by Goldie Hawn
She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she just presses my arm with her hand and makes me lie back on the bed.
“All right, now, Goldie. We’ll start with a quick inhale and then a puff out, forcefully. Like this.” She demonstrates. “We’ll do that a few times, and then we’ll start to pant, but with each breath it will become deeper and more rhythmic.”
“Okay.” I do as I am told.
In through my nose and out through my mouth, deeply through the diaphragm, pushing my ribs sideways, feeling them move.
In…out…in…out.
A tingling sensation starts behind my eyes, and I feel slightly dizzy.
In…out…in…out.
I’m breathing to her rhythm, not mine. After about ten minutes, I start to feel a strange buzzing in my head, and then I start to get scared. What’s this going to do to my brain? I think. What if I hyperventilate and pass out? I am understandably afraid of reaching an altered state.
“Keep going, Goldie. That’s it. Keep breathing, just like that.”
I’m dizzy. I’m nauseated. I’m trying to get all the air out before I breathe new air in. Worse, I’m beginning to feel unbelievable pressure on the top of my head. It feels like the whole world is pressing down on me.
In…out…in…out.
Continuous heavy breathing. The pressure gets worse and worse. It now feels as if I have a hundred pounds on top of my skull.
What’s going on here? I ask myself. This is heavy-duty. I must be crazy. My head feels as if it will explode. But there is no respite. The woman urges me on and on with ever more fervor.
In…out…in…out.
“Keep going, Goldie, keep going!” she coaches, kneeling beside me now on the carpet, her fists clenched in encouragement. “Soon you’ll be out and free!”
In…out…in…out.
“Free?” I pant. “But I’m already free!” Touching the top of my head, I groan. “Oh, there’s so much pressure here.”
In…out…in…out.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “No!” I say, breaking the rhythm and sitting up. Panting, I tell her, “I’m sorry but that’s just too much.”
“It’s okay,” she says, but I can see her disappointment.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, getting up rather unsteadily.
Staring in the mirror, I try to pull myself together. All right, Goldie, you’re going to go through this now. Just do it. This won’t kill you.
I open the door, flop back on the bed and go for it. I start breathing heavily again and very quickly return to my earlier state. Once again, I feel like my head is in a vise.
“Oooh, but it really hurts,” I complain, having second thoughts.
“That’s okay,” she says. “Don’t worry. That’s completely normal when you’re experiencing rebirth.”
“Re…birth?!” I pant between breaths, looking up at her. “Wait a minute! Are we rebirthing me?”
“Yes, Goldie! Yes! Can’t you feel it?” she replies, more breathless than I am. “You’re pushing down and pushing down! You’re going through the birth canal! Can’t you feel the squeeze on your head?”
My hands clamped to the top of my head, I cry, “Yes, already! But when the hell am I going to get out of here?”
Suddenly, I know what it is that I’m feeling. Pushing, pushing. In, out, in, out, in, out. Puffing, panting, my cheeks filling with air and emptying. The pain and pressure on my head excruciating.
“I can’t stand much more of this!” I whine. “It hurts too much.”
“Keep going!” she shrieks. Her eyes radiate her zeal. “You’re almost there!”
“I am?” I carry on, chiefly because I figure this is my only way out of wherever it is that I am. In and out…in and out…gasping, fighting for every breath.
I have no idea what to expect next. Nothing prepares me for what follows. Suddenly, there is the most tremendous sense of exhilaration. All the pressure in my head melts away. I can feel it all so powerfully: the struggle of childbirth—the pain—followed by the sheer elation of emerging out into the world, of merging with the earth, with the air, with life.
I’m laughing and laughing, and crying, and laughing some more. I’m feeling incredible joy. I have come into this world, and all I keep saying through my tears is, “I’m so happy to be here. I’m so happy to be here.”
True or false, whether it was real or imagined or just all in my mind, I was faced with a new perception of myself that day—that I loved being born. It’s something I have always innately felt, I guess—that from the very beginning, I have had some joyful connection to being here in this world.
Since that day, I try to wake up each morning feeling equally reborn, ready to meet each new day with the possibility of doing it better. I seek to return to that joy of just existing, of being here and now in the moment, so safe and pure and sound.
But what was even more amazing for me was the realization that birth is not that much different from death as a transition: it has the same feelings of letting go, of going back, the joy and relief of returning home. The moment a new child bursts into the world and fights for its first gulp of breath is as awesome as the moment of one’s final breath.
In my mind, I’d experienced coming out of not just any birth canal but that of my own mother’s. Now, even though I was fifty years out of her womb and she had taken that final breath, I’d been able to summon up the experience of being born to her again. The connection to her was still so alive. Just because I couldn’t see her or touch her didn’t mean that she was no longer there.
This was such an important lesson for me to learn in this long and painful process of healing. I had lost my mother. But I could still feel the strength and purity of the umbilical link between us.
empty nest
The chickens leave the nest, one by one, leaving us alone.
Why is there no warning?
“You got everything, Ollie?” Kurt asks as he peers into the back of Oliver’s 1972 blue Bronco.
“Yeah, Pa,” he yells back, his head deep inside the trunk, squashing his last duffel bag among his books, records, sports gear and prized fishing rod. We stand by the side of the road outside our home watching helplessly as he packs his belongings into his car for his first-ever move away from home.
“Oh, I almost forgot, your sheets are in the dryer,” I say, dashing back inside the house to grab the soft sheets that he loves so much. I roll them up, tuck them unceremoniously under my arm and run back out to the car. “Here they are, honey. You can’t leave without these.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he says, smiling his crooked smile at Pa as if to say, Gee, Mom and her sheets!
“Humor me,” I say. “It’s not every day your son goes away to college.”
So, here we stand, Kurt and I, in the middle of the street, watching our oldest child leave home. Braving it out, on the verge of tears, we make jokes, trying to act normal. After all, this is as it should be. We prepare our children to leave and seek a life of their own. I recall that day I left home, and the strength my mother and father showed. Only it’s me now. The roles have reversed.
Just then, John, Oliver’s friend who lives across the street, comes running toward the car carrying all of his bags. His mother, Lorraine, runs after him with some snacks she’s prepared for the journey.
“Johnny’s all ready,” she says as she puts the snacks in the car. “Isn’t it amazing that they’re going to the same university? How lucky is that?”
We all lock eyes and telepathically share the memories of car pools, sleepovers, lost walkie-talkies and—as they grew older—the late-night calls checking on the safety of our boys. But we say nothing. John and Oliver have been friends since they were seven years old, and now they are off together to experience the next chapter of their lives. Only they are going it alone.
“Okay, then,” Oliver says, emerging one last time from the trunk into the sunny California morning, his disheveled hair framing his shining face. “That
’s about it. I guess it’s time to go.”
I look at him standing tall before me. Seventeen. Hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jeans self-consciously, not sure of what to do next. There is an awkward silence as if an angel is flying overhead. All I can think of is my tiny baby in that hospital, his heartbeat fluttering irregularly on the monitor above his cot, my hand pressed tenderly on his chest while I prayed for his life, so long ago.
I try to speak, to say something funny and glib like my father would have. “Don’t pick your nose in public. And remember to put the butter back in the icebox.” But I can’t find the words. I squeeze Kurt’s hand, knowing that he is feeling the same way. Where did the time go? How did Oliver speed through his childhood at such a pace? At this moment, we both want to turn back the clock and start all over again. Kate, my energetic firecracker of a daughter who ignites a room with her power and strength, is following hard on his heels. But, no, I can’t allow myself to think about that. It’s too unbearable.
I am happy that she is at school right now, for I fear her heart couldn’t bear to witness Oliver’s departure. Wyatt, also in class, is spared from this defining moment. I can still see him at Oliver’s graduation, holding on to his big brother for dear life, saying, “I don’t want him to go.” Then Ollie too, in his cap and gown, holding Wyatt close to him and lamenting, “I won’t see him grow up.” Our family unit is being disrupted and rearranged by the inevitable growing pains of life.
Oliver is his own person now, stepping out into the world just as I had, as we all have to. He is about to find his way, seeking his own unique path on his own life’s journey. The umbilical cord is about to be stretched farther than it has ever had to stretch before. I can already feel it tugging at me deep inside.
“Come on,” John calls out from the other side of the Bronco, “let’s get on the road. I want it to still be light when this damn car breaks down.” He makes us laugh, breaking up my melancholy.
His mother pats him on the back. “Bye-bye, Johnny.” She seems to be in much better shape than Kurt and me.
“Okay, then, guys, you’d better get going,” Kurt says, letting go of my hand. He takes Oliver in his arms and squeezes him close with all his might. “Go get ’em, honey.”
I love how Kurt calls Oliver “honey.” I love how physical and loving he is with the children. Watching them embrace, I recall the first time Kurt ever laid eyes on Oliver. He met Oliver when he was only six years old, at a baseball game in San Diego, a year before he met me. Serendipitously, Kurt happened to be one of the ballplayers. He noticed the shy young boy sitting all alone on the bench. He sat next to Oliver and asked him if he wanted to play catch, and he did. They’ve been playing catch ever since.
I feel like my heart is shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. Now it is my turn. Taking a deep sigh, I bury my head in Oliver’s chest and try desperately not to cry. “Way to go, Ollie, you did it. Have fun, honey.” I’m trying to remain as upbeat as I can.
He knows I’m faking it. He gently takes me by the shoulders and says, “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be okay. Boulder’s not that far away, and I’ll be back all the time.”
“I know, I know.” I can’t help but remember how I tried to console my mother with the same naïve chant: “I’ll be home soon, Mom. I’m not going away forever.” But I was going away forever, and so is Ollie.
“Bye,” I finally say, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Be careful, okay? Don’t drive too fast. Oh, and don’t forget to call when you get there.”
Kurt takes my hand and squeezes it hard. Hang on, the squeeze is saying. Keep it light, and just hang on a little longer.
Oliver jumps in the driver’s seat and starts to turn the key in the ignition. John—my “fourth son”—jumps in the other side. Oliver starts the car, then leans out the window. “Gentlemen, start your engines.” He laughs.
Oliver takes one last look at Kurt and me, standing arm in arm in the street. I know he is capturing this snapshot moment in his memory, just as I had done. Now it’s my turn to stand and wave.
Oliver guns the engine, lays some rubber for laughs and peels out down the street. He is the joker, just like his grandfather, Rut, always breaking the tense moments with a flourished smile.
Kurt and I lean against each other, waving and smiling, smiling and waving, until our son’s car finally disappears from view. John’s mother, Lorraine, is across the street waving too. Catching her eye, we laugh at ourselves and wander back to our respective homes. The energy has distinctly changed.
Kurt and I walk quietly through our front door, unable to speak just yet.
Taking my hand, he leads me upstairs to Oliver’s bedroom. Pushing open the door against a tide of abandoned sneakers, jeans and T-shirts all heaped on the floor, we walk in and sit on his bed. Looking around at his belongings—his picture of Kurt and himself white-water-rafting in Colorado, a marlin he caught that we had stuffed, a photo of me holding him when he was a baby, an old fisherman’s lamp I bought him, trophies from karate and his hockey stickers—we sit in silence, letting the tears flow, wallowing unashamedly in the sadness of this passage in life.
“I can’t imagine Oliver not being here,” Kurt says softly.
“Me too, honey. Me too.”
Being a mother has been my finest and most joyous role, other than that of being a daughter. I loved being surrounded by my kids, in the house, all day, every day. I loved the activity, the busyness, the constancy of it all, the mealtimes, the snuggling, the middles of the night, the “Mommy! Mommy!” I loved being the one who had all the answers. I loved the way they looked up to me with those big eyes, so adoringly, so uncensored, with so much raw love. I was the queen of the universe.
When they were little, I’d flash forward and try to prepare myself for the moment they’d leave. I imagined what fun it would be helping them fix up their first home, watching them fall in love, get married and have babies of their own. But nothing prepared me for the pain of this moment. The empty-nest syndrome is real. Everything changes. My father once said that when we kids left the house, we took the oxygen with us. Now I understand. Starved of my life force, my arms felt weak and useless with nothing to nurture, nothing to hold.
Thrown back on our own resources, we are forced to reexamine the parts of ourselves that we put on hold while our kids were growing up. We have to reexamine our relationship to ourselves. Who are we now? What are the things we sacrificed along the way?
“I lost me,” the character played by Susan Sarandon railed in a movie I did called The Banger Sisters. How many of us understand that feeling? We have to ask what we care about now, what our passions are. The most frightening aspect for many people, especially women, is the “What happens now?”
And, of course, one of the most important questions we are faced with at this time is the nature of our relationship with our partner. Losing our children to their new lives leaves us naked. We have only each other now. It can be very frightening to stand there stripped bare, trying to remind ourselves of the person we first fell in love with. Sometimes panic can set in. Some of us flee our relationships in denial, sensing our own mortality, fearing that the stopwatch ticking away to our old age has now begun.
But it doesn’t have to be that way. Not if we keep this most inevitable of moments clear and alive in our minds while we are raising our children. We must make sure that we don’t wake up only when they’re eighteen years old and leaving home and it’s too late. The key is to continue to find places to enjoy each other and have fun as partners while the children are still growing. To make sure we don’t sacrifice every single living breath for the children. We need to take special time every year, even if only an occasional night at a hotel. We need to say to our kids, “Mommy and Daddy are going to play now. You’ve got your sandbox; we need ours.” Believe me, they’ll cope. Not only will our relationships be healthier, but our kids relish Kurt’s and my time alone together, because it makes them feel secure knowing
that their parents are still in love.
Faced with this time in my life, I once again remembered the words of my father. “What did you learn today, Go?” he used to say. I’m still trying to learn something new every day. Sad as it is to lose our children to the world, it allows us to set out on a whole new path. It gives us a chance to satiate our curiosity, to embrace life’s magic and all of its unanswerables. To be fired up by the things that excite and ignite us. There is so much still to learn, to see, to experience and to feel.
Wonder has not left the building.
After one of my meditations, I wrote the following:
My breath fills me with light that permeates my cells with divine protection.
I awake alone.
My nest is empty of my vessels of love.
The family that I call mine are gone.
One by one they have detached from my cord of nourishment, of unconditional love.
Life is changing, always renewing as it spins into timeless space.
Sadness sets in for moments at a time, then evaporates as quickly as it came.
I sit alone, experiencing my quietude in a sun-filled room surrounded by loved ones, seen and unseen.
I tingle with light.
I can feel the new skin on my body refining its glow, and the future feels more like the past.
I recall each of my pregnancies. I feel the divine dancing of the millions of cells growing within me.
The gentle caress of universal love.
The magic brew of life.
How perfect is man and his potential.
What a privilege to be born human.
All I ask is how I can serve in gratitude.
smile
Giving back is a path to joy.
One smile can mark you forever. It did me. I met a little boy in Lima, Peru, who melted my heart, and took me on an unexpected journey to the heights of joy as well as to the depths of despair. Another left-hand turn.