Believe in me

My mother has died. Such a short sentence to compile so many emotions. Last Monday was as normal as any Monday goes for a school principal. Arrived at school at 6:15am, walked the building to check on any weekend fun that may have happened in the building, worked on a parent newsletter before car duty at 7:15am. I ate breakfast with late arrival students and discussed a situation with my assistant principal. Then I received a phone call. My sister. She said that my father had found my mother unresponsive and she was on the way to the ER. She would call later. I did two classroom observations. I spoke with some teachers about some situations. I wrote a memo. I answered some more emails. I went to the high school for an IGP meeting. The entire time I had my phone in my hand-and if you know me- this is unusual. I hate cell phones. I loathe the idea of always being connected. My sister called around 12 to say my mom had an infection and because of her transplant surgery in September they would be transporting her to MUSC in an effort to treat her properly. She sounded positive. My day got a little better. After school I was in a meeting when my sister called again. Mom took a turn downhill.

Yet, I was still not overly concerned. You see my mother has been in the hospital a lot. She has been sick a lot. But my mother ALWAYS got better. She ALWAYS came home. I called my aunt. She had been with my mother. She told me that my mother was sick and looked bad but she was going to be okay. She was worried about my Dad.  As I’ve done more times than I can count, I left Spartanburg within thirty minutes. I was in Charleston at 7:30pm.  I arrived in the waiting room and found my Dad without looking up and with a voice so fragile and shaky I worried he would break, he said, “We need a miracle.” This infection had quickly turned septic, meaning the infection was in her blood stream. She was in a coma by the time I arrived in Charleston. At 2:30am the doctors came and told my Dad and I to tell my mother goodbye. We called my sister and brother. I begged my mother to hold on so that my siblings could arrive. As any great mother, she did just that. Watching my father say goodbye to his bride of 48 years was hard, watching my sister and brother say goodbye was harder. Yet, holding my mother’s hand as she left our world on Tuesday morning was the most peaceful feeling I have ever experienced.

My mother is the reason I am an educator. She was not an educator. That would have been a terrible failure. She could never be tough. She could never handle the heartache involved in being a educator to students who face struggles academically, socially, parentally, or economically. She could have never managed a classroom. She could never tell a child no. It is okay, I am not talking about my incredible mom. Not everyone should be an educator. I am an educator because she valued education. I am an educator because every day she believed in me. When Mrs. Sprott complained about my handwriting, she told me the curly que on the letter M was beautiful. When I could not understand geometry, she got herself a tutor so she could teach me. When it was discovered that reading was difficult for me in 3^rd grade, she spent two days in my class to learn how my teacher taught so she could do the same with me at home. Not a day went by that she was not giving me encouragement, whether it was learning to read, applying for college scholarships, or trying to finish my doctorate degree. Every person needs a cheerleader. Every person deserves for someone to believe in them. I became an educator because my mother made me feel that I could do anything and I wanted other children to feel the same way.

My family elected me to give the eulogy at my mother’s services. I spent some time alone Friday writing down my thoughts. I was so nervous that I would not say the right words. I was worried that I would not make sense or my stories would get the “you had to be there” reaction. I feared that I would say too much or not enough. I instinctively picked up my cell to get some reassurance from---my Mom. As I scrolled through my contacts, it hit me when I saw her name on my screen. She certainly was not going to answer or it was going to be interesting if she had. No matter my level of success , no matter my failures, no matter how many times I had disappointed her, gone against her advice, or failed to listen, she was the one person who always believed in me. And she was gone. This is a tough statement to write. But this is why I am an educator. She believed in me and in turn I believe in others—no matter how many times they soar and it looks like they don’t need me or how many times they disappoint and need my encouragement.  I was lucky to have that for 44 years. Should not each student in your class have it for at least 180 days?