Today marks six years since I had the life-saving and life-changing surgery that enabled this second chance at living, which I'm enjoying to the fullest (especially on days like today when it's sunny and 44 degrees!).
With the hustle and bustle of the past few week, I nearly overlooked the anniversary but my mami reminded me in her daily morning e-mail and I thanked her for doing so. I don't like to let important anniversaries pass by unacknowledged because, although I'm not much for dwelling in the past, there is no present or future without what has happened to us, so the past must be not just acknowledged but also learned from.
It does seem like these past years here in Ohio have literally flown by, and so much has happened that they seem inordinately important years in a life that has already turned the proverbial corner towards 50.
For one, I was telling my husband recently that I have never felt this relevant or significant in a place, as I do at my small college on the hill. I think I can say, without exaggerating, that I earn (or at least I try to earn) my second chance at life each and every day.
Recently, a student came to my office and asked whether she could ask me a personal question. I hesitated, thinking I could always say I wasn't going to answer the question, and said "Yes."
"When are you going to have children? I think you would make a great mom," she said, smiling.
"That's pretty personal, indeed," I said, and I thought of what to do next. I could tell her that I didn't feel comfortable answering those kinds of questions, or I could answer it honestly and model for her a certain kind of behavior that while delving into the personal was no less professional or teacherly.
"Actually, I can't have children," I said.
She looked a little shocked for a moment (as most people whom I tell this do), and then she gave me a sad half smile, and said: "I may not be able to have children either."
She shared why she might not be able to get pregnant, and I told her why I can't have children. When I first was diagnosed with severe Crohn's Disease about 21 years ago, the doctor said a pregnancy not only would cause a relapse of the illness, but would also involve a high-risk pregnancy and a Cesarean section. When my husband and I got married, we made a decision that the dangers and the uncertainties were too many to tempt fate so we decided against pregnancy.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking sad.
"Don't be," I said, smiling, and totally meant it. "God knows what he does, Dios sabe lo que hace, and I may not have my own children, but I have students like you."
After our chat was over and she had left (not without noting that I didn't look 46 but more like 35, bless her soul!), I wondered whether I had broken one of the rules I've set for myself in this small college environment. I have pledged that I will not get too close to any of my students. The power differential that exists between a teacher and a student cannot be erased as long as the context doesn't change, and I'm uncomfortable with blurring lines that might give the impression that the asymmetry of power doesn't exist or is minimized.
I thought about this, and talked it over with my husband, and I was satisfied that I had not broken my own rule. While I shared very personal information with her, I did not do so in a way that shifted the teacher-student relationship in ways I would worry about.
What I did, I hope, was to model for her how a woman can face the fact that she cannot bear children, and do so without being miserable or feeling less of a woman or less of a contributor to society. I hope I modeled for her how such a woman, regardless of the fact that she can't have children, can still have a fantastically fulfilling life.
I feel that it's moments like those that make me relevant and significant here, and it's moments like those that confirm to me that I'm not wasting this second chance at life. On this anniversary of that life-giving day, I thank God and all those who watch over me for all that I have, good and bad, and for all that I don't have and will never have.
May the next year be as wonderful, as full of living in all its radiant colors and shades, as the past six years have been. I'll raise my cup of decaf to that! ¡Salud!
3 comments:
Far from doing something wrong, I think you did that student a great service by giving her a kind of role model--someone of whom she can think when she needs to have an image in mind of what her life can be. I believe (and I know you know I believe this) that that's one of our jobs at the little college. Students can get far more interesting cultural surroundings at other schools, and they can get access to more famous people, and they can live in world-class cities--but where we teach, they can get to know fabulous people and can think very carefully about what kind of adults they want to be. I think that in our own way we may enable that process better than any other place I know.
I'm glad you didn't tell her that you don't need to have children because your often-crazy friend needs so much mothering, heh.
And by the way: you are right to feel wholly relevant, wholly needed, and (I hope) wholly appreciated where you are. You are blooming, and all the rest of us around you are extraordinarily lucky to be in your presence. I say this even though I'm only in your cyber-presence right now, because I'm so looking forward to being back in your physical presence relatively soon!
Also, she's right that you don't look 46. I've always thought this.
Thanks for all your kind and encouraging words. I think you're absolutely right and I like the way you articulate what it is that we do here that no one did for me at Harvard. As I've told my students, basically no one gave much of a darn about me there. Our students can't say that about us.
I'm also looking forward to having you back. I've missed our Quesadilla Thursdays, among our many other hang outs. :)
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