I've thought a lot about yesterday's post. Someone who didn't know me might think I don't like my students or that I resent them. I don't. I neither dislike nor resent my students. I just have such an overwhelming feeling of guilt right now because of all the time I spend each day focusing on "pebbles" and "sand."
Yesterday, I received approval to take an additional three weeks of Family Medical Leave to help my Mom and Dad in whatever way they need right now. This may not seem all that groundbreaking, but for me this represents a sea-change.
You see, my wife and I had both of our daughters before I finished school. That meant I did not get to use FML after their birth to help my wife and provide care for my daughters.
For years, I would watch other, younger teachers take off six weeks of work starting with the birth of a child. I mocked them. I ridiculed them. I accused them of taking a long vacation while the rest of us had to work. I saved special derision for those who managed to finagle a birth to land right after Christmas break ended. That meant they not only got Christmas, but they also did not have to endure the endless stretch from January until Spring Break. All of these horrible thoughts happened only in my head, but I thought them.
How easily we can fall into the trap of not trying to understand the individual decisions that lead people to take FML. As a jaded "veteran" parent, I had forgotten how terrifying it feels when the hospital actually allows that tiny baby to leave the hospital with Mom and Dad. Thinking back now, I remember telling my wife, "Don't they know that we do not know what we are doing?!?" Apparently, they did, because they let me wheel my wife through the doors, baby carrier in tow, and venture out into our new life together. Years later I know that, for the most part, babies won't break. But in those first weeks after childbirth, how overwhelming can it feel as you and your spouse "figure it out" together?
So, here's my official apology:
To Tim, Pauls, Brad, Travis, Chris, John, Andy, Brian, and so many others:
I'm so sorry for judging you without thinking about your individual situations and appreciating the circumstances that led you to take FML. I know that you didn't take off to fish, hunt, golf, backpack, travel, or "veg."
Deep down, I knew this then, but more than likely jealousy at my own bad timing led me to hold these men in such low regard. Today, I understand this more than ever because I can imagine the comments people make about my absence in the staff lounge, in the classroom, or in the parking lot.
Now that my Mom's cancer is Cancer, I have taken FML to help care for my Mom. Back in October, I missed a week of work after my Mom fell ill after learning that doctors could not treat her Cancer anymore. I returned for a single day, and some students and most staff empathized with my situation.
Some students, though, approached me and asked me how I enjoyed my week off. I remember feeling so angry at them for that. After the week I had experienced, how dare they think I took a week "off?" Looking back with some fresh perspective, how will some 17 and 18-year-old kids respond to a situation like that? Do all students even have the capacity to empathize or sympathize? Maybe some of them felt I had managed to get a week's vacation in the middle of the semester. The point is, just like I didn't understand my younger colleagues earlier in my career, some of my students could not understand my situation.
That Monday night I received word that doctors had admitted my Mom to the hospital, so I rushed down to see her. When my Dad and younger sister told me that the doctors felt she would die without immediate hospitalization, I just fell apart. I didn't wail or cry - I just ceased to function. I could only "feel" fear that my Mom might die that night. I needed more time. I needed to apologize for my pettiness at some perceived slight or injustice. I needed to squeeze in all of the missed visits (intended and unintended) into that night. Here's a secret: when you know your Mom could die right then, nothing else matters. Not work. Not bills. Not toys. Not even yourself.
I missed two more days of work when my principal, Dr Ann Schultz, talked to me on the phone and snapped me out of my funk. She didn't give me a long lecture. She said, "Jeff, have you considered taking FML?"
Then I balked, trying to tell Ann that I needed to be at work for my students.
She stopped me cold when she said, "Jeff, you only have one Mom. You only have one chance to be there for her like this."
Again, I paused. Ann's next words sliced through me like a razor: "I know what I would do if it were my Mom."
That's when it hit me. THIS is why advocates pushed so hard to get the Family Medical Leave Act passed. So people like me wouldn't have to worry and think about their job, about the "pebbles" in their life. Instead, they could focus on the "golf balls," especially on those occasions where nothing else matters.
Now that my Mom's cancer is Cancer, I understand why we have to put the golf balls into the jar first. If only I had figured that out earlier. Because now that my Mom's cancer is Cancer, I have so much to do but so little time.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Spending more time on other people's kids...than on my own children
Mom's fight against Cancer has caused me to reflect on the approach I have taken to balance my working life with my personal life. In a nutshell? I have failed my family. When I think of how many "firsts" I missed because I put other people's children before my own, I experience much more than a mere "twinge" of regret.
For the first five years of my teaching career, I also served as assistant forensic's coach for a legendary teacher. He had championship teams because he dedicated his life and time to kids - and he expected the same amount of time from his assistant coaches. At the end of five years, I had helped coach state champions and added to the sterling reputation of my school's forensics team. I even have a "replica" of the state champions plaque from my final year as a coach hanging in my classroom.
What did my two daughters and my wife and my own parents get from this effort? Dad absent from dinner so we could have extended rehearsals in preparation for competitions. Dad absent from sledding so we could have "January Thaw" and prep for the upcoming season. Dad absent from recitals so he could travel to all-day forensics tournaments in in Algoma, Ripon, Stevens Point, and Winneconne. Dad absent from a concert so he could attend the end-of-season forensic's banquet. Son absent from a weekend Badger game or fishing trip so he could coach other people's children to victory.
I love teaching. In fact, I tell friends, family, and students that I do not have a "job" because I love teaching so much. As I reflect on all of the opportunities that I passed up to spend time with my own family, whether my Mom and Dad or my own children, I feel so guilty about the amount of time I have committed to other people's children at the expense of my own family.
I read a "story" recently that someone had shared through Facebook. For those of you without an account, here is that story about a lecture about life given by a philosophy professor. For much of 18 years, I have focused almost exclusively on the "pebbles" and the "sand" of life. I always thought there would be time for the "golf balls" of life, but like too many other people, I put the pebbles and sand in my mayonnaise jar, leaving not enough room for the important stuff: family, health, friends, and a feeling of well-being.
Balance. Remember that word.
Now that my Mom's cancer is Cancer, I realize, too late, that "If everything else was lost and only they remained, [my] life would still be full." I cannot get back missed time with my Mom and my family - make sure you don't miss that time in the first place.
For the first five years of my teaching career, I also served as assistant forensic's coach for a legendary teacher. He had championship teams because he dedicated his life and time to kids - and he expected the same amount of time from his assistant coaches. At the end of five years, I had helped coach state champions and added to the sterling reputation of my school's forensics team. I even have a "replica" of the state champions plaque from my final year as a coach hanging in my classroom.
What did my two daughters and my wife and my own parents get from this effort? Dad absent from dinner so we could have extended rehearsals in preparation for competitions. Dad absent from sledding so we could have "January Thaw" and prep for the upcoming season. Dad absent from recitals so he could travel to all-day forensics tournaments in in Algoma, Ripon, Stevens Point, and Winneconne. Dad absent from a concert so he could attend the end-of-season forensic's banquet. Son absent from a weekend Badger game or fishing trip so he could coach other people's children to victory.
I love teaching. In fact, I tell friends, family, and students that I do not have a "job" because I love teaching so much. As I reflect on all of the opportunities that I passed up to spend time with my own family, whether my Mom and Dad or my own children, I feel so guilty about the amount of time I have committed to other people's children at the expense of my own family.
I read a "story" recently that someone had shared through Facebook. For those of you without an account, here is that story about a lecture about life given by a philosophy professor. For much of 18 years, I have focused almost exclusively on the "pebbles" and the "sand" of life. I always thought there would be time for the "golf balls" of life, but like too many other people, I put the pebbles and sand in my mayonnaise jar, leaving not enough room for the important stuff: family, health, friends, and a feeling of well-being.
Balance. Remember that word.
Now that my Mom's cancer is Cancer, I realize, too late, that "If everything else was lost and only they remained, [my] life would still be full." I cannot get back missed time with my Mom and my family - make sure you don't miss that time in the first place.
My Mom's cancer is Cancer...
"Cancer sucks!" What a great tag line or slogan for organizations trying to raise money for cancer research. On October 24, 2012, I finally understood the real meaning of "Cancer sucks."
Cancer sucks because as I drove along Wisconsin Highway 23 on my way to La Crosse for a graduate class, I called home to check in with my Mom like I always do when driving cross-state. My Mom had had a PET scan earlier in the week to verify the success of her recently-completed chemotherapy. Normally, my Dad calls right away with the results, but he didn't call, so I thought I could talk to my Mom and get the results at the same time. When he answered, I immediately heard the catch in his voice.
Cancer sucks because before I could even ask any questions, Dad handed the phone to my mom who, using all of her training as a cancer registrar, coldly and clinically explained to me that even though she had undergone chemotherapy for four months, new cancer had appeared in her lung and near her belly button. Since the last round of chemotherapy had nearly killed her (possibly triggering a mid-summer stroke), the doctors could not treat her new cancer.
[When Mom first called in June, with news of her diagnosis, she made it seem like a small hurdle to "leap." I trusted her experience as a cancer registrar, so when she said she had a life expectancy of 6-12 months, and if the treatment went well she had a 20% chance of lasting five years, I know she knew the narrow odds. Six-to-twelve months. That's what Mom said. What did I hear? "Five years." My wife has always accused me of having selective hearing. Guilty. And in that moment, the only words I wanted to hear from her were "Five years."]
Cancer sucks because it leaves my mom crying on the phone begging my forgiveness because she had smoked all her life and couldn't stop, even when her own mother died of emphysema in 1999.
Cancer sucks because it drains the strength from my Dad, who works so hard every day to help my Mom function. He looks so haggard and worn right now.
Cancer sucks because it fills me with regret for all the opportunities I passed up to visit Mom and Dad, so I could instead grade student papers or attend education conferences, or worse - just sit at home and "recharge."
Cancer sucks because it reminds me (almost too late) that I am a man, a husband, a father...and a son. And, as a son, all I can do at this point is give my parents what I never could give them before - time.
I have never felt as exhausted, stressed out, or helpless as I have during these last few weeks of FMLA time. And now that Mom's cancer is Cancer, I finally know what matters in life. Tired is temporary.
Cancer sucks......because it sucks.
Cancer sucks because as I drove along Wisconsin Highway 23 on my way to La Crosse for a graduate class, I called home to check in with my Mom like I always do when driving cross-state. My Mom had had a PET scan earlier in the week to verify the success of her recently-completed chemotherapy. Normally, my Dad calls right away with the results, but he didn't call, so I thought I could talk to my Mom and get the results at the same time. When he answered, I immediately heard the catch in his voice.
Cancer sucks because before I could even ask any questions, Dad handed the phone to my mom who, using all of her training as a cancer registrar, coldly and clinically explained to me that even though she had undergone chemotherapy for four months, new cancer had appeared in her lung and near her belly button. Since the last round of chemotherapy had nearly killed her (possibly triggering a mid-summer stroke), the doctors could not treat her new cancer.
[When Mom first called in June, with news of her diagnosis, she made it seem like a small hurdle to "leap." I trusted her experience as a cancer registrar, so when she said she had a life expectancy of 6-12 months, and if the treatment went well she had a 20% chance of lasting five years, I know she knew the narrow odds. Six-to-twelve months. That's what Mom said. What did I hear? "Five years." My wife has always accused me of having selective hearing. Guilty. And in that moment, the only words I wanted to hear from her were "Five years."]
Cancer sucks because it leaves my mom crying on the phone begging my forgiveness because she had smoked all her life and couldn't stop, even when her own mother died of emphysema in 1999.
Cancer sucks because it drains the strength from my Dad, who works so hard every day to help my Mom function. He looks so haggard and worn right now.
Cancer sucks because it fills me with regret for all the opportunities I passed up to visit Mom and Dad, so I could instead grade student papers or attend education conferences, or worse - just sit at home and "recharge."
Cancer sucks because it reminds me (almost too late) that I am a man, a husband, a father...and a son. And, as a son, all I can do at this point is give my parents what I never could give them before - time.
I have never felt as exhausted, stressed out, or helpless as I have during these last few weeks of FMLA time. And now that Mom's cancer is Cancer, I finally know what matters in life. Tired is temporary.
Cancer sucks......because it sucks.
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