During my lunch break today I did some reminiscing, stood outside of the office and read the names on a plaque. Three of the names on the wall I had taught. Five of the names on the wall I had gone to school with. One was mine. There were only two names on that plaque I didn’t know. Every year at Central I tell the same story. Early in the semester we cover the Autobiography of Ben Franklin and in the lesson I dip into my own biography.
I was sitting in Mrs. Seaton’s chemistry class. She had a tough reputation, gave me one of my first B’s, didn’t make exceptions and had a set of rules that helped her run an efficient classroom. I was balancing a chemical equation on our chemistry test when the phone rang.
“She’s in here, but we’re taking a test.” She listened. She looked me in the eye.
“Oh, I see. I’ll send her right down.” She looked down at her papers, put the phone up, looked back at me.
“Darcy, bring your test to me and head to the office.”
I did as she said without interrupting the testing atmosphere by asking a question. She smiled at me when I put the test on the table; her eyes told me she wasn’t angry, her lips told me something was wrong. I walked out and closed the door behind me. The empty hallway echoed my three steps. My heart burned and my brow furrowed. I swallowed as my throat went dry. I don’t know if I thought it or heard it, but very distinct words went through my head: “Darcy, your brother is dead.” I shook my head to clear it, said aloud “No, that’s not right.” My heart knew it though, and I couldn’t make myself take that next step. I dug my fingernails into my palm trying to build the courage, finally walking to the water fountain to clear my head. The rest of the walk to that office is a stoic memory, one blur of unfeeling mistiness.
When I walked into the office both my parents stood next to each other.
My father’s voice was husky. “Darcy, your mother has something she wants to tell you.”
The response I gave him wasn’t the most compassionate, I certainly didn’t plan to say it; the words escaped my lips before I even thought them. “I know.”
And I did. My mother didn’t have to tell me. My brother was dead.
My mother said something, something I can’t remember. I said something back, calmly. The conversation is muted in my mind, not a word of it important, not a word of it I really felt. Mr. Vaughn asked the three of us if we wanted to use his office. I remember sitting in that chair, the rigid feeling of plastic hitting right below my shoulder blades. When the weight left my legs, as soon as I felt the bottom of that seat, it was then that I cried. Cried isn’t the word for it. I wailed, lamented. Everyone in that office heard me cry. I’m not a loud crier; I haven’t done it since, at least not in public like that.
***
That morning I had stood at the edge of the stairs, backpack on, keys in my hand. I stopped, looked over at my brother resting on the floor. I waited. His back rose slowly and heavily, and descended; he had taken breath. I remember so vividly watching him take the last breath I would ever see him take. I walked out the door.
He had been sick that week, a common cold. My brother had been sick a lot. He had spent the first three years of his life in a hospital. He was born with myotonic dystrophy, a rare genetic disease of muscle atrophy. They said he would live to get out of the hospital, live past three, past eight, past twelve. He was thirteen.
***
Every year I’ve told my classes that story, explain to them how hard it was for me to be 16, how much my life shook, how my passions changed, how it was difficult to make things matter in the same way. Every year I tell them I read Ben Franklin’s autobiography excerpt shortly after, that I tried to use the text to regain a grip on my life when it seemed out of control. I’m pretty good about feeling in control of my life. I’ve never cried when telling my students this story – until this year.
***
My last class to share the story with – I struggle with them sometimes, a small class of eleven. Some of them need glasses and refuse to wear them, some of them are dyslexic, some of them read at a grade school level. They love to talk, have almost used up the majority of their bathroom passes already… one of them has already dropped out, second week of school. For some reason I feel compelled to tell them more than the rest, not just to tell them the bad thing that happened to me and how I persevered through it, but to let them actually hear words that admitted weakness. When I first told them my brother died one of them asked “was that your only sibling?”
I told her it was. She said “I’d need counseling after that. You’re strong.”
I pushed it off with a joke, told I probably did need counseling, to ask my husband about it. Truth was, I know I need something. I know something inside of me is broken, I know some cord is snapped. It wasn’t fair for her to think me strong, I’m not.
Two of the girls, the two that always seem to have their cell phones and the latest gossip; they cried. First time I’ve had a student do that, much less two of them. They kept the box of tissues right next to them, went through half of it. Maybe that softened me up…
I told them about that plaque on the wall, the one with my name on it. Told them how it was a peer voted award to be the most representative senior female, told them how my peers carried me through some difficult times. Then I admitted the contrast. I felt so lost after my junior year. I had trouble relating to others, couldn’t put my heart into my sports the same way, let my grades slip. I told them I cut lunch. No, not the worst thing I had ever done, but I needed to admit it. I cut lunch to go to the park, sit in the swings where I had sat next to Dustin. I cut lunch to cry. That’s what I remember the most about my social life my junior year – I wanted to be alone because no one else understood and I just needed a safe place to let it out so I could pretend in public it didn’t hurt me.
***
I’ve been called a perfectionist once or twice in my life. In high school I wasn’t, I was sloppy, disorganized, more in it for the experience than the results. I fight it now, but I know part of me is. The way I escaped reeling in pain from the loss of my brother was to succeed at everything I could after that. My junior year I went numb. After that wore off, I went with full effort at everything I did that I saw worth doing. When I was young my self definition probably started with “I have a handicapped brother and I love him very much.” I didn’t have that any more. I had to define myself. People had always been nice to my family, given us extra opportunities because of our terminally ill family member. Everyone would smile at me when I pushed behind my brother’s wheel chair, even in Wal-Mart check out lines. I enjoyed and expected people to look at me and smile in a friendly way. I’ve been chasing that feeling for awhile, trying to build the type of character and reputation that make people smile at you when they see you. I have high standards, high expectations, and I work hard. I’m coming to realize that a part of the reason I do that is to try to feel special like the nice sister of the cute handicapped boy that everyone smiles at when they see.
I’m a perfectionist and I’m a pleaser and I try to escape negative emotions by chasing success. It took teaching a kid who lost his own brother to make me realize that about myself. He was the same way – succeed at what you do and you don’t have to admit you hurt. It’s a hard way to be…
I stood in front of that plaque and marveled at myself. That was my proudest accomplishment through high school, that award. You might even be able to say I defined myself by it for awhile. I really try not to be arrogant, but part of that award made me think I should be the things my classmates thought I was, that I was meant to be those things, perhaps even that I had to be those things. I marveled at myself because I built my whole college career on that feeling – succeed at what you do and you don’t have to admit you hurt. I marveled at myself because I realized for the first time that chasing success and achievement and reputation had become my safe haven, my false refuge. That feeling might have put a lot of stress in my life, left a lot of less pleasant emotions to linger under the surface. I’m 24. I want to start my own family one day soon. I need to stop defining myself through achievement and running from the uncomfortable emotions through diving into hard work. I need to let myself feel those uncomfortable things I avoid by trying to stay too busy. I owe to my family to not be constantly running from something I don’t want to admit to feeling. I didn’t say those words to my class today, but today I admitted to myself.
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