I am returning to work tomorrow. Students don’t come back until next Tuesday, but teachers
report tomorrow. The first few
days are always spent in meetings and in-services, so there is usually nothing
to be worried about. This year,
I’m pretty anxious about going back to school. I think I have pretty good reasons. I am still having an impossible time
focusing and concentrating, I’m teaching a new grade level that I have
absolutely no experience with, and I’m obviously still riding an emotional
roller coaster. I never know how
I’ll react to anything, which is not a good trait for a teacher to have. The only “known” about this school year
is that it will be incredibly difficult for me. I was part of a huge baby boom among my co-workers, so I
know there will be pictures, milestones, funny stories, and visits galore. I also know that I won’t be sharing any
of Max’s with my co-workers. I do,
however, have a great support system at work. I work with my best friend in the world and several other
very close friends. These people
have been at my house every day over the summer, taken me to lunch and dinner,
and brought me incredibly thoughtful trinkets and mementos. I always knew that our staff was
special, but the love and support that my family has received after Max’s death
really gives me indisputable evidence of that. Still, my co-workers are human. I know that some of them will hear the news of Max’s death
tomorrow morning for the first time, and I might get a few of their raw
reactions. I also know that many
of them will have no idea how to treat me. I get that. I
anticipate a lot of eyes staring my way during the all-faculty meeting in the
afternoon. Some of them will look
away when I make eye contact, some will make funny faces to make me laugh, and
some of them will give me that half smile that says, “I’m so sorry.” All of these reactions are normal. I just don’t know how I’ll react to
them. That’s what scares me and
makes me anxious.
I
do have a few suggestions for my co-workers, though. There really isn’t such a thing as etiquette in a situation
like mine; there are no rules whatsoever.
There are, however, tactful and meaningful ways of approaching me. There are also classless, insensitive
ways of doing it. I don’t expect
many of the latter, if any. Like I
said, my co-workers are pretty darn awesome. If you aren’t sure, though, here are some ideas:
1. Don’t ask me how my
summer was, unless you are ready for the truth. Teachers ask this questions 8,000 times on their first day
back at work. I feel really badly
for the person who lets this one slip with me not because of how it will make
me feel, but because of how it will make him/her feel. I promise that I won’t hold it against
you, but I also promise that you’ll probably never forgive yourself for asking
it. I know it’s only natural.
2. Don’t
avoid me. If you would
normally talk to me, then talk to me.
My son died, yes, but my personality didn’t. I can still joke around, keep up with most small talk, and
answer basic inquiries.
3.
Please don’t avoid saying Max’s name. Like I said before, I will never hear a more perfect name
than Max McFall. Most of the time,
I’m okay talking about him too. I
realize that you think there might not be a way to work his name into a
conversation, but it’s okay if you tell me that you are so sorry that Max is
gone. Or that Max was a beautiful
baby, or that Max sounded like a really special part of my life. I would never, ever cringe at hearing
those things. I’ll actually
probably smile. And if I cry,
don’t worry about it. I’m not
ashamed of my love for him and how sad it makes me feel to not have him here
any more, so you shouldn’t be either.
4.
Allow me to talk about Max.
I know that you might involuntarily tense up when I mention his name,
but take the cue from me. If I
bring him up, then it’s definitely okay.
The best thing that Nicole does is to keep asking me questions when I
bring up a memory. When I told her
the nicknames that I had for him, she kept asking me what else I called him,
what else I remembered, etc. I
love her for that.
5.
Share your memories of Max with me (if you were privileged enough to
meet him anyway). It’s funny
how parents forget little things.
One of my best friends, Casey, spoke at Max’s funeral. She recalled being at my house during
Max’s first bath and how I had looked into his eyes and said, “He is
beautiful. He is seriously
beautiful.” I hadn’t remembered
saying that, but it’s a memory that I’ll treasure forever thanks to her. My friend Drew also told me that he
thought that Max looked like a little British rock star. The fifth Beatle maybe. He also told me how lucky he felt to
have met Max and seen how special he was.
I can’t tell you how much I love hearing things like that.
6.
Avoid saying offensive things.
These include: at least he
wasn’t older, at least it wasn’t Ethan, he’s in a better place, etc. Does a parent’s love start as nothing
and get stronger only as a child gets older? Do you love your 18-year-old more than your
13-year-old? I think not. And losing a child isn’t easier when
the child is younger. I’m
obviously glad that Ethan is alive and well, but Max should be too. And there is no “better place” for a
baby to be than with his loving, nurturing, protective parents and big
brother. You might be surprised;
you might not, but we’ve heard all of these things.
I’ll
finish by saying that I really do understand that people don’t exactly know
what to do when they see me. I
wouldn’t either. I gave one of my
friends that same half-smile full of pity when she came back to work after
suffering her own tragic loss. I
feel horrible for that now. The
least I could have done was to suck up my pride and tell her how genuinely
sorry I was and how much my heart was breaking for her. No one has the perfect words or the
perfect actions because they don’t exist.
A simple “I’m sorry” goes a long way for me right now though.
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