Somewhere in 2008ish, give or take a year, I was at Sam's on a weekend afternoon with my grandmother and she was looking at these plants (a Christmas cactus). I asked why she would want one and she said something about their blooms. I don't remember every detail of the conversation but I do clearly remember telling her they were not a pretty plant. She didn't listen and bought two of them. {That part of the story makes me laugh because if you knew her, it's just so who she was}. Fast forward a few weeks and she bought a pot, moved it to the pot, and gifted it to me. I reminded her that I didn't want it, I didn't like the pot, and on and on.
She begins to tell me this story about how someone gave her this plant (what I know now as a Thanksgiving cactus) when my Papa passed away the day after Thanksgiving some 20 years earlier. She told me that she faithfully watered the plant, gave it sunlight, and took care of it and it bloomed once a year. But she faithfully took care of it year after year, even when it didn't always bloom, because it reminded her of Leon and seasons when life just is anything but fair. She said I think you need one. I disagreed but took the cactus sat it in my window in my classroom and watered it once a week. The first year, I didn't put much effort or thought into caring for it, it was somewhat of an after thought. Except with every passing year, it kind of became a challenge to see if I could make sure it bloomed every year because at the time the one my grandmother had stopped blooming. In recent years, I have learned why - sunlight and darkness are important, balance. Over the years, I would show her pictures of it blooming and it was something joyous for us to share and connect over. Then came some years, where I had to remind her that she gave it to me and so the breaths were held a little tighter as the season approached for it to bloom.
But you can't game plan for someone you love to have Alzheimer's. You hear about it all the time, TV shows and movies, commercials, you name it and it's predominant. The word Alzheimer's is but the reality of it is all of those situations lightly glaze over the actual reality of it. What was hard 3 or 4 years ago, are things I would take in a heart beat currently. The right now is the easiest it's going to be this side of Heaven. So 2019 for me was about being present but also "flipping the script". How could I change my negative thoughts and/or feelings about everything but specifically Alzheimer's and losing her in every single way while she's still here. How can I separate my love and memory of her and the disease? it mirrors in education (and parenting), separating the behavior from the child. Through it all, my early childhood background really has made me better for Hazel. My background in child development has helped me understand where she's at, in reverse order of what I am working with in the classroom. Teaching and my littles have blessed me with an outlet that allowed me to sift through the emotions, experience them, and pour into something I loved. It's reminded me a million times over to be gentle with Hazel as she experiences loss of her own, to try and take her perspective, and just meet her where she is, regardless of the decade.
January was long, so long, we joked about it. February had 29 days this year and it still was not enough and March was a thief. On March 10th, I drove to OKC to "eat" dinner with Hazel. When I left, I hugged her goodbye told her I would see her in a couple of days and I would paint her nails for her. I have this habit of taking a picture with her or of her because there's this underlying fear that every time is the last time. I took a picture with her and my hair was a mess and she roasted me for it. It made me laugh then and I can still find joy in it, now 40+ days later. I could have told her I was still adjusting to the time change, there was a full moon, I was juggling student led conference prep. 24 hours later, on my youngest nephew's birthday, NBA cancelled basketball and another 24 hours later, visitation was cut off because of COVID-19. At the time, I was sad but thought okay, at the latest, it's a precaution for a few weeks. Except here we almost eight weeks later AND... there isn't an end in sight, and if you know me, even slightly, you know that's the hardest part. Give me dates, deadlines, and I'll make you a schedule and a to do list.
"All you need is love is a lie 'cause
We had love but we still said goodbye"
And just like you can't plan to love someone with Alzheimer's, you can't really game plan when life takes away your biggest outlet for managing and dealing with grief. But here we are, Spring Break and a 2 week school closure later, I started teaching Kindergarten virtually four weeks ago. I woke up nervous and excited like it was the first day of school but also exceeding sad because as hard as I, or any other educator, try the work through a screen, no matter the device, the app, or the content - it just is not the same. I absolutely HATE it. It isn't going to be the same and that has to be okay, except it isn't okay.
The Thursday before Spring Break, our last day together in room 29, one of my littles got mad at me when I asked them to take a break. I cannot remember what they did and the initial cause of me telling them to take a break but I remember the little being upset and telling me, "I am mad at you" and as the whole class watched, "I said, it's okay for you to be mad at me". And for outsiders looking in this seems so trivial but it haunts me because we ALL needed one more quarter together.
As I think about all the things my littles will miss, the ones that I can name, I also find myself grieving all the unknowns, simple things like Summer birthdays. I have had a June baby ask me all year when we would celebrate Summer birthdays and I said in May. The thing is I made promises that I can't make good on and that hurts. It hurts for me because I know what it was going to look like in many ways but I am devastated for the little ones who never will get to experience the last quarter with me and with each other. The morning meetings we will miss, the recess duties, hatching chicks {that are currently hatching in my kitchen}, the end of the year countdown with pancakes, pajamas, tie dye and tacos.
I think what I am going to miss the most though, are the unknowns, the things that we water and weeded for those first three nine weeks together. The take a breaks taken without question, the problem solving, the friendships, a classroom that runs at ease because of the 100+ days together. I can't tell you what our number of the day was when we left on March 13th and it's a detail I didn't pay that close of attention to - for a number of reasons - but it haunts me that I don't know it and I can't name it but I never knew it was going to be our last.
At the absolute heart of this - virtual learning cannot replicate the classroom. Am I surprised by that? Not at all. But here I am in this situation that is so uncomfortably hard that I did not choose and am faced with decisions I get to make in response to it and maybe that's proof that you can find peace, even in the middle of a life sized game of Hide and Go Seek.
Early on, I was having a conversation with my brother about Alzheimer's and beliefs about it in terms of relationships. Some people believe "oh, they won't remember" and that's the very real reality of the disease but I forever want to be on the side that says, "they might not remember, but I will." So ultimately, how do I respond when things are not even close to going my way?
Last week, a former student who I had in Kindergarten said to me, "I just hate this" and without a thought I said, "me too".
This season reminds me of another Hazel story. She crocheted for years and when I was little, she would make me sit at the bottom of her rocking chair and untangle the yarn when it was knotted. I disliked it, whether it was boring or I was not patient enough, or a mixture of both. The memory was packed way back in the years. December, we were making these ornaments {with some of her green yarn} and a couple children got theirs tangled and just like that the memory came crashing back about not pulling too hard because the yarn will split.
And then on one of my biweekly visits on the same week, Hazel brings out this bundle of yarn hands me the tangle and says help me get this knot out.
Whatever the comparison, the cactus or the yarn, Alzheimer's has taught me that a season can be full of discomfort and dislike and filled with joy, blessings, and even peace.
We share the sadness, split screen sadness"
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