The kids won the Advisory door contest, and they were just treated to a bagel breakfast.  Our door boasted the subject of Empathy, which is the E in our R.E.A.C.H. acronym that awarded us our School of Character recognition.  The Tinman from The Wizard of Oz sits proudly on our door, welcoming all to “share their heart.” 

The cafeteria was bustling with the 6th grade door winners, the 7th grade door winners, and our 8th grade door winners.  One 7th grader was sitting by himself, so another teacher and I went to spend some time with him.  Though the student wasn’t interested in chatting with us, I think he did take comfort in the company.  The other teacher and I, however, yucked it up plenty.  

Nancy is a retired teacher who came back to long-term sub.  A lifelong resident of Denville, her entire family basically lives on her street in the Cedar Lake community.  She has her parents, who are in their late 80s and still super active, her brother, one of her daughters, and her niece, all within walking distance.  Her other daughter lives in Savannah, and she is expecting her third child in as many years.

Nancy is divorced, but she does have a new boyfriend.  She has about 6 years on me, and she, too, is very active.  An avid skier, she is fastidious in everything she does.  Though an acquired taste, she has all kids’ best interests at heart.

I’m jealous of her family.  I’m jealous that everybody is right here.  I’m jealous that she has a family.  I’m jealous that she has her children and her grandchildren in her life.  (As I write this, I become hyper aware that everybody has their children and grandchildren in their lives).  My situation is one in a million, and, as everybody around me right now is watching their family expand, I have no family.  Yes, I am blessed with friends whom I call family, but they’re not family.  

The days become more difficult, but they’re at least filled with the melodious tones of middle school children finding their way in the world.  They’re asking questions on the collected achievements of the human race, especially my Gifted and Talented kids, and they’re hanging on my every word.  They’re laughing at my jokes, absorbing my energy, and, unbeknownst to them, helping me draw breath.  

The nights are unbearable, especially when I’m alone.  If I’m not on the phone or texting with Bob, nobody calls or texts.  I know that if I send an SOS, people would come, but I don’t like to bother anybody.  Instead, I’ll do my schoolwork, watch General Hospital, pop a xanax, and somehow sleep until the alarm goes off.  

I wake up and wonder how I got here, how my entire family abandoned me, how I’ll go on.  At 57, my thoughts sometimes leave me puzzled and confused about what will happen to me when I get older.  Who will be here to take care of me if I can’t take care of myself?  

I want to tell my story, from the sick baby that I was to the rejected adult I now am.  I want to share my rape, my abortions, the nicknames that still taunt me, my PTSD, my divorce details.  I want to share the gaslighting, but I don’t.  I don’t because I don’t want my kids to be hurt, and I don’t because I need and love my job.  The perks of teaching are countless, but there are some downsides, one of which is being so vulnerable to exposure.  

And so, I’ll sit here smiling, somehow trying to believe, as Anne Frank said, that “people are really good at heart.”  I’ll put positive energy out into the universe, and I’ll wait patiently for answers.  Bob says life is a marathon and not a sprint, so I’ll stay the course and pray there is a grandchild waiting for me at the finish line.