3 Questions

Yesterday I put on the Facebook Page a post by Single Dad Laughing with 3 questions he asked more than 200 bereaved parents. I thought the responses would be meaningful to all parents.

Oh, you didn't know An Inch of Gray had a Facebook page? Just click on that picture of me over there on the right and "Like" it if you feel so inclined. Thanks!

Anyway, I got a message last night from Lori asking me how I would answer the three questions, and that's what I've been thinking about today. A lot. I have a feeling my answers will be a little longer than the ones on the Single Dad Laughing post.

WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU HAD KNOWN AS A PARENT:

Hmm. I wish I had understood that while I was trying to make Jack's life "easier" by having him conform to other people's standards, I was most likely just letting my own insecurities and pride keep me from enjoying Jack exactly as God made him.

Truthfully, I was probably just trying to make things easier on ME not him. I knew he was a thoughtful, incredible kid, but I sometimes wished he were more rough and tumble, less sensitive, less shy, and more happy go lucky.

This doesn't mean I regret any of our heart to hearts, even the ones with tears, or the way I helped equip him to learn how to make friends, handle his emotions, and cope with challenges, but I just wish I had realized, far earlier than I did, that God did not give me Jack so I could fix him or change him. He gave me Jack to love and to fight for.

I don't regret being structured, because I know that made him feel safe and loved, so you won't hear me say, "Oh I wish we had had milkshakes and Coke for dinner every night, or not had a bedtime, or just let him watch whatever was on TV" -- knowing now that the days we had together were numbered. 

But I do wish I had a crystal clear vision of what the little things were versus the big things. And I probably would have bought him a couple more Cokes.

I wish I had known not to let others guilt me or intimidate me into distrusting my instincts as a mom.


WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU HAD DONE DIFFERENTLY AS A PARENT:

Well, you KNOW I wish I hadn't encouraged my kids to go out and play in the rain that balmy afternoon. Not that seizing the moment and playing in the rain is a bad thing in itself. In fact, it is moments like those that form some of the most blessed and meaningful memories of our family's past. Moments of beauty, laughter and spontaneity. Running through a sprinkler with your clothes on because you are too lazy to change, chasing after the bell of an ice cream truck as it pulls away from the curb, finding unexpected delight in an otherwise ordinary day.

However, I wish I could have felt the axis of the earth shift ever so slightly, to know this was NOT an ordinary day. I wish I somehow had been able to put together the puzzle pieces of the strange feelings and the sense of foreboding that I had the weeks before the accident to make me just say, "NO. We're staying inside."

I wish I had used our drive home from school that afternoon for a teachable moment about flash floods and the mighty power of water. I thought about it, but I didn't want to scare the kids.

I regret being well-behaved. I think my desire to be a well-behaved people pleaser who doesn't make a scene contributed to my giving up almost immediately the night of the accident and not doing more to find Jack, even though I knew in my soul where he was.

WHAT ARE YOU THANKFUL YOU MADE SURE TO DO AS A PARENT:

Well, I know that Jack knew I loved him. I showed him this in the words I spoke every single day: "I love you. I love the way God made you. I'm so proud to be your mom" and in my actions most days.

I am so glad I took the time to snuggle and talk with him at night. I am thankful that I let the kids climb on the couch, dance on the coffee table, and jump on the bed when they were little.

I am grateful I was able to introduce him to the God who made him and who loves him even more than I do.  I am thankful that I never let the kids think that the most important things in life were things. I am thankful I wasn't too busy. I am thankful I encouraged his passions. And I am thankful I was able to help foster a loving relationship between Jack and his sister Margaret, even though it hurts so much not to have them together now.

So, those are my things.

Friendship Friday

Every once in a while I'll write a post, usually that I'll find very funny, but then I'll take it down.

Why?

These posts are usually about another person. The rush I get trying to put into words someone's ridiculous or rude or clueless behavior lasts a few minutes, but the regret lasts longer.

You may think this is totally weird, so for a psychotic-Anna point of reference I'll tell you I still feel bad that I turned down the chance to dance with Jeff Travis in 9th grade at a "Sock Hop." He was a friend from elementary school whom everyone called, "gay." I chose my burgeoning social life at our new school over loyalty to an old friend. 27 years ago. It haunts me. You get the picture. Speaking of pictures, that's me in 9th grade at the top of this post. Eeek.

I even removed a rather innocuous post that referred to a man I saw wearing a cape. A CAPE! It was, I thought, hilarious, but the uncomfortable feeling I had after I wrote it lingered until I took it down.

Now if we look at the issue of a grown man wearing a cape (not of the super hero variety-- more Sherlock Holmes-ish) you may have sided with me in thinking that his fashion choice was outmoded at best, bizarre at worst. I would have been "right." Hello? A cape? But was it kind?

I know that's a silly example, but I've been thinking about kindness a lot lately.

Recently I saw my son struggle to play a kick ball game with a group of kids of varying ages. He got all wrapped around the axle when some of the kids weren't playing "by the rules." As a mature 40 year old, I could see that when kids aged 4-11 are playing a game together, it's not really about playing the game correctly. It's about finding common ground in which all can have a good time. And truthfully, only one person wasn't having fun, and that was my 11 year old son, the oldest in the group. He was intent on being right, but he didn't care about being kind in that situation.

I have friends who are in conflict right now. To an extent, both sides are "right," but damage is being done. I feel for everyone involved. And I wonder, do you think it's easier being right or being kind?

So Much to Lose, Part 2

I flew home from Colorado and my roommate picked me up at the airport. We got to the turn off between my house and the hospital. Did I want to go see my mom tonight? she asked. It was late. Visiting hours were over. I didn’t feel like navigating the parking garage and other perceived hassles, so I declined.

“But if she dies tomorrow, don’t blame me,” I joked. Oh yes I did. That’s how far from my reality even the concept of a dead mom was. For 1/10 of a second I had that oogy feeling that comes right before a stranger yanks your purse from under your arm, or your car slams into a dump truck, but as quickly is as it came, it flitted away again.

The next day I called my mom as soon as I woke. She sounded great. “You must be tired from your big trip. Why don’t you go back to sleep?” she said. So I did.

Later, I gathered up some art books for her to look at, a camera to take pictures of us together, and headed out. I stopped at the McDonald’s across from the hospital. I did not rush. We had time.

As I walked down the hallway to her room, I could see a glassed-in smoking lounge straight ahead. Patients could still smoke inside in those days. I thought it was funny to see people clutching their IV poles in one hand, cigarettes dangling from the other. I heard one woman say, “She’s been doing that for a while; they’ll probably move her roommate out because she's so loud.” The others nodded in agreement, a silent Greek chorus.

I entered Mom’s room to loud moaning. Her head was in intense pain. Her eyes were closed. I reached out for her small, warm hand. To this day, even though her voice is lost to me, I remember the feel of her hands, the smoothest I’ve ever felt.

Without opening her eyes, she said, “Oh, Anna, you’re here. I’m sorry I’m being such a chicken liver. It just hurts so much.” I assured her that she wasn’t chicken, but I was glad her eyes were shut, because mine were full of tears.

Her roommate was moved out of the room. Someone tried to find her doctor, but he was not reachable. Anywhere. Did doctors golf on Tuesdays? Would he ever come? Now it was only the two of us.

I didn’t have much faith in the Doogie Howser interns who came to check her every once in a while. Was there a real doctor in the house? Did these people even give a shit?

My father appeared, having been called at work by someone. Was it me? My mother opened her eyes and said to him, “You have been so good through all of this.” These words--her last-- were, I believe, her gift to him. A comfort he could pull out of his pocket and remember later, when he most needed to. She’s so damn classy, I remember thinking, to reach out to someone else when she was in such pain.

Something changed. She grew quiet. A good sign? Another person, still not her doctor, checked her eyes.

Brain bleed.
Massive.
No recovery.

My dad and I walked to a waiting room to discuss life support. Everything was happening so quickly. Of course she would not want to be, as people said so callously in those days, “a vegetable.” I smiled at my dad through my tears, wanting to comfort him, wanting him to know he didn’t have to worry about me.

Inside, my mind raced. Didn’t people come out of comas, like 10 years later, finding their children grown and their clothes out of date, but none the worse for the wear? Was there hope? Should we DO something?

I wanted to fight for her, but I didn’t really know what that meant, and I felt small and tired. I mean, if I hadn’t wanted to deal with a stupid parking garage, how could I be strong enough to defy a doctor’s recommendation and demand she be put on life support?

I hugged my dad. I said nothing.

We returned to her room, joined by one of our ministers, maybe two. We prayed around her bed as her breathing became loud and labored. I wanted to shout: “Walk AWAY from the light! Stay with me!” But that seemed weird, and embarrassing, and vulnerable, so I joined hands with the others and silently prayed for peace.

And we stood for a very long time, saying nothing, as her breathing got slower and slower…and stopped.

I gathered the unopened art books, the camera, and went home.

*******
I truly believe a mom wants what's best for her kids, whether they are 4, 18, or 40. So in sharing what happened on that sad, strange, horrible day, I have regrets, but I am not paralyzed by them. Why? Well, what mom would want that for her kid? Not mine.

You were right, Mom. I did have a life and I did have things to do. But Mom, you also were my life, and I’m pretty sure you know that too.

Guest Blogger-- Regrets and Remembrances

I love receiving comments on my blog (hint! hint!) Some come in the "comments" section and others via email. After my recent blog about my student Alex and how I failed to reach him, an old friend sent me this beautiful letter about what she learned in a difficult teaching situation. So, with her permission, my friend Grace will be our Guest Blogger today.

"Anna,

Sometimes God has to keep at me before I agree to really contemplate a difficult situation. He is at it again. And using you as an angel again. I have been putting a lot of thought into when and how to get back into teaching... preparing for the future when I will want to work full time. I can use the multitude of options and obstacles as an excuse for my hesitance. But the truth He has forced me to come to terms with in the last few weeks is this.... my first year of teaching was the worst disaster and the greatest learning experience of my career... Almost 20 years later I still struggle to make sense of it.

When Jesse Helms died a few weeks ago, I was instantly taken back to Monroe, NC where I had my first teaching job. The racial relations at Monroe High School were volatile to say the least. It was a white male student who told me the tale of the elder Helms, a sheriff around the time of the civil rights movement, dragging black men into the jail at night and setting them free the next morning with bumps and bruises.

I didn’t make it through the first year. I resigned in February. Of course, there were lots of reasons, but it all boiled down to a single incident: one of my students threw someone else's papers and pencil out the window. It sounds silly out of context. I wrote him up and sent him to the office. He returned to my classroom the next day accompanied by the assistant principal who explained to me that, while the infraction warranted it, the student could not be sent to in- school suspension because he had reached the maximum allowed. He would have to be given out-of-school suspension or remain in the classroom. The student just gave me his usual devious smile and walked casually to his seat while every other student sat wild-eyed.

After class I really did try to explain to them that they had just given this kid a free pass to do everything short of hurt another student for the remainder of the year. But giving a black student OSS for throwing papers out the window would not play out well with the public. So this led to the other incident...

The administrators agreed to periodically sit in on my class. One day as the students were taking their seats the principal came into my General Math class. He greeted me and surveyed the room. Suddenly he was yelling at a student. "Stop looking at her! If you look at your teacher like that one more time...!!!"

It took me a minute to figure out who he was talking to. But then I could see the glare between Mr. Martin and Anthony who had arrived early and was already seated in his favorite spot in the back corner of the room. I don't remember what I actually did. I only remember that I wanted to slap Mr. Martin.

Anthony was a very fragile student. It had taken me months to earn his trust. Anthony had come to adore me -- as a teacher who would not ridicule him or allow others to belittle him. We had come to an understanding that if he gave me his best and finished his work, he could have some construction paper and work on his sketches while I helped the others.

Although he didn't want anyone to know it, he was one of the brightest students in that low-level class. Everyone else had to call him "AB", but he actually loved it when I called him Anthony. This black student who had never threatened me or tormented his classmates was being publicly punished in a most intimate cruel way... for what?!

So there I was... stuck with the student I never was able to reach and diminished in the eyes of the student with whom I had managed a miracle. And that makes me want to recite all of the other little things that played into the decision to resign so that I can convince myself that I did the right thing. But I will always wonder if I could have done more for both of them.

Your story about Alex reminded me of Anthony. And then yesterday, as I was unpacking the basement, Erin found the gift Anthony gave me on my last day. It was a sketch that he had worked on for some time. The sketch that was causing him to really look at me. I discussed the sketch with the girls. They could all tell it was supposed to be me. I think that he made my eyes much more prominent and pretty than they are in reality. The focus he put on the eyes still makes me wonder if he believed that I could really see something in him that others could not.

Love, Grace"