Dependence Day

I have always needed my independence - even as a child. My mother tells the story of my first day of kindergarten when she bought me a dress that had a little doll that was attached by a string to the front pocket. She thought this was a good idea so that if I were lonely or scared on my first day of school that I would at least have the doll since I didn't know anyone. She waited with me at the bus stop and as that yellow minivan ready to cart me off to my future pulled up to our driveway, the doors opened and I just ran up to it, scrambled up the stairs without even looking back and yelled "BYE MOM!!!" To this day, 26 years later, my mother says she wished she'd bought the doll for herself because clearly I was not going to need it and she had a big, giant lump in her throat. It was the first time she realized that her baby didn’t always need her Mommy.

My time alone was never lonely, and it was usually quite productive and happy. When I was ten, my mom was busy working so I sewed my own name labels in to my camp clothes the night before I left home for two months. When I was in the sixth grade, and my mother was still single and at home with the flu, I called her from the school’s payphone to find out how she was feeling, because that’s what she did when I was home sick from school. She was so ill she could barely speak, so I took my babysitting money and stopped at the Burger King in walking distance to our condo and bought my poor, sick mother a giant whopper and fries. I meant it in the most loving of ways, I swear.

I have always enjoyed doing things on my own. In school I was considered “popular,” (except for the fifth grade, but that’s another story for another time,) but I was always content to be alone. Sure, I went to parties and drove my drunk friends around and kissed boys (most of whom were, incidentally, not very good kissers,) but there was always a sense of relief when I reached my bedroom and could just be by myself. Some of it, of course, is the writer in me. I would fill up pages and pages of journals with the most dramatic adolescent drivel you can imagine. But, I needed my alone time to do it. I actually needed to be alone with my thoughts. Literally.

As I got older, I grew more independent. The sidelines at my soccer games were filled with the parents of my teammates but my parents were rarely there (it wasn’t because they didn’t love me, they both had full-time jobs.) But I didn’t really mind. Soccer was my thing – I didn’t play defense so my dad could high-five me after we’d won a game. If I was in a school play or had a singing performance, my parents couldn’t always make it, and they’d leave it to me to find a way to get to and from different events when they weren’t available to chauffeur me around. They knew I was independent enough to figure it out.

And figure it out, I did. After graduating a semester early from college, I worked two jobs (one for the resume, one for the bills,) and moved to Manhattan with a promising career and a heart full of hope. Ten years later I’ve been knocked down by this dear city here and there, but I’m better because of it: wiser, more grounded, and certainly more independent. But at some point I must be forced to ask myself: when can my independence turn in to loneliness?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not your average recluse. I have lots of friends, enjoy nights on the town several times a week, talk avidly on the phone, email constantly… But there is something peaceful and comforting about coming home to my own apartment where I don’t have to answer the phone if I’m tired after a long day; where I can literally hide from the energy of this city that has chewed me up and spit me out my fair share of times; where I know that I have a place always, even if I’m the only person happy to see me. And if even I’m not happy to see me, at least there’s no one else under those covers that I can pull over my head till it’s time to start again.

Sometimes, I will admit, I have trouble asking for help. “I can do it myself,” I’ll say. But I know I can’t. I can’t hang my blinds or move heavy furniture or carry heavy groceries all alone. I’m not stupid, I’m stubborn. Sometimes so stubborn that I’ll let my independence get in the way of getting what I really need, and what a loved one is really offering. But what happens if I need them and then one day they’re not there anymore? Then what?

About six months ago I was terribly ill. I suffered for days before admitting that I needed help, and that was only because I passed out cold on my apartment floor – alone. I called 9-1-1 and the medics came and took me outside to the waiting ambulance. The driver, who carried me from my apartment to the vehicle, wore a silver belt buckle with a skull and crossbones. He had a shaved head, a few tattoos and very kind eyes. He kept asking me if I was always this pale. Yes, I’m very pale. No, you’re extremely pale, he told me. You don’t have any color in your lips. All I could do was give him a half-grin, as though he’d just made a joke and I got it, but I was too weak to give him a good solid laugh. So I just stared at his buckle and focused on it hard wondering where he’d gotten it and who’d made it. Who was this silversmith designing these angry looking belt buckles for EMTs with such warm hands and strong arms? I wondered this so that I wouldn’t faint again.

I was in the emergency room alone. I had my cell phone but I felt guilty calling anyone before I knew if there was something really wrong. Plus, my chest really hurt and I was having a hard time breathing, and therefore a hard time talking. I dug through my purse and somehow found my insurance card, and told the attending physician – in half breaths – what hurt, what had happened, how I was feeling. Could I please get some juice or something? I was really thirsty. No, you can’t drink anything. How about some water? Or some (gasp,) ice chips, please? No. And he left. And as I was lying on a crappy, rubber mattress all by myself, about to die and in excruciating pain, I called my mother. I called her because I needed her help. And I didn’t have anyone else to call who would care as much, even though I knew I’d worry her. I called her and gasped in to the phone the name of the hospital and the street it was on. And instead of telling her I could handle it on my own when she told me she was coming in to the city, I just said “ok” and hung up smiling as much as my condition would allow. Because for the first time, in a very long time, no matter how independent I was, I really did need my Mommy.