My husband and I are leaving on the trip of a lifetime in early February. We are going to India for three weeks – to visit sites and spas and to make a pilgrimage to the southernmost tip of the country, where my late brother spent several transformative years. My husband is looking forward to it with all his characteristic energy and curiosity. I, on the other hand, am dreading it – not the vacation, but the going away.
Anne Morrow Lindburgh identified a common reluctance to set out on a trip – she said it was like being a slug glommed onto a rock – that lifts as soon as you are on your way. That is surely part of it. But I think I am also suffering from a bad case of It All Depends on Me Syndrome.
I have some real responsibilities that the trip will take me far away from: An almost-92-year-old mother, who is healthy but failing. A twenty-something son, who is struggling to get his rhythm in this world. A daughter who is a senior in college with countless decisions to make in the next few months. And a fifteen year old cat with a heart murmur. I worry about all of them now – going away is amplifying those worries.
The truth is, though, that whether here or in India, I have the same degree of control over their circumstances – which is not all that much. My mother is well-cared for, settled comfortably in her own home. I’ll be calling her as regularly as I do now, and if she needs medical attention, she will get it as fast as if I were here. My son has been in a state of becoming since he was a teenager, and if anyone is making a day-to-day difference, it is his girlfriend, not me. My daughter does like to consult intensely when making important decisions, but she usually makes the right one. As for the cat, he will be visited every single day while we are gone.
Given the precarious circumstances of my mother (and the cat) a certain amount of worry is understandable. But I am so much luckier than so many people caring for loved ones; I have a strong back-up team – all of whom have as good judgment and emergency reflexes as I do.
So what’s my problem? It is, I am beginning to understand, that I have assumed an additional responsibility that I cannot fulfill. I know I am not alone in believing somewhere in the primal depths of my care-taking soul that one of my jobs is to keep bad things at bay – fend off the Evil Eye. Unlike other more practical responsibilities, this one requires staying close – monitoring every emotional as well as physical breath – in order to jump between the Evil Eye and its victim. My mother-in-law believed it too; every time something good happened, she would move to shield the blessed one muttering “poo-poo-poo” – the shtetl spell for neutralizing the jealous demons.
Evil Eye anxiety is one notch beyond the I-should-be-able-to-make-everything better measure on the It All Depends on Me chart. Women like me have spent our adult life trying to withstand unattainable expectations of all kinds. We aren’t into perfection the way we used to be, but at least in my case, we are still into what one woman calls the “emotional management business” and I call the “everything management business.” It will probably be another generation that truly breaks free.
In that vein, here’s the syllogism I plan to pack in my suitcase – along with all those 4-ounce bottles: You can’t prepare yourself for – or protect yourself from – getting fired or for falling down stairs or for falling in love, for that matter. So why would you think you could do any more for anyone else? I hope it works. (Poo-poo-poo.)