Last time I wrote I was on the bus heading to DC for the Regional ultimate frisbee tournament. Unfortunately, my team lost in the games to go to Nationals and I arrived back in New York at about 3 am after a crazy 8.5 hours of travel.
With about 3 hours of sleep, last Monday morning at about 7:15 am, a teacher in my department told me one of the senior students had died in her sleep on Saturday night. I could not believe it. We later learned that the student, J, had a degenerative heart condition and had a heart attack. The faculty met in the library during first period to discuss how to bear the news to students (even though most students already knew through Facebook. In fact, that is how the principal found out as well.).
J was known by all students. She was a lively young lady who had a lot of character. I met her last year because I covered a junior English class about 3 days each week after their teacher, Ms. C, died of cancer. It was a weird time for her students. For many of them, losing her was their first experience with death. She was not just their teacher though. She was their cheerleader, their advocate, their confidante, their mentor, their coach. She pushed them to excel daily and grow as individuals.
I have a vivid memory of that 5th period English class soon after Ms. C passed away. We were reading the Great Gatsby, but none of the students seemed to care (not even the best). They were distracted, grieving, and taking it out on me. So, I sat down, did not fight them, and told them we'd continue when they were ready. All class, J pushed my buttons. She refused to take the quiz. She went to the bathroom even after I gave her two options-- to take the quiz and then go, or not go at all. With about 5 minutes left in an entirely unproductive class, J took out a poem she wrote about Ms. C and began reading it to her friend, D. I listened intently as I was completely drawn in by her words. By the end of her poem, I realized tears were sliding down my cheeks. It was beautiful. I now understood why J treated me so poorly. I was not Ms. C. I could not replace her (even though I was not trying to). All she wanted was her teacher back, a woman who became more like a mother to her. I left class that day feeling somewhat helpless but closer to those students than ever before.
That same Monday morning, the administration broke the news of our guidance counselor's husband'd death to the faculty. More devastating news. He left the house to go pick up some groceries and never came home. We were told he had been murdered. I work closely with Ms. R and the Friday before was laughing with her about some of our students. I couldn't believe it. The staff couldn't believe it.
Our students couldn't believe it.
Losing J and seeing my students deal with her death sent me straight back to high school during times when I experienced the deaths of loved ones and senseless loss of peers and a friend. It was debilitating. I couldn't focus, lost motivation, found myself doing anything to be distracted from the sadness that lingered in my thoughts.
Even as I reflect on my own reaction to death in high school, I still have no idea how to help my students. I've reached out to students who I know are struggling, but I still feel helpless. I know that I can only be there for them to listen when they need.
Many of my students are now forced to grapple with death-- with the help of friends, but more profound, in their own ways. This loss will send those who knew and loved J on a painful yet necessary and enlightening journey which will force them to examine what truly matters in life, who they are and who they wish to become.
thanks Maura. I talk a lot about death and loss in my work and I try to walk the line between skating by on the surface and becoming morbidly obsessed with it. We have to hold that tension in our hearts. We live, for now. We will die someday, but not yet. Good luck!
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