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CLAUDIA WHITSITT
One Last Pearl
My
daughter’s starring 4x400-meter track relay team would run the
last race of the meet. Before then, her upcoming individual
events guaranteed that she would crave electrolytes, and I loved
being the mom that planned ahead.
A stiff
April wind kicked up as I exited the van. Luckily, I had
schlepped a wool plaid stadium blanket along. I grabbed that,
as well as the loaded cooler of sports drinks. I tucked the
cooler between the fence posts. After I climbed the stands to
the top row, I settled in, arranging my seat cushion on the cold
metal bleacher bench and cocooning my blanket around me to block
out the blasted gusts that sneaked their way through each and
every uncovered crack. I rested my head on the iron rail and
let exhaustion work its way through me as exhaustion does – a
slow devouring, like sinking in quicksand. Teaching Special
Education was my life’s work. I loved it, but it wore me out.
I prayed that sitting in the sunshine, albeit cold sunshine,
would provide me with some much needed respite.
Teens and
their parents peppered the stands. Guns fired, voices cheered,
and runners flashed by. The winners celebrated, while the losers
licked their wounds and headed off to their next events. I
huddled in my blanket, silent, face tipped toward the sun, when
another set of knees bumped my own. Clearly, this set of
kneecaps hadn’t recognized the “leave me alone” aura I had hoped
to cast.
I turned,
annoyed, to find my son’s former math teacher, Tim, standing by
my side. In his hand, he held a miniscule white bag of popcorn,
a trademark track meet snack. He wormed in next to me on the
now crowded bench. “Mind if I share your blanket?” he asked. “I
just can’t seem to stay warm these days.” Then he offered me a
handful of the freshly popped corn.
Tim was my
children’s teacher and coach. That's how I knew him. We had
never spent time together in any capacity other than a
parent-teacher conference. I didn’t know him well enough to ask
about his cancer, now common knowledge. Right away, though, I
knew one thing: this bump was more than coincidence. I’d
learned to trust my gut long ago and it was talking to me this
very moment. Meeting Tim was an opportunity, like cracking the
shell of an oyster. I knew this man had wisdom to share.
I opened my
blanket and let Tim in.
An
All-American guy with broad shoulders, square jaw, and Detroit
Tigers cap covering his bald head, Tim possessed the one element
that makes a guy a heartthrob: a winning smile. Despite his
illness, he looked like he had been the fit, trim quarterback on
his high school football team. And I knew from a distance, when
I’d watch him coach my child’s track team some years back, that
this man possessed an athlete’s focus – driven, dedicated, his
goal to teach his athletes to seek nothing less than the win.
I’d heard
through the grapevine that his illness started as persistent leg
pain; he thought he’d pulled a muscle. Typical jock. Everything
can be written off or justified as one sports injury or another.
Being a tough guy, he waited it out, iced it, rested it and
stretched it. When the pain didn’t subside after a couple of
months, he relented and saw a doctor. He learned he had a bone
malignancy. Although the disease had progressed beyond the
early stages by the time doctors caught it, my guess was Tim
thought of himself as a strong young man who’d beaten lots of
other opponents in his life. He’d probably reckoned this was
just one more.
After his
diagnosis, the doctors said there was no cure. They also gave
him limited remaining time. He began treatment and returned to
teaching briefly, beating the early odds. Like any focused
athlete, he researched tirelessly, seeking alternative
treatments. Though he was forced to eventually give up
teaching, the medicine allowed him more time. Precious time.
Although his cancer had metastasized, he was still alive four
years later. From my seat, it seemed well worth the sacrifice
of leaving a career he so dearly loved. But I also knew that if
I had to give up teaching against my will, I’d feel like I’d
lost a limb, or my voice, or myself completely. I wondered what
it was like for him. Did he feel like he was admitting defeat
by giving up his career? Or did other things take precedence
now?
I asked Tim
how he was feeling. He started talking and didn’t stop. He
told me about his daughter, Susan, how he and his wife, Kathy,
had become her legal guardians when she was twelve. I knew he
was much more than her guardian. More like guardian angel, the
best kind of dad. I could tell he was her dad and she his heart
child by the way he spoke of her recent success landing a sales
management position in England – the success story of a young
businesswoman working in a male-dominated industry. I could see
the pride in his gleaming faraway gaze. I imagined that he was
envisioning her, holding onto her face with his heart and
burning it into the deepest part of his soul so that he could
safely carry it with him on his final journey. He told me about
his parents, how he missed them right now.
I felt
anxious and intrusive. I didn’t want to pry. But the strength
of my premonition pushed me forward. It was something about the
sudden peace I felt in his presence, how this day could be one
I’d remember for the rest of my life, that this man would give
me a moment that would change me forever.
I asked
the next question that came to mind: “So how have the treatments
been?”
“Good."
I
worked up the courage to ask a follow-up question:
“What’s it like, being this sick?”
“It’s ok.
The usual.”
His answer
puzzled me. “The usual?”
“Yep.” A
grin crossed his face, one borne of a deeper wisdom freshly
burnished. “All the things you think are important, are.
Family, health, financial security. It’s all real stuff. It’s
all important. You don’t find out anything new. You just want
to hold onto it all a little tighter.”
“I can only
imagine.” No I couldn't.
Then I held
his hand. I wanted to hold onto him forever, throw him a
lifeline through my feeble fingertips. I knew in that moment
that the touch of God was in this man, this good man, this
regular guy who had lived his life doing the right thing. He'd
devoted his life to kids, his own, mine, and thousands of
others. He'd given freely: his love to his wife, parents and
siblings. He was a simple man with a simple commitment, being
the best he could be. A commitment so easily missed by so
many.
He grinned.
“It’s ok." His shoulder nudged mine. “Really.”
“So why did
you decide to come to a track meet? It’s freezing!”
He nodded
down at the track. “I love watching the kids.”
I longed
for more. I’d only spent an hour with this man and I didn’t
want to let go. And I wanted the secret. The secret of life. A
secret that, I imagine, none of us quite know for sure until we
are faced with losing it.
“Can I ask
you one more thing?”
He grinned.
“Go right ahead.”
“Got any
pearls of wisdom for me?”
He nodded.
“What’s
that?”
“Eat ice
cream every day.”
Simple
advice. Not some earth-shattering realization. Or was it?
The next
week, Tim died. The entire town turned out for his funeral.
Among the mourners were his twin brother, sister, parents,
in-laws, and, standing next to his wife, Kathy, his daughter,
Susan.
I will
always treasure the afternoon I learned what was really
important:
Eat
ice cream every day.
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