From yesterday's Briefing:
Every weekday afternoon, I stand
at my classroom door and say goodbye to each individual student.
“Farewell, young man.”
“Adios, my friend.”
“Enjoy your evening, dear
scholar.”
I offer side hugs to the huggers
and high fives to the rest.
I often throw in “I’m proud of
you” or “Love you!”
This habit began because I’ve
learned the hard way that we never know which goodbye is final.
In my first year of teaching, we
returned from spring break to an empty desk in my homeroom. There was a custody
issue that resulted in a student moving across the country with no notice.
I worried about him the rest of
the year.
How would our curriculum align
with his new one? Did I teach him well enough to help him transition? Was he
making friends at his new school? Did I tell him often enough that I was proud
of his efforts?
What troubled me most: How did I
say goodbye to him that Friday, when everyone was watching the clock and eager
to leap out the door and into the sunshine?
I’m certain it was uneventful –
forgettable, even. My habit was to wave to students as they walked away and I
shuffled on to carpool duty. I’d throw out an all-purpose, “Goodbye!” or “Study
for your states quiz!”
That missing student changed my
ways. The next year and each year since, I’ve stood sentry at the door,
insisting that students line up and walk out the door one at a time.
I’ve tried to change my ways at
home, too, though I’m not always successful.
By the time I’ve showered,
dressed, dried my hair, made breakfast and packed lunches, I have about 2.5
seconds to bid farewell to my two children. I manage to cram in some version of
“Have a good day! Make good choices! Be safe! I love you!” as I dash into the
garage, balancing a piece of toast atop a to-go cup of coffee in one hand,
purse, lunch bag and keys in the other.
We often miss hugs and thoughtful
exchanges.
I’m thankful each evening when
we’re all reunited.
When I think about the people
I’ve loved and lost over the years, I think of our final time together.
My grandpa had been ill, and we suspected
his time was limited. When I said goodbye for what would be the final time, my
heart knew.
When my grandmother fell ill
about three years later, I said goodbye, but I don’t know if she understood.
Alzheimer’s disease had long before stolen her memory. When was the last time
that I said goodbye to her and she knew who I was? I can’t pinpoint it.
My mom had been bed-ridden for
years, and every time I visited her nursing home, I braced myself, preparing
for what might be our last conversation. She and I made an effort to make each
goodbye meaningful.
When my husband’s time was near,
we both knew. He suddenly could no longer speak, so my sister scribbled the
alphabet, and he pointed:
“I love you. Thank you.”
Not long after, his body fell
into a sleep-like state. Twelve hours later, he took his final breath.
We’re not always so fortunate. We
can’t predict the future. We don’t know how much time will pass until we meet
again – if at all. I plan to keep working on making all of my hellos and
goodbyes and the moments in between meaningful. Every moment counts.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. You can reach her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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