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Illustration by Alex Siklos
At the end of the golf game, we went to Starbucks for drinks. We chatted about a husband who is a foodie and a husband who is not. Travelling to other places to be transformed from an indifferent seafood eater to a lover of seafood. She told me she was leaving in a week to head west to spend 10 days exploring with three women I didn’t know. I suggested a food truck renowned for having the most amazing fish tacos. She had already heard about it. Hiking in Tofino and Whistler, and exploring Vancouver. All places I’ve been, some more than once.
And yet something was knifing my insides. Did I want to go with them? No, not really. Was I happy for her? To be travelling with her girlfriends? Yes, happy and something else. I’m glad that she has the time and friends to go with her.
On the golf course, we had talked lightly of our children, all adults at the start of their adulthood. Finishing school, working long hours, finding their first or second or third job. We commented on how despite the heat, it was wonderful to be out in a green space for a few hours. Surface topics, nothing too deep, nothing too emotional. A little bit like tiptoeing around a quiet place, not wanting to disturb the equilibrium.
It had been a long time since we had spoken. It seems that we had slipped into a pattern of meeting up maybe once a year. I had heard that she couldn’t meet up earlier because she was busy placing a second parent into a nursing home. I waited for her to bring it up, not wanting to impose but she didn’t. No mention of her struggle. Of how she is doing. Is she okay? Can anyone be okay with that?
When our children were in elementary school, our burdens and joys were shared and shouldered with commiseration and celebration. We met weekly and shared information about parenting experts and attended parenting seminars. We talked about our children’s struggles and our struggles as we brainstormed strategies to help both. We created a community for our children and for ourselves.
Year by year, the kids grew older. And the frequency of meet-ups and chats slowly declined. Unbeknownst to us, a breeze had picked up and changed our directions by the slightest of degrees. While we may be walking on the same path, we may not be right next to each other or stepping in synchronicity like before.
We had drifted apart. I left the coffee shop feeling a little more alone than I had at the start of the golf game.
Was it that I had lost a friend? No, she’s still my friend. Was it that I felt old? No, we’re of the same age and life stage. Did I feel abandoned? No, I’m glad she can travel with girlfriends. It’s a different kind of travelling. It’s a special kind of bonding.
But I did feel I’d lost something.
I’d lost the image of the kind of friend I thought I was. An image of the kind of community of which I was a part. An image of who I am.
My identity changed. While no longer the busy mom of school-age kids and all the responsibilities, schedule juggling and community building that life stage entailed, I identified with that community of parents and being a parent. While the busy-ness has decreased with the winding down of my own career, I carried that identity in my head and my heart.
Even the slow increase of white on my head combined with regular hair colouring appointments, made it easy to believe that the mirror doesn’t lie. Or perhaps, just a little.
But this conversation with this friend jarred me into facing this new me. I am the same and I am different.
I realized that to get off the drift I had found myself on, I must be active, not reactive. I have to dust off my scheduling tools and make the calls to connect with friends. Mark in the calendar coffee chats and afternoon outings. Take the risk and ask uncomfortable questions. Or just say nothing and give her a hug. Who doesn’t need a hug?
Build the community in which to live, laugh and love.
Judy An lives in Thornhill, Ont.