Judy Conlin
Out of the blue the other day, I got a request for some possible pictures I might have of my daughter taken at Niagara Falls years ago with a friend. I did not have any. I replied and told the fellow that I was unable to comply with his request. I was thinking that it was a little weird responding to someone I didn’t know. I have a wild imagination. Could this be a stalker? Had it been unwise to even answer? It turned out he was an old boyfriend of my daughter’s when she went to Rutgers long ago.
The whole thing still seemed weird, but I found out that he knew things about my daughter’s life there that sometimes moms don’t hear about, no matter how close they are. I loved that. She was only there one year before her brother died and she came home to enroll in a college closer to home. Now that she has also died, it was so nice to learn more about her college life that year at Rutgers.
As all mothers know, when your child leaves home for the first time, it breaks your heart. Her father and I drove her there and helped her settle in. Eventually we had to leave. I looked at her standing there, so tiny with pigtails and looking about 10 years old. I sobbed all the way home, but she was smart and where she wanted to be. It was an important step in her life journey.
This old friend of hers was also smart and had done well in life. He was a journalist, a reporter and an author, and yes, one of my most favorite things — he is funny. He now has a small paper in his hometown and is still getting the local news out in such an interesting way. We have kept in touch. For my birthday, he sent me a picture of my girl that I had never seen before. She looked so young, so pretty and so sweet.
I cannot imagine what he gets out of this technological communication with a 90-year-old woman, but for me, it is like having a kid again. I love giving him motherly advice. Sure, I have two grandchildren and one great-granddaughter whom I adore, but they are young and busy with their own lives. They are wonderful and keep in touch, but they don’t have time to just email or text me all the time. This new kid is older, pretty much alone, as I am. It’s easy to send off a thought whenever you feel like it.
I decide to tell this to the only other person living here — my non-congenial, overbearing and unsympathetic alter ego, Nurse Judy. I should have known better.
“You’re doing what?” she screamed at me.
“I’m pen-palling with an old friend of my daughter,” I said.
“Stop it immediately,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“You’re likely to get in trouble,” she said.
“Why?” I asked again.
“You are probably taking up his time with your drivel, and he is too polite not to answer. He is probably bored to tears.”
“Sometimes he gets a little forceful and tries to tell me what to do,” I told her. “And I have to remind him that I am the elder authority here.”
“He doesn’t know what to do. He probably thinks you’re senile. He may have the authorities come down and check you out.”
Come to think of it, my own kids often thought I was unbalanced at times, too. Maybe I should back off a little. At my age, I really don’t need to raise another kid, and I certainly don’t want to increase my chances of ending up in the loony bin. I explained this to Nurse Judy.
She looked at me. She had lost interest in the whole tale. She finally spoke.
“I can tell you one thing,” she said.
“And what is that?” I asked.
“He is not a stalker.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“No one stalks anything that can’t even walk away. There is no challenge in that.”
Once again, I’m sorry I asked her. I can’t even be a good victim, and I’m probably too old to raise another kid.
More later,Judy
