CANCER, CEREBRAL HEMORRAHAGE, AND TEACHING
It was a balmy, foggy, South Georgia wintery 54 degrees this morning. I’ve always said that walking the silence of the dark, pre-dawn streets is good. As the dawn painted the stark shapes in the dark with living colors, I could hear all of its exhortations to look forward to this new day more clearly than I have ever before. Nearly dying from a cerebral hemorrahage will have that effect. Moving along the streets of Valdosta on my three mile fast stroll–I’m not yet up to power walking–I was acutely possessed by the feeling that I had to get ready to live this newly arriving day. I walk not only to keep in physical shape, which may have saved my life when I had the cerebral hemorrahage, but I believe that the day that starts healthy and emotionally well has the healthiest chance for me to look well to this day and of having this day go well. If I can live this day well, well then, I’ve shaped today into a vision of fresh faith and hope. So, for me, the reason why the sunrise is so beautiful and magnificent is that it sets the stage for a positive, joyful, fulfilling, blissful, valuable day. .
This morning, however, I was looking at dark and light things a bit differently. I was thinking of two similar but contrasting messages I had received during this past week. One was a puzzled “why did you survive such a tragedy” from a friend at a mid-western university who then went on to answer her own question with a “you must have more to do.” I wrote back, “My hemorrahage would have been a tragedy if I died at what for me is an untimely time. It would have been a greater tragedy if I didn’t open my eyes wider to the richness and possibilities of the world about me rather than shut my lids tighter in self-pity. But, the truth is that it was a lot harder on Susan being in the ER and at my ICU bedside than it was for me lying in on ambulance stretcher or in that ICU bed.” The other message had an undertone of “why me” from a professor who was bemoaning that ” Why do I have to have so many students whose performance disappoints me?” And, she, too, went on to answer her own question with a “they aren’t prepared to be here.” I told her, “I don’t know of your situation, but having had such attitudes for the first twenty-five years of my career I’m not devoid of an understanding of the problems you and others face and how easy it is to emotionally cash it in.”
In the morning’s darkness, the words of both these professors seemed to lead me toward to see that when I talk of the dark pre-dawn, I’m only referring to the sky and ignoring the host street lamps that line my route . At this time of the day’s first light, then, the streets aren’t ever really all that dark. They’re dark only when they’re dark. Sound silly? Well, unless the moon is not out, or it and the stars are blocked out by clouds, or there is no street lamp, there’s always some light in the night’s dark. In fact, even in the darkest of dark moonless nights and absent street lamps, as night vision goggles reveal, there is always some sort of light. The streets, life in general, and the classroom specifically are dark only when you don’t notice any of the light around you. But, everything on the streets and in life, as well as in the classroom is a mixture of dark and light. In fact, the more my pupils opened as I got accustomed to the dark along my walk, the more faint light came in and the less dark it was. The second flash of light for me, then, is that the more I notice the light, the more I invite the light in, the more I show the door to the dark, the more I light up my mood, and the more I can see what truly is. So, I saw this morning that if I want less dark in where I am and what I do, I should look for some light. No, I’ll take that back. If I want less dark, I have to make my own light. And, when I make my own light, I see the light in myself and in others.
I guess I was thinking about all this because these two messages made me realize that everyone who hears what just happened to me volunteers answers to that unspoken hard and unanswerable question: “why were you a 5%-er who survived your massive cerebral hemorrahage unscathed?” They offer what is to them emotionally satisfying answers, answers that make sense of things to them: “there is more in store for you” or “it wasn’t yet your time” or “you’ve got more to do” or “someone is looking over you” or “praise God” or “knock on wood,” or “you’re a lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky man.” So many academics do the same thing when students don’t rise up to their expectations. They offer emotionally satisfying “it’s them,” finger pointing “in my humble opinion” or “it’s my belief” answers, answers that make sense to and exonerate them from any responsibility to “why aren’t they doing what I want them to do?” For answers they offer: “they’re not capable” or “they’re letting anyone it” or “they don’t really belong” or “they want something for nothing” or “they’re not dedicated” or “they don’t know how” or “when I was a student….” None of these are really satisfactory answers for me because they’re framed in such dark and light terms. But, there are answers. People’s character is strengthened if they meet the things in life honestly and courageously, whether among those “things” is cancer, cerebral hemorrahage, and/or recalcitrant students..
You know, when I had the cancer or when I had the cerebral hemorrahage, after I got back my memory, I don’t remember ever asking that bemoaning or angry “Why me?” In fact, I haven’t raised that sighful question about the classroom–or lived it–in the over fifteen years since my epiphany. I have found that the forlorn “Why me,” in whatever context, is a thief that saps, robs, paralyzes, atrophys, and defeats. People ask it as if they are surprised or scared that life does not accommodate them as they would want or that the students don’t please them as they demand or that the world in all of its aspects is fraught with imperfection. For me, then, “answer” doesn’t mean reason or explanation. For me, “answer” means I am the answer. That is, “what am I going to do now that it has happened?” I could not control having cancer or a cerebral hemorrahage or that student in class. But, I do have the power to decide how I am going to respond; how am I going to use the fact that I had cancer three years ago and nearly died from a cerebral hemorrahage three months ago–or, have disappointing students in class–to strengthen my personal and professional life and the lives of those around me? My answer is that it’s not enough to have survived; I’ve got to live; I’ve got to fill my life with all the feelings and thoughts and words and actions of the most magnificent possibilities of life. My perception of life, personal and professional, outside and inside the home and classroom, is to open my eyes wider rather than to shut them tighter, to create light in the dark, to have an energizing “wow,” to drive away the resigned and debilitating “darn,” to do more than merely getting through this day, to put myself on a enthusiastic high far above any dismal low, to see the light of how much I have to gain by focusing on the goodness and beauty that surrounds me while accepting the thorns. It’s about being in control over that which I can control and influence: me. It’s all about learning the rules so that I can break them properly. It’s about being totally and completely unique all the time everywhere. It’s about being my own person, not someone who someone else wants me to be. It’s about being the individual I am rather than just another cog in “the system.” It’s about being an original, not a copy. It’s about originating rather than duplicating. It’s about not being afraid to feel and to think. It’s about staring down all those demons who would have me say that I am less than I am or can become. It’s about not letting my dreams and visions and aspirations and hopes slip through my fingers and disappear because I think “I couldn’t do that” or “what would ‘they’ think.” It’s about trusting over and over again that still, small voice that says, “This might work and I’ll try it.” It’s about not accepting disappointment as normal. It’s about having a deep, meaningful, and sincere trust in myself. It’s about stepping out of fear and hesitation into self-esteem, self-confidence, and courage. It’s about a smile, a welcoming “hello,” a kindness, a consideration, a laugh. It’s about truly giving it everything I have. It’s about doing rather than merely trying. It’s about the belief and understanding that I can make a difference.
Well, this is getting too long. Though I have thought a lot more about this, it’s enough for now. Since Susan and I are heading out to the West Coast soon for some grand-daughter spoiling, if I don’t another chance, let me and Susan wish each of you a merry burning of the yule log, a belated happy lighting of the candles, and a glorious turn of the calendar.
Louis
