Teacher Meets Student

"One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings. The curriculum is so much necessary raw material, but warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child."  ~ Carl Jung

For myself there were many teachers that touched on my feelings; that gave warmth to my growing soul, but none quite like one teacher.  She was the first teacher growing up that inspired me, of whose class I loved, and always think fondly of.  For me, she preceded all my other teachers I think fondly of; when I think of my significant teachers, I think of her first and foremost. 

When I was a young girl, I pined over Ms. Johnson.  A teacher that was considered “that” teacher, everyone raved about her.  My first memory of her was a school rally of sorts, while I watched her so enthusiastically rally her class, into a cheer that their loud and voluminousness cheer jokingly gusted her over, as her class smiled and laughed in agreement and comradery.  So when I came to be a 5^th and 6^th grader, I yearned and crossed all my fingers and toes to be assigned to Ms. Johnson’s class.  Much to my delight I was! 

While in her class she was everything a teacher should be, and everything a young kid could want: she was young cool and hip, she had command over the class.  She taught with conviction and passion. The self-assurance and enthusiastic presence in the classroom was infectious.   If ever we didn't meet her expectations, or misbehaved for her or any substitute there was sure terror in our bodies.  She cared about her students and was involved in school activities, and we loved her for it – all of it!  Without a doubt Ms. Johnson rattled me when I slacked off; and because I was eager for her approval, I was eager to atone for my lack of work.  She poked fun at us – myself included – and let us do the same to her.  In fact, one of us did just that in their daily journals; Ms. Johnson would be the lead character on some epic, embarrassing, and elaborate story, that this student reveled in sharing with the class (every day), and Ms. J would grin over in amusement.  Truth be told, before Ms. Johnson I don’t quite remember enjoying school quite as much as being in her class.    

So as I’ve been reconnecting with friends from my youth while acclimating back home, my longest friend to date and I tried visiting Ms. Johnson, more than a decade after leaving her class.  Well, that reunion of sorts finally happened: what a treat is was! 

What turned into a failed attempt to visit her at her current school, turned into a thread of emails back and forth trying to find a day and time to meet up and catch up.  Wouldn't you know the only good time was a classic happy hour rondevu?   As that day approached, so did my anticipation to connect with my favorite grade school teacher.  After getting off work late, and rushing to meet Ms. Johnson, I finally made it to the restaurant, not before making it inside when I heard a familiar voice say, “so do you get a detention for being late?”  What a witty ambush greeting! 

Sitting across the table during happy hour with my former teacher that taught me when I was eleven and twelve was a delightful and unreal encounter!  Over the course of the night as we shared nachos, a quesadilla, sipped our booze, and shared highlights and low-lights with each other from the past ten plus years.  Much to my pleasant surprise, commonality of many things are surprisingly shared between former student and former teacher: a parent who battled, and is now battling cancer, similar travel experiences and aspirations, parallels in family roles we both have in common, and a similar outlook and attitude on many a things.    

As I sat there across the table from my former teacher, I thought: what an awesome moment!  For a teacher who once taught me as a shy and tubby girl, to now sharing how far I’ve come in all my endeavors thus far: unreal.  For a teacher who inspired, and delighted me as a child, to now be speaking on adult terms with, and all the swear words that come with it (and without the threat of a call home): amusing!  For a teacher who taught me more than just reading, writing, and arithmetic, but how to be confidant, bold and determined, to now be sharing more in common with her than the fact that I can now drink, but that we could exchange stories of teaching, of cancer battles, of family drama, of dating and life: sublime! 

At one point over the course of appetizers and conversation, I felt a full circle of sort of feeling.  Here sitting across from me was my former teacher, who I adored (and still do), and hearing her recall and remember all these traits that was me when I was a quite girl with big rimmed glasses, but also someone who she saw took care of people around me, to hear in so many words give me affirmation of who I was then, but to affirm how far I’ve come, and the growth she saw in me that night.  To put that feeling in a word: uplifting! And for that there is much gratitude!

Before this delightful rondevu of sorts I was invited over the thread of emails back and forth to address Ms. Johnson by means of her first name.  Suffice it to say, I couldn't quite bring myself to initially.  If memory serves me right, I said that was more surreal than the thought of having “adult beverages” with her.  Yet after a night of good food, drinks, conversation and a pleasant reunion, she referred to me as a friend, that she’d enjoy doing this again.  And so it goes, I could finally make that leap from looking at her as my fond teacher Ms. Johnson, to a new mentor and friend, Gloria!  

At a Loss with the Hard Truth.

Suffice it to say that the past two weeks have been an emotional roller-coaster! 

With the news via phone call that my dad was rushed to the ER one night for 14 and a half hours, and a week later learning that further chemotherapy treatment would be in vain, and in turn hearing three more months to live (at best), I’ve been a wave of delicate emotions. 

The first news came right after an amusing phone call from a dear Philly girl friend of mine.  We caught up like we always to, with our dear added friendly factitious commentary, and spoke of things that are ahead for both of us, that we’ll be eager to hear more of later for sure.  After getting off the phone, I noticed I had a missed call from my mother.  Naturally I called back, but alas, got the voicemail.  Being a dutiful daughter, I called the next person in line who might know something – Joey, my brother.  The words, Dad, and the emergency room came out of the same breath; and I stopped!  Now, as expected I started asking lots of questions, of why?  For anyone who knows my little brother, knows that those answers are sometimes difficult for him to articulate.  Worried, and scared of the reasons, I rushed home; not before sending a mass text to friends of what I just learned!  I didn’t know how else to cope at the time.  Rapid lane changes and many tears later, I got home to find only Joe home.  Getting voicemail after voicemail from my mother’s cell, I didn’t know what to do. 

Thank God for friends who stepped up to the plate, and who were able to think more rationally then I at the moment.  A dear friend, Amy, called right away, and after a very short conversation offered and insisted with the company of Ruwanka,(another friend), to take me to the ER with my younger sister; of whom walked in the door moments after I got in. 

As we drove the 7 minute drive to Kaiser’s ER, I didn’t say a word.  It was all I could do, to hold back my tears.  After, getting in to a crowded and distraught ER (not that I’ve ever been to a chipper one), the four of us sat down and waited for my mom to come out, so we could take turns visiting with my frail and weak dad.   As I walked into my father’s ER cubical defined by a curtain, what struck me the most was how fragile he looked as he laid there on a narrow ER bed; hooked up to I.V.’s and monitors, beeping and flashing like a quite metronome.  At this moment, I thought: is this the beginning of the end?  What’s the next defining moment in this awful battle with cancer? How much more will this hurt? 

As I sat next to my dad, and listed to him speak of this ER visit, it took everything I had to stay composed.  He spoke of his doctor receiving CAT scan test results back, and noticing that his four cancer lumps had grown, and that there were even more lumps that formed as well.  Yet what alarmed the doctor the most was a blood clot in his lung.  As I sat there listening to my dad; gazing at my dad, all I thought was, how much I love him, and how much more time I wanted with him under different circumstances.  Now, as I sat in this ER cubical with my dad with a terminal illness, that is slowly taking his life, I finally – since the rapid lane change car ride back to the house – began to shed tears. 

After my time with him, I walked back to the waiting room, so as to let my younger sister have her turn with our dad.  Many moments later, she too came out, in tears, probably thinking similar things as me.  It wasn’t until the next afternoon (14 and a half hours later, and my mom staying every minuet), that my dad was finally released. 

Now, a week’s time later, both my parents come home from a doctors meeting, with grim news.  As both sisters and I sat and stood on the back porch, we listened to an update that revealed to us that the cost of further chemotherapy would outweigh the benefit – in other words live out the rest of your life.  And the rest of that life is three more months at best.  I watched my little sister shut down and break down inside, and my older sister seem confused as she struggles with being detached, and having a sense of emotional implications.  And as for myself; I pushed the emotion down, walked away from the conversation with a simple statement: “well I’ve gotta get ready for work.”  And work I went to that day, and all was fine, until I was off the clock, and I sat in my car, about to put the key in the ignition, when the grim news from the morning finally hit me.  Three months at best to live, after all the chemo, after all the hope, at best: three months.  The tears came rushing down… 

In that week, I remember breaking down and balling over the phone to a friend, as he gave me words of comfort.  In that week, I remember emotions being high, and tensions being higher as my members of my family (and I) continued with the week.  In that week I remember spending time in morning Mass and breakfast at I Hop as my friend embraced, comforted and consoled me in word and hug.  In that week I remember it finally affecting me at work, and feeling embarrassed about it too, (as I pride myself being able to detach from any stress or drama once I’m in the work place).   In that week, I remember getting chocked up about it as girl friends and I cracked open two bottles of wine. 

As I look at my dad now, he’s impressively kept a constant calm over the whole situation and illness.  He’s not afraid of death.  Talk to him about it, he’ll say he’s lived a full life: went to and graduated from college, raised a family, and did a fare about traveling.  On top of that, he calls himself a cat with nine lives, as he recounts facing death a number of times throughout his life, and lived to tell the tale.  Once as a young boy; where some rough housing went wrong, an injury was inches away from a deadly injury.  A number of times, he tells of his time when he enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, and dodged bullets while serving in the Vietnam War.  Even during his time in and after college while living in Chicago, he tells the story of when he missed a flight, and subsequently that plane crashed, and killed everyone on board.  Even a time when I can remember – while I was in high school – he suffered a massive heart attack and went into cardiac arrest, before emergency crew people revived him. 

And so it goes now, as he lives out the remainder of his life; as he looks back one his life, he’s acknowledged his some regrets or demands he’s battled, but also treasures the triumphs.  As he says: “I’ve lived a full life, I’ve made right with God, and am doing my best to make right with my children and family.”  Truly, I’m very happy for my dad – that he’s at peace with his fate.  Honestly, I don’t know if I would be as calm. 

At this point, I’d conclude with some words of wisdom; a reflection of sorts; a moral of the story if you will.  To be quite frank though, I got nothing!  The fact that I’m watching cancer take my father’s life, has me beside myself.  The emotions are real and raw, and I’m powerless to stop it.  There is anger, as I feel as though I'm being robbed of time with my dad.  There is sadness, as I watch my dad suffer, and knowing I'm losing someone I love.  And there is fear, as I wonder what will happen after he passes.  At twenty-six there’s so much that I want to do and share with my dad; things that only come at a certain point in my life; and I the fact that my father won’t be around for all those life moments breaks my heart.  It’s not fare!  So once more, if everything happens for a reason, there’s no reasoning I can find out of this thing.