboy’s confidence. He was maturing, and loved to tell others about his job.
But things were different at home. Hindsight has edited my memory, and I now realize Cowboy had frequent difficulties during those three years of incredible growth. Cowboy’s nemesis, that insidious anxiety, was ever-lurking. Cowboy seemed more agitated. More antsy. More unsettled. The nervousness was palpable; it pervaded my son, me, and eventually, Flash. Something was very wrong. For years, I was the target of Cowboy’s anxiety and angst. Now, it was Flash. I’d heard when testosterone kicks in, it can present as arguments between sons and parents, often with fathers. So, I did what I always did. I took him to the doctor to see if he was in pain. Physical pain always worsened anxiety, as it does for many of us.
Indeed. Tests showed his reflux had returned, bringing painful gastritis with it this time; Cowboy had pointed to the exact spot on his stomach where the pain was, but nothing was ever found until I requested an endoscopy. Thankfully, testing revealed no permanent damage, and reflux was not extreme. With meds on board, we hoped for Cowboy to be happier once healing started.
But still, anxiety persisted.
Under a doctor’s care, we tweaked meds, and a new med for obsessive-compulsive-like tendencies was added. Cowboy tends to obsess on upcoming events, past events as he waits for them to come again, and his yearly calendar.
“What if you don’t write upcoming events on the calendar?” well-meaning behaviorists would ask.
“We tried that,” I replied. “He knows what time of year, sometimes the exact date, that past events happened, and he writes them on his calendar.”
I used essential oils, calming techniques, quiet talking, everything I could think of to help Cowboy’s anxiety lessen, to no avail. We were smack-dab in the middle of a crisis. The heartbreaking handwriting was on the wall. One evening, Flash and I looked at each other, and knew what was needed. In our guts, excruciating as it was, we knew Cowboy was ready for his next life phase. We held each other as our hearts shredded into a million pieces.
“Cowboy, would you like to live in your own home with new friends?” we asked him the next day, although I knew the answer.
“Yes,” he answered, nodding his head profusely. Our maturing “baby” knew he needed it, too.
For years, I’d asked him, “When you grow up, do you want to live with me and Dad, or do you want to live in a new house with new friends?”
After the age of 11, his answer was always, “New house, new friends.”
Once the decision was made, Cowboy went to a respite house to get a break from everything, including his busy schedule. As usual, when he’s in new situations, he thrived, and Flash and I had the meltdowns. It was surreal to not see him every day, although we talked a lot on the phone. I wondered if he could type on his iPad to communicate while doing FaceTime with us. Indeed, he could, and figured it out by himself when he called us.
My and Flash’s days consisted of the excruciating business of letting go, while attending meetings regarding funding and securing the right group home for our precious Cowboy. After looking at several homes, I was despondent. Sleep didn’t come at night, and one particular morning I woke with no hope. I was in the dark hole I’d visited so often in times of crisis with my son. I dragged myself to the car, and Flash and I headed to view another group home. The previous ones were nice, the employees answered all questions, and the residents were happy. But something felt “off.” It was nothing we could sufficiently describe, but we knew those homes weren’t in Cowboy’s future.
The day before this latest appointment, I drove by the house to see what it looked like. An older man was sitting on the porch with a walkie-talkie, eyeing me as I parked at the curb. I assumed it was security on staff, watching the house. When we arrived the next day, I learned that the older man was one of the residents there, Lover Boy. He keeps an eye on things, calling staff members on their walkie-talkies any time a strange car drives up. It is his self-appointed job. I was delighted to see that he felt such a part of his home.
Still, like Pig Pen in the Peanuts comic strip, I walked with a cloud all around me. I was Eeyore on a bad day.
The house was nice, and the room Cowboy would have was next to Lover Boy’s. The third housemate was Bogie, a quiet young man who usually enjoyed his master suite in solitude, but joined the others for meals and some outings. It looked like a good mix.
Then I began my Barbara Walters style interview with the director of the company, Dove, who operates several group homes. When I asked her background, she listed her qualifications, adding, “And I worked at a behavior center for years.” It was the same behavior center where the owner of the respite home had worked – the respite home where Cowboy was presently staying for a break.
Flash and I looked at each other, both thinking, What are the odds of finding another home whose director has behavioral training and experience with individuals with anxiety?
We smiled at each other, thanked Dove, and walked to our car. We had one more home to check out. But we knew we’d already found Cowboy’s new home. Flash turned to Dove and said, “We’ll be back. This next viewing is just a formality.”
The next two weeks were a blur. Cowboy liked his future home when we took him to meet everybody. He wanted new furniture for his room, as well as a new bedspread, TV, Blu-ray player, and portable stereo. It would be a fresh start, and I followed the valuable advice of my friend, Diamond, whose two nieces live in a wonderful group home.
“Take some things from Cowboy’s room at your house to his new place; this familiarity will help him adjust,” she explained,
Cowboy wanted to take his old bookshelf, and I packed pictures, a painting of a wolf, and all of his keepsakes he kept in his bedside table drawer. It was the perfect blend of old and new. And, of course, he took the 4,879 t-shirts from his closet; he won’t part with any of them. Finally, he allowed me to throw away one shirt that had holes under each arm. I can’t imagine from whom he gets his sentimental streak.
Everything was ready to go. The date of move-in was set. We were covered in prayers, and hid our tears during the process of preparing. Cowboy was excited. And then, Flash and I got sick with the plague. Out of the blue. I rarely run a fever, but had a stubborn 102 degrees with me for a couple of days.
We were going to miss moving day. One of the biggest milestones in Cowboy’s life, and we couldn’t be there. I’d have no control whatsoever regarding all of his things at respite being moved to his permanent home. No hugging goodbye to the fantastic staff at respite. No closure for me. In my heart and soul, it was all about my being there for Cowboy. Will he be okay without me? Will he think I don’t care? Will he be nervous?
I looked up to the ceiling and said, “I know you’re helping me let go, but really? Did I have to get sick right now?” I heard God chuckle a little as He said, “I got this.”
And He did. The staff of Cowboy’s new home came to move his belongings from our house. I fell apart and wept in our driveway, in front of a kind stranger.
“We’ll take care of everything. You just get better, and don’t worry,” he said.
My to-do list was taken out of my hands by a God who has much bigger, more competent hands. I couldn’t see my boy, couldn’t arrange the furniture and help him unpack, and couldn’t see his face when he walked into his home to stay. Strangely, I not only survived, I had peace. Cowboy transitioned to his home beautifully.
In my home, Flash and I had unprecedented days together with no agenda. We went through boxes of Puffs and tons of movies, eating broth and drinking water non-stop. And we bonded. It was what we’d needed, but hadn’t known it. When our days of isolation were over, we had dates. It was the first time in our 28-year marriage, except when Cowboy was at camp for four and a half days out of the year, that we could just go – no attendant to stay with Cowboy, no explaining meds and emergency protocols, no deadline on when to be home.
At first, home felt too quiet, too still, too easy. When you’re raising a child with a medical condition or challenge, there are a trillion details to tend to daily, with contingency plans that could put the US defense department to shame. Now, there was nothing to tend to. My 24-year career of raising Cowboy came to a screeching halt. I felt guilty. I felt lost. I knew who I was, but wasn’t sure what my place was in the world.
A writer? Yes. A mother? Always. A wife? Of course. But what about all the hours I filled with Cowboy? I wondered.
When we shared with a few close friends that Cowboy had moved out, one of them told me, “You don’t have to look for a job. You don’t have to do anything. You can just be. Enjoy this time.”
Sometimes, dear readers, I stared at the walls, like I’d done when my mom died. Sometimes I was in a fetal position on Cowboy’s bed, crying my eyes out, as if I’d lost him forever. Flash would pick a movie to watch, and I’d miss the whole thing, lost in thought and wondering what my Cowboy was doing.
“Now you can get some rest, go out and have fun,” another friend said.
I did sleep a lot at first. Although I’d gone out with friends many times when Cowboy lived at home, after he moved out, I had tremendous guilt at the idea of going out anywhere Cowboy and I had gone before. And I dare not go to the bowling alley where I’d taken him every week to join his friends and their moms. I knew I’d crumble when I walked through the doors, even though Cowboy was bowling every week with his housemates. I allowed myself to go to certain places, but no putt-putt, no movies that Cowboy would like, none of my son’s favorite restaurants. It would break my heart, and defeat the purpose of going out to have fun.
“Don’t pull away from us,” my friend Ginger advised.
“I don’t plan to,” I replied. “I just don’t know how to do life without Cowboy home.”
It took a while. I felt nobody understood what I was feeling. Flash did, to a point. But he was used to working full-time and seeing Cowboy less hours per week. My full-time career had ended, and all I could do was breathe and pray. And sit in the midst of peace that we’d done the right thing. I always had that peace, and still do.
The test regarding how well Cowboy was acclimating to his home would be his birthday party at our house, his first time back since the Big Move. Is he going to want to move back home after being here all day? I wondered. Will he be sad? We kept it small, inviting some of his closest friends and fellow Special Olympics athletes. I prepared His Majesty’s menu that he’d requested months ahead of time. The pool and hot tub were sparkling. And it was a beautiful, sunny day.
Often, I don’t realize I’m holding my breath, both figuratively and literally, until I exhale with relief. That moment came after the swimming, the cake cutting, the game playing, and the gift opening. The attendees were still talking, laughing, and eating, as Cowboy stood in the middle of the living room.
“What would you like to do now?” I asked Cowboy. “Watch a movie with your friends? Play Wii Sports? Get back in the pool?”
He looked me square in the eyes, and signed, “Go new home.”
I was stunned. Aloud, I said, “Thank you, Jesus.”
Not because I was tired. Not because I was ready to clean up and be done with the frivolity; we party for at least seven hours for all occasions. I exhaled and thanked God because it was the most amazing confirmation that Cowboy was where he belonged. He was growing up. And he identified his new location as his home. He was happy.
I turned to my friend Elu, telling her what Cowboy had just signed. She teared up and replied, “That means it’s right.” Exactly. While the party continued around us, we shared a hug I’ll remember forever – two moms who know the struggle of helping their children find happiness and belonging.
That day, my guilt began subsiding. I felt freedom for Cowboy, as well as for me and Flash.
“We can go out whenever we want,” I said to Flash one evening, with newfound excitement in my voice. He nodded his head and smiled. It was still difficult at times, and took a while before I quit crying daily, then weekly, then monthly.
Now, when Cowboy’s busy, we talk once or twice a week. When he’s looking forward to an upcoming event with us, we FaceTime daily. We usually leave it up to him how often we talk, but also call him occasionally so he won’t be the only one reaching out.
“Don’t you miss him?” friends ask. Of course. But it’s a healthy missing, not a desperate one, because we know he has found his place. He’s thriving, and others are noticing his maturity.
On one of our first family outings after he moved, Cowboy repeatedly and emphatically said “Thank you,” from the back seat of our car, on our way to take him to his home. Over and over. With no prompting, and with more emotion than we’d ever heard him thank us.
“Thank you for going out with us, Cowboy,” we replied. We thank him every time he goes out with us, and every time he calls. The relationship has changed between me and Cowboy, Flash and Cowboy, and me and Flash. There’s an appreciation and a “take nothing for granted” attitude between the three of us now. Time is precious, as it always was – but without daily stress that causes us to lose sight of that fact.
We’ve survived homesickness - both his and ours. We’re learning as we go. Certainly, there’s no rulebook for parenting, nor for letting go. If there were such books, they’d be bestsellers. And I’d have multiple copies with worn out pages.
