What We Leave Behind
Acceptance Isn’t Linear: A GBS/CIDP Story
Today kicks off GBS/CIDP Awareness Month. I’m bushed from work today. The kids and I did some spring cleaning yesterday, which left a film of dust on the papers stacked on my desk, waiting to be graded - a subtle heaviness in the air. As I released my eighth graders for music class, I asked our custodian to help me fill a bucket with water and cleaning solution to mop away the dirt we leave behind. Cleaning relaxes me; something about the fifteen minutes of silence while I sweep or organize the things in my life that require little thought, allowing me to get ready for the unexpected moments the days bring. I try not to plan things too far in advance, except for a loose map of stars and dreams that guide me to London, Paris, Japan, or even the next town over – wherever my mobility allows, within a 48-hour cancellation period.
I resigned from my job because I know it’s time to let my body rest and do the work of writing and creating - things I’m teaching my students to do, while I'm still able, because I never know when the dust will fly up and smack me in the face. With my limp, I roll the mop bucket to my classroom, where my principal and a stranger stand at the podium – my podium, the one I bought. I pause. She’s pleasant. “This is a really nice room.” I look at my boss, and he tells me she is the new potential ELA candidate.
Emotion isn’t always linear. We don’t necessarily fall in love and stay in love. We don’t necessarily get angry with a rational rationale. Sometimes, the world, our brains, and our bodies just don’t make sense. She walks through the classroom, my classroom. I welcome her and tell her to take a look around. I show her the Promethean Board and how easy it is to access Google Classroom. I get warmth from her. I like her. She compliments my podium and I tell her, “Thank you. I bought it.” She admires my desk. “A family donated that to me. I’ll bring it downstairs when I come next year as the writing interventionist.”
Neither of them reacts. I begin to mop the thin layer of grime that accumulates in a room well-loved with laughter, birthday parties, student council lunch meetings, reading lessons, and pencil shavings from the essays my kids write. Essays I’ve taught them to write—stories they’ve shared with me. I see myself holding ice-packs on one of my boys’ necks as we slow down his chronic bloody noses. I see myself arranging the desks in five different arrangements this past summer to find the perfect sightline angles for the board up front. I notice a tear in the blue and white midnight-sky bulletin board paper, filled with anchor charts and parts of speech, where kids have looked to find their language. And suddenly, I am without words. Am I not worthy of a text message saying, “Jon, I’m bringing someone up to your room.” The courtesy text before a phone call. The phone call to say “are you decent?” before the company comes over. I get texts for everything else.
The words burst like vomit from my mouth as I call my mom.
“The body’s not even cold yet, and he invited my replacement to my funeral. Why did he do that? Why couldn’t he have let me know before I rolled in there with my mop and bucket like a guest in my own classroom, where I’ve taken such good care of 78 kids that aren’t even mine? Why? Why’s he do it like that, ma?”
It’s not rational. I chose to leave, and I was asked to stay part-time. My coworker looks me in the eye. “You anchor this room.” I breathe.
When I calm down, I use my humor to tell him, “You couldn’t have given me notice? A text?” I make the moment into a mini-comedy routine. “I teach Monday-Friday, act as the nurse, social worker, confidante, chef, personal secretary, and parent sounding board in the moments I’m not teaching. Mopping is complimentary.”
It’s May 1, the start of GBS/CIDP Awareness Month. I was angry early in my illness. Today, I will not be angry. Instead, I go for a walk because I can. A former coworker is turning 45 this month and has challenged a group of us to run, jog, or walk 45 miles this month, with prizes – a Facebook challenge. I want to take a nap so badly, but I change into my red Reebok gym shoes and shorts and go for a walk. I walk 2,801 steps, or 1.32 miles, and let the grime wash from my mind. I walk out the anger at this disease, until it inevitably surfaces with time–acceptance with chronic illness is not linear. We mop up the messes our hearts make when the body collides with our dreams, and we have to mop up the tears and rebuild.
I ask if this woman will be the new me. He says yes. If she accepts. I only spoke to her for two minutes, but the vibe was good. That’s what matters–that she can take care of them for me. What matters is that I can walk tonight. I can move my limbs. It’s hard, but I can. This is GBS/CIDP Awareness Month, and the grim reality this illness leaves behind is worth writing about. Worth sharing. I'm worth more than just a simple text. But more so, learning to wipe up each mess that illness brings is worth writing about. Grime builds up. How we wash it away is even better. How we control the little we can, that’s what matters. The goodness we leave after the grime. This is what matters.
