On Grief...

The Journey to Paradise by Danielle Johnson

“When you’re going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill

In the summer of 2004 I found myself in Aruba with my husband and his family.  By no means compact people, we decided to save money by renting a compact Toyota to drive around the island in search of rougher beaches.  Our goal was to body surf.  Earlier in the morning we had studied our tourist map and set our sights on Boca Grande.  It was known for exceptionally rough waves, and my husband and brother-in-law had grown tired of the cool, calm, blue, waters outside of our timeshare.

            Aruba is the A in the ABC Dutch Islands (B standing for Bon Aire and C for Caracao).  The island is nineteen miles long and six miles across.  For such a small place the environment is incredibly diverse.  The west coast is highly built up for tourism, which became the countries’ main source of income when the oil refineries left.  Here the island looks like any other in the Caribbean, with the standard Holiday Inn, Hilton, and Embassy suites scattered among the shorter pink and yellow resorts hosting names like Paradise Inn or La Cabana.  Each hotel sits on a sandy white beach surrounded by turquoise water.    The middle of the island is a desert, scattered with cacti and roaming goats.  The Northeast coast is trademarked with rough coral that meets the wild ocean. The water here is the color of midnight and foams white as it crashes against the black rock.  The Southeast section of the island is almost abandoned.  The sand there is blackened with oil and home to a fence that catches trash blown fiercely across the horizon.  Although the temperature is a perfect 80 degrees daily, the winds that allowed for successful trade in the 1700’s make is almost unbearable to be outside at times.  Trees bend over halfway at the trunk from years of abuse.    

            In Aruba, the end of the day is the most beautiful time.  The sunset streaks the sky with lavender, bubble-gum pink, and orange sherbet.  The palm trees look black against this canvas.

            After breakfast we piled into the cramped white car.  My husband was still too young to rent a car; I was afraid of driving stick shift, and my in-laws had never owned a credit card – so my brother-in-law was stuck obtaining and driving this vehicle.  With Roger at the helm, over one thousand pounds of passenger took off on a voyage.

 We soon left the tourist coastline to find ourselves among the run-down shacks owned by locals.  The discrepancies in living conditions for visitors and natives were jarring.  Tattered clothes hung out to dry.  The purple, orange, and green homes looked abandoned and impoverished.  As we drove they became fewer and farther between.

  Within thirty minutes we reached the edge of the island and got out to see if we had found what we were looking for.  Near our condo people were everywhere, but here we mostly had the beach to ourselves.  We tried to approach the water for swimming but found ourselves stuck in sandy oil.  My mother-in-law and I laughed as our feet turned black and sticky.  A couple approached us, and we decided to ask where we could find Boca Grande. 

            “Baby beach?” they repeated in rough English. 

            “No…  Boca Grande,” I said.

            “Baby beach?” they repeated.

            “Thanks…” we said and headed back to our car. 

My uncle’s girlfriend had told me to visit baby beach.  Apparently you can wade 100 feet out and still be only waist deep in water with few waves.  This sounded worse than our home beach.

            We drove for a bit until we came across a car appearing to be driven by locals. 

            “Can you tell us how to get to Boca Grande?” one of us asked.

            “Baby beach?” the driver inquired.

This scene repeated itself about three more times.  We knew if we were going to find the rough waters, it would be on our own.     

            Aruba is home to 100,000 inhabitants representing over 40 different nationalities.  Twelve native languages are common on the island, so though most residents speak English out of commercial necessity, most do so with such thick accents it is almost impossible to understand.  However, the people who live here are some of the nicest you will ever meet.  I asked one local why people were so hospitable.  He asked how I would feel if I woke up every morning in paradise.  It almost never rains and the sun is always shining.  You are never more than minutes from a beach.  This place makes people happy. 

 I got to know one local rather intimately while getting my nails done as my mother-in-law was getting a massage.  She told me that her goal was to make people enjoy their vacations.  She works seven days a week because she never wanted to deny someone their enjoyment as they escaped life for awhile.  The woman explained that it made her especially happy to provide services for guests like my mother-in-law.    

            “How bad is she?” she whispered in my ear as she leaned over.

            “Bad...” I said.  “She is not receiving treatment anymore, so it’s just a matter of time.” 

All trip I’d wondered if people knew Debbie had cancer.   I thought of how I once heard that the worst part about losing your hair is that your disease enters a room before you do.  Now I realized I was an idiot.  Of course people knew she was sick.  Her bald head bobbed up and down in the water as we snorkeled, she would run off to the bathroom several times during some meals, and her eyes sometimes looked sad and distant even in this paradise.    

We knew that the road system basically stopped outside of the tourist section of Aruba.  Jeeps were available for rental to roam through the sandy hills in the desert section of the beach.  My brother-in-law was headstrong and determined that our car could make the trip.  With no map we decided to just get off the road and head north until we found something we liked. 

At night Roger, Sephus and I go swimming in the ocean.  We are alone.  It is almost pitch black except for the glare of the moon off the water.  As we wade we move our arms back and forth to skim the top of the water.  It is serene and therapeutic.  This trip is for Debbie, but it is for us as well.  We have grown closer than ever this summer but talks have centered around Debbie’s calorie intake, chemo options, and opinions of doctor competency. 

            Whether or not to come was a big debate.  This was supposed to be my husband’s and my real honeymoon to celebrate our one year anniversary.  We could hardly afford to take ourselves let alone the rest of the family.  Was she too sick to travel so far?  Could they accept their kids paying for an extravagant trip?

            I thought we had made the wrong decision when we got to the airport and they would not let her on the plane because she had a hospital, not state issued birth certificate.  It fit the Murphy’s Law curse that had followed her during this illness: “This is completely curable in all but five percent of patients…” “Only three percent of the two percent that have a severe reaction to the first medicine react poorly to the second…”  “She is seeing a burn doctor in addition to her oncologist because the anti-seizure pills have caused her skin to chemically burn itself from the outside in…”

            One morning Debbie and I sit underneath a palm tree hut.  We laugh while watching Sephus and Roger build sand castles.  Until I met my husband he had never been to the beach.   Now he and Roger kneel, swim trunks brushing the sand, seeming like children.  Big brother tells little brother to get more and more water for the creation.  Debbie smiles, closes her eyes and puts on her headphones.

            As I hear her humming, “Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I want to take ya,” I know we have made the right decision.  

            Once we were deep in the sand ruts made by the drying sun, we found ourselves bobbing up and down as the car slipped in and out of the holes.  The car would get stuck from time to time.  We discovered that the best thing to do was have several of us get out and walk next to the car to change the weight distribution.  This was not easy.  Eighty degrees along the coast is not the same as eighty degrees in the desert.  The sun would beat down through the cloudless sky and scorch the earth.  The hot dirt seeped in through my flimsy black flip flops, along with the occasional cutting rock.  We were thirsty and sweaty.   My mother-in-law was a nervous wreck.  She figured we would get stuck and not be able to get out. 

            Although there was something obviously risky about taking a car off the beaten path, I never really worried.  Roger had always been cautious, and I believed he would not lead us into danger, especially in a car whose owners had his credit card on file.  I tried to champion for him when the arguments started about turning around and not risking our lives.  As my reward he would sometimes let me stay in the car when his dad and brother had to get out.  Of course, none of the cars in Aruba came equipped with air, but the roof offered a slight shade.  Plus, I could soak in the beauty of the strange landscape.  I had been to several tropical islands but could not get over the amazement of seeing cacti in a small area surrounded by beach.  It seemed strange to me that the two could coexist so close together.  However, never could you really see both the beach and the desert at the same time.  Each made the other hard to remember.    

           

            The one rule of the trip is that we were not allowed to talk about it.  But Debbie broke the rule as she and I sat alone on the patio the last morning of our trip.  We had sat outside everyday after swimming and dinner.  The water that evaporated from our legs left abrasive salt which chafed me in my regular clothes put on for the plane ride home. 

            “I don’t worry too much about Sephus,” she said.  “He has you… plus he has always been better about moving on.  Roger worries me.  He seems to get stuck in the past.” 

            I know it is important that I let her talk but I am not sure how to validate her comments.  I say something… but now I cannot remember what.  I try to imagine something poetic I can use to fill the missing holes in my memory but come up blank.  There is simply nothing beautiful to say in response to worries like this. I guess a mother knows her sons. 

           

            As our tiny car struggled up the washed out road to top yet another rocky hill, even I started to convince myself we may have made a bad decision. At this point the novelty of the uniqueness of the tropical desert had worn off.  I was no longer snapping pictures of cacti or goats.    I was done.

But at the crest of the hill, the most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on popped into vision.  A tiny crescent shaped cove lay hidden at the edge of this dessert.  Large cliffs of coral created a hideaway just for us.  We parked the car and ran for the ocean.  The waves were more than the boys had hoped for.  They jumped in with reckless abandon and let the tide pull them under time and time again. 

            I enjoyed it for as long as I could but found the abuse to be too much after awhile.  The seaweed that collected in my swimsuit as I was knocked down became obnoxious.  I headed off to the blanket to sit by Debbie and admire this haven.

Although we knew this private body of water to be part of a much larger ocean, the circle made by the cove caused it to appear as a sanctuary.  Perhaps this land and water truly touched no other.  I wish desperately to describe the whole landscape but no words exist.  All senses were appealed to.  My skin was sprayed with water that beat off the coral.  The roar of the ocean and rush of water calmed and beat out the sounds of all else.  We felt like kids who had stumbled across something they were not supposed to find. 

       Debbie and I found ourselves nostalgic.  We talked about trips to the beach from her childhood.  She told me how her sister Susie would always get seasick and how they would sing Beach Boy songs while they swam.  As we conversed, water washed into the mini holes created by sand and rock.  We swished our toes in the clear pools and listened to the shouts from the boys in the distance as they disappeared and reappeared.  We bathed in the sun.  We were happy. 

            I have always found grief to be a bit like the ocean.  It knocks you over from behind.  You are not sure how you will ever survive these falls.   You suck in salt water and your nose burns as tears well up in your eyes.  The sand scratches your body.  You paddle and struggle to get your own two feet back on the ground, but you are not in control.  Then suddenly you find yourself standing.  You may even admire the power of the ocean.  You brush tiny seashells off your legs and convince yourself you can handle this when another wave sneaks up behind you…   

            Eventually some hard core local surfers pulled up in Land Rovers.  We visited with them and found they snuck out here daily but rarely saw a tourist unless one wandered away from a jeep tour.  They seemed happy to share their secret for a bit. 

They asked us how we got there and laughed when they saw our car in the distance.  There is no way you will get out of this they assured us. 

We assured them we would.  

On The Romance of Teaching

            I don’t usually romanticize teaching.  Most days I don’t feel like I change anyone’s life.  I feel like I misfire more often than not.  Much of our time is spent wrestling copy machines, asking students to stack chairs, reminding adolescents not to run in the hall, and dodging groans as you torture kids by requiring them to read eight pages on their own.  It’s kind of like parenting in the mundane repetitive tasks required to care for little people.  But every once in awhile I have a moment where the magnitude of what I do on a day to day basis takes my breath away. 

            I started this year a little grumpier than I would like to admit.  Twelve days before the students showed up I learned about Amendment Three which will show up on Missouri's ballot come November and which will allow many people with very little understanding of how teacher tenure really works to vote to eliminate it while tying teacher evaluation to student performance.  As someone who solely serves students who perform below grade level this scares me.  Because you know I love a good medical analogy, I quickly decided that being a reading intervention teacher is kind of like being an oncologist.  Yes – success feels that much better when the stakes are high, but it’s harder to come by, and we fail more often than we would like because of factors often out of our control.  I spent the next few days talking to Sephus about the absurdity of the assumption that there were these amazing potential teachers who could save us all waiting in the wings foiled by sucky teachers with tenure standing in the way…  Nine days before students showed up I found out that I would not have the salary step that was frozen in 2009 restored despite believing all summer that this would finally be made right.  Many of my colleagues will finally be earning the minimal amount more that they should have been making for over four years now, but I won’t.  I am being punished through a technicality for taking a little bit of time off to better myself through earning my PhD.  This came on the tail end of six volunteer days for the district during what should have been my last days of summer with my own children.  Four days before the kids came I realized that the set up of my classes would prevent me from using the units I worked so hard to plan last year.  All this plus a lack of time to really get my room and lessons ready left me feeling stressed and under-supported and under-appreciated. 

            Don’t get me wrong.  I was not grumpy with the kids for a second – well except for maybe once during my overfilled seventh hour on a brief occasion when I had to ask too many times for their attention.  I truly enjoy my students.  I lit up when my advisory students returned to me a year wiser and taller.  I fell in love all over again with 6^th graders who asked me adorable questions like “what do you do for a living” and “are you new around here because I don’t recognize you” (after setting foot in the building for the first time).  I smile and exuberate energy all day, but when the kids leave I slump in my chair overwhelmed by what the year holds for me.  Some of this came from juggling Maggie being sick the first week of school, but a lot of it came from how incredibly unromantic and taxing teaching can be,

            I often sit at teacher of the year presentations and think how desperately I want to win a recognition like that some year – not because of the accolades, but because as I hear the winners described I want to be them.  I want to care that much and work that hard.  I teach classes at MU each year  about being a teacher, and I share all the secrets to being great  while knowing how impossible it can seem to be all those things at once.  It was easy to talk about when I was not in my own classroom.  But this year, I am teaching five hours a day – I haven’t done that since 2006 – and I have about twenty more students than I did last year.  I decided this would be the year that I gave it my all every hour.  I lesson plan for two hours a night after my own children go to bed; I have already conferenced with my students one on one to give them formative feedback; I implemented cooperative learning that required a new room set up during week one; I have asked for letters from parents about children and read them voraciously.  I am trying to be the teacher I would want for my daughters, and it’s exhausting, and I came home grumpy today…          

            Then I went to Avery’s softball practice.  She has the sweetest coaches.  They exemplify the passion I hope to emulate in the classroom.  They are cheerleaders, and instructors, and buddies.  They redirect with kindness.  And the best part is that one of them was my student my second year of teaching.  I watched him today as he (in my opinion) gave Avery the tiniest bit extra attention as her coach.  He was concerned when she didn’t get to bat when it was her turn.  He quietly offered suggestions after each swing with a voice that implied he wanted her to make a hit as badly as she did.  It occurred to me that he did this because of a relationship – the relationship between teacher and student.  Maybe she means a little more to him because I knew him at age 14.  He is not a student I have really thought about much after he left my room because he came in and did his job without making a big splash.  Plus, after 15 years of 80-100 or even more kids a day it is easy for them to run together.   We meet too many students to maintain ongoing relationships, but for the year we have them they are ours and we are theirs.  I started thinking about how wonderfully unique teaching is, and I was moved beyond words.  You see your doctor once or twice a year, your banker maybe once a week, your waiter maybe only once period…  but teachers and students are together five days a week, 180 days in service.  Who else can you claim that about?  I felt so blessed this evening when I realized I am in the business of building relationships and therefore, building people.  And I looked at this student and the good man he had become – not because of me or Oakland, but because that’s what most of them go on to do.  They become good people, people who are kind enough to volunteer coach ten little girls in softball, and we get to meet them and spend meaningful time with them along the way.  Someone that lucky has no right to be grumpy. 

What a blessing my job is.  What a joy teaching can be.  What a beautiful romance to be a part of.

            

On not marginalizing fatherhood

            I must start this post with my sincere hope that no woman who has suffered infertility feel offense.  I know the tiniest bit about what that pain might feel like.  I lost my first baby 12 weeks into a much welcomed and celebrated pregnancy.  In the 18 months of failed attempts that followed that loss I had a brief taste of what living by cycles did to the psyche – two weeks of hope followed by two weeks of despair…  over and over again.  Then I felt the fear and insecurity the 9 more months that I waited to actually hold Avery in my arms.  Three little girls later much of that pain has been replaced with the acceptance that any other timeline would have meant three different humans, and I love desperately the ones I have.  Ultimately, those months were moments compared to what many face, and I would never want the thoughts I share to diminish the reality of that hurt. 

            But… taking the plunge anyway…

.           This past Mother’s Day I noticed a plethora of links and status updates asking that we remember the women filled with pain on Mother’s Day who had never experienced the gift of a child.  When I read the first few I was moved.  The point was initially well taken.  But as the sentiment became viral I found myself frustrated.  I wondered if motherhood was so characterized by guilt that we had to admonish ourselves for accepting any gratitude in light of someone else’s potential pain.  I remember real bitterness over the ease at which some became mothers in surprise day to day moments, but I don’t remember feeling that bitterness on Mother’s Day.  I was too filled with joy and respect for the woman in my life such as my own mother, wonderful grandmothers and generous aunts.  I was inclined towards celebration on those days.  I considered asking this past Mother’s Day if anyone else had similar thoughts about our own unwillingness to take the spotlight for a moment.  I am genuinely sad for anyone who wants to be a parent and can’t, but I hoped that hyperfocus on woman without children this year did not prevent any mother from giving herself her day last May.

            I was reminded of this analysis when I scrolled through facebook today.  I saw tribute after tribute to husbands and dads that made a difference, but no reminders to dads to celebrate cautiously today as all over the world there were men who ached because they could not be fathers.  Come to think of it, I have never heard one conversation about men who worried that they might ultimately lead childless lives despite their lasting desire to father children.  I do not believe it is because this ache is not there.  I know men young and old who wanted kids but for a variety of reasons didn’t (or haven’t) seen that dream come to fruition.  I think it is just one of the many ways that we marginalize fatherhood. 

            I have a wonderful father.  He catches people’s attention because he is so willing to share his emotions.  Jason recently joked that some men go their whole lives waiting to see their father cry while we rarely have to go 24 hours.  Though his job took him away from us much of the work week, I remember him getting up with me at night to clean up puke and comfort me back to sleep.  I remember him taking us to parks every Sunday and writing us stories to tell us as we fell asleep each night. 

            I have an equally wonderful husband.  He adopts a true co-parenting model.  He hates when females say they have to see if their husband can baby-sit so they can grab drinks with the girls.  He says things like, “do they mean can their husband parent on Friday night?”  He fixes the girls hair like it’s his job.  He fills plates at family barbecues.  He has combed lice out of hair and painted nails.  We both remain surprised by the attention he draws from others as he completes the mundane jobs of parenthood.  I told him once that I shouldn’t feel this way, but I often perceive all the attention he gets from females as hidden insults to me.  Do I look like I am shirking my parenting responsibilities?  I was comforted that he also felt some offense.  He wonders why it should impress people that he 50/50 parents our children.  He wondered why he gets compliments for things mothers do unnoticed on a daily basis.  He explains that he takes joy in these acts, and would feel denied if he didn’t have the opportunity to attempt to be as much of an influence in our girls’ lives as I try to be.  They are lucky to have him, and he is lucky to have them.            

            I think we don’t always expect enough of fathers.  In turn, we disempower them and disrespect them.  Sephus gets so frustrated at the sitcom portrayals of fathers and the Papa Bear narrative found in so many short stories.  Dads are great for playing airplane with or making you chuckle, but in the end they just don’t really matter as much as moms and aren’t nearly as capable.  I know many people will initially disagree with this idea.  That’s good.  It means your experience is not coherent with the dominant messages about fatherhood present in the media.  It means that we should expect fatherhood to be celebrated so much that if we regret wishful woman without children on Mother’s Day, we must also lament wishful fathers without children.  Knowing that unique situations lead to wonderful upbringings without one parent or the other, we must still not sell either parent short.  We need to bring fatherhood out of the margin.  Dads have too much to give to be perceived as sideline parents. 

On The Very Life of Life - 9 months later

Remember when I said this:

All change does involve loss… and gain… it is our job to find ways to roll down the windows during that change and enjoy the here and now for all its scariness and glory.  I hope I can live that this year.  I hope I can grow while still respecting the past.  I hope I can watch my friends do the same. 

It was the night before the current school year started and today that school year ended.  I find myself wondering if I lived that goal this year. 

It was a hard year.  I taught two new courses at MU.  I had my own students at Oakland for the first time in three years.  I held two new positions at OMS.  We battled strep throat, ear infections, an appendicitis, the stomach flu, the real flu, a UTI, lice, lice again, and pure exhaustion.  We lost loved ones.  We tried to maintain friendships across space and time.  We woke up most mornings still surprised that we had a third baby.  We managed three drop-offs and three pick-ups every day and germs from five different locations our family spent time in.  Our house was trashed most of the year.  Making lunches sometimes felt like climbing Mount Everest at the end of a long day.  We adjusted to new work start and end times.  We lived in chaos and stress. 

It was a long year.  Sometimes I remember something that happened eight or even two months ago, and I wonder if that event really happened this year.  It’s crazy to me that at the start of the year we were still living the adventure of sharing our home with friends.  I stumbled across a menu plan for Maggie’s birthday and had to remind myself that party was within this school year.  Disneyland at Christmas seems like years ago.  At the same times, I was constantly saying, “when did it become 2:30… Thursday… April.”  It was the shortest and longest school year of my life. 

It was a good year.  I passed smiling people everyday and lived off the high that new coworkers experienced as they too fell in love with my building.  I fell in love with a group of future teachers who shared their reactions to media each week.  I fell in love with 6^th graders who I found out hug teachers as they say goodbye the last day of school.  I fell in love with my daughters and husband daily – especially during the morning crib retrieval time.  I watched students truly get engrossed in books like The Watsons go to Birmingham, Among the Hidden, Crash, and Witness.  I got to travel to Boston and New Orleans to hone my teaching skills.  I stood in the fake snow in front of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle while I shivered soaking wet from a nighttime ride on Splash Mountain.  I watched a seal twist and turn close to a shore in the Pacific Ocean the day before the year turned.  I took part in a faculty book club that allowed me to devour books and then share them with others.  I gained relatives.  I made new friends.  I felt joy and engagement this year. 

I forgot that I aimed to embrace individual moments this year, but looking back I think I did.  I have started trying really hard to say, “things are good right now…  your knee doesn’t hurt right now… Maggie is happy right now…  none of your students are going crazy right now”  When we think too long and hard about what went wrong in the past, or what could go wrong in the future, we forget the moment that has been presented to us at the moment and in the moment.  Being obsessed with change, loss, and gain can make it harder to live in the present.  In my early days of teaching I stumbled across a thoughtful quote and plastered it across a bulletin board from many classrooms ago.  As I remember it  once again I hope to carry it into the summer and all my days ahead:

“Look to this day for it is life.  The very life of life.”  - Kalidasa

This overwhelming and wonderful year of change and ups and downs has been the very life of life.  I am lucky to have lived it.