24 Years and an Ocean Away
all good things…
The school year is ending and I can’t help but feel nostalgic for this year and 24 years of experiences as an adult. I open a new chapter this summer and though I don’t live in the past, sometimes when it’s quiet and silence overwhelms my ears, I like to visit for reminders. I need to visit. I visit to avoid forgetting why the ice-cream tastes so good after a long, hot walk to the ice-cream parlor. Building the sundae and getting to feel the cold blast strike my tongue, soothed by a warm butterscotch chaser and a little whipped cream. I add a cherry, but mostly for aesthetic purposes. I don’t want to forget what it took to taste this, sitting at a table alone. Independent; people watching as the memories rush forth.
I remember sitting by the lakefront at Loyola during undergraduate school, listening to U2’s “With or Without You.” Alana made mix-tapes for our friend group before we left for college.
I remember sitting by the lakefront in the evening to calm myself before going onstage to play “Galileo.” The director told me I was very sprightly for a big guy and showed me how to slow my movements down. Ironic.
I remember sitting on the rocks by the lakefront with Tom and Sangini on Cinco de Mayo with two too many beers in me when campus security came to make us climb back over the barrier to safety. I slipped on the rocks. No permanent scar to my left leg.
I remember student teaching and walking past the lake in the evenings to this little Thai joint where I graded papers over Pad See-Ew by candlelight.
I remember walking to the beach in Okinawa, Japan on a family trip after graduating and getting lost, so I walked for 2 hours in the rain only to find I was three minutes from my destination.
I remember falling off a stool three weeks later when I entered my own classroom. How embarrassing. I chuckle.
I remember driving down I-294 to visit a guy I was dating who lived an hour away and seeing the fireworks burst from the sky on the Fourth of July. It was stunning but lonely in the car. Usually I’m punctual.
I remember running to The Tube in London so I wouldn’t be late for class. Still a big guy, but punctual this time. My life, an ocean away.
I remember working as a supervisor at Brookfield Zoo over the summer as a ticket sales supervisor, complaining, always complaining about the miles my feet would clock each day. I look at my feet now. They twitch a bit.
I remember driving through Park Ridge at 9 pm with Pink’s, “Just Like a Pill,” piercing the night as I retraced my steps to Loyola for just one more taste of what it felt like to be 24. Time takes you away.
I remember taking a break from teaching to manage a hotel, giving tours with our event planner, dressed in those Express Men clothes that I used to wear in the classroom 20 minutes from where I used to teach and a decade away.
I remember speeding toward Wisconsin, Vicki’s mix-CD playing “The Underdog,” by Spoon (is that when I began to love indie rock?) when my fiance broke off our engagement. I wondered if there was still life in me to keep walking; standing at the water’s edge looking for hope. Far from home. By myself.
I remember that what I remember feels chronologically impossible.
I remember picking myself back up again and finding an ounce of strength to get back to my teaching roots and feeling like hope had resurfaced.
I remember sitting beside a student in the kitchen at school cupping his chin and pressing a cup of fizzy water to his mouth to drink and wiping his chin after.
I remember telling my friends over a beer on the weekends that the children I work with are human beings, yet they are invisible to the other students.
I remember doing respite work, taking one student to the mall. “Can he understand me when I talk?” people would ask as we ordered milkshakes. “Yes. More than you and I understand.” He sat in his wheelchair looking at me. I have two wheelchairs now.
I remember tripping in Wal-Mart and not knowing why.
I remember my fingers began twitching.
I remember picking out a cane.
I remember going to physical therapy.
I remember getting a walker.
I remember my neurologist running a battery of tests.
I remember the neurologist who diagnosed me frowning during my electromyography. I tried to make him laugh. He frowned.
I remember the words: your case is complicated. Something is going on besides the CIDP. “What’s CIDP?” I’m learning.
I remember he smiled. Finally, He said: “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”
I remember my voice disappeared.
I remember a tube of chapstick, eye drops, a little Grumpy Kitty stuffed animal, and my cup of gatorade with an extra long straw aimed toward me so I need only tilt my head up to sip. My mom would feed me the pureed food.
I remember watching the ceiling, waiting for tomorrow, or yesterday, I’m not quite sure anymore.
I remember promising myself: if I get better, I’m going to do some of those life things again because this isn’t living, with the Morphine, the immunosuppression, the chemotherapy. The stillness of my body that was not meditatively induced. Move legs. Arms? Suck in a breath.
I remember I got a little stronger and began to feel the ground beneath my feet.
I remember my voice coming back: “A, B, C, D,” learning again.
I remember entering the world. The sun is so bright and alive.
I remember relapsing.
I remember making my way partially back.
I remember rolling back into my very own classroom. So recently.
I remember my neurologist saying the CIDP is stable but my Central Nervous System has intruded. “Is that why it’s hard to breathe sometimes?” Yes.
I remember choking when I tried to drink my soup last week.
I remember laughing when the kids said, “Man, you're tall Mr. S” when I stood for the first time in class.
I remember that I’m fatigued, I don’t need reminders. The mirror reveals it.
I remember my voice so strong when I sang karaoke before lockdown and laugh when the kids clap when I sing while doing read alouds.
I remember so much. I feel so much more each time I talk to a student and know that my body is saying: it’s time to go. It’s time to start a new, less demanding chapter in your life.
Above all, I remember that I am able to sit here and feed myself and type this all by myself because where there’s life, there’s hope. This is my last full week of teaching–didn’t I just get my teaching certification at Loyola? Wasn’t I just sitting on the rocks? The lake seems so far, but it’s only a half hour from here. I’ll go see it soon, but for now, this is a pretty good sundae. I know how it’s made now. It’s a really wonderful sundae, actually.
