Friday Mourning

Have you ever seen a heart at the moment it breaks?

I have.

On Friday morning, I saw twenty-five little seventh grade hearts break simultaneously. I stood in their classroom and watched their faces as our principal delivered the news that their beloved teacher had passed away the night before. Every teacher with a first-hour class had the wrenching task of delivering this news.

Some kids started to cry right away.

Some hid their faces in their coats and sweatshirts, or put their heads down on their desks.

Some had questions but couldn't make the words come out.

Some were simply blank. Blank faces, blank eyes, blank minds.

I don't even know what Jon said after that because, quite frankly, I wasn't listening anymore. Most of it was lost in that horrible halting voice that happens when you're trying to keep it together. I was still one of the blank ones, and I had already had an hour to begin digesting the news - Abbey Czarniecki, one of our science teachers for 7th and 8th grade, died very suddenly late on Thursday night because of an undiagnosed malignant brain tumor. I'm fuzzy on the details, and at this point I don't want to ask. Let's just say that this was never in anyone's realm of possibility.

The starkest moment of our new reality came between first and second hours, when the kids were moving from one class to another. The silence was terrifying. Anyone who has spent any amount of time in a middle school will know just how loud students can get. Screaming, screeching, slamming, yelling, cackling, and crashing are routine sounds. On Friday, few were talking. Few were laughing. Few were looking somewhere other than at the ground or at the person ahead of them. It was so out of the ordinary as to be deeply upsetting.

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As a school counselor intern at Wyoming Junior HS this year, I find myself in a unique position. I am only required to log 20-25 hours per week at the school in order to keep up with the total number of hours I have to complete by the end of the year. However, I've been working more or less full-time since the school year started. At first, I told people that it was because I wanted to get the full effect of working full-time as a counselor and to get ahead on hours in case I got really sick and missed a week or something.

But you know what? I'm beginning to think that there was a different reason for me to be there every day.

I am part of the Wyoming community this year. I am a fairly permanent fixture in the counseling office. The kids see me every day and know what I do there and they know where to find me if they need me. They know that I keep regular hours and that I can be depended upon to be available for them.

If I had put in only the minimum number of hours each work and chosen to work another part-time job, I wouldn't have nearly the understanding and love for this community that I have now.

I wouldn't know which teachers have been most torn apart by Abbey's death.
I wouldn't know which students have been hit hardest by their first close-up experience with death.
I wouldn't understand the effect of losing a colleague with whom you have worked for a decade and a half, as many of the WJHS staff are experiencing this weekend.
I wouldn't know which students were her basketball players, kids who have lost a coach in addition to a teacher.
Most of all, I wouldn't be tapped in so deeply to the communal grief taking place this weekend.

My individual grief is shallow - I didn't know Abbey beyond her roles as science teacher and coach. This weekend, other little tidbits have surfaced, isolated memories I have of Abbey, like the time she asked if I could switch a student out of her 3rd hour because he was driving her bonkers in exchange for a student that was driving another teacher bonkers. Or the time when I was first introduced to her and she told me that I had a picked a wacky place to work but I would come to love it in no time. (She was right, by the way).

These are small, almost inconsequential memories, and they are what I have.

For me, the communal grief is far more painful, like the moments when you have to see other people in pain. It's really hard to watch co-workers grieve, especially the ones I've had the most contact with and know better than I know others. It's really hard to watch them struck by a memory or a feeling or an image, something that only they can see, and then watch them try to keep their composure.

It's nearly impossible to watch my students grieve because I don't want them to have to know this feeling so early in their lives. They are not equipped yet to handle conflicting emotions - sadness over never seeing her again, fear that it could happen to anyone else, relief that she didn't suffer for very long, guilt about not saying hi to her in the hallway the day before, or about not feeling sad the way everyone else seems to be feeling, happiness over a particularly good memory of her class, shock and dizziness every time the grief train comes hurtling back...

School tomorrow will be hard. The funeral on Tuesday will be even harder. It feels like too much sometimes. No, a lot of the time. But I wouldn't dare stay home. This is the kind of grief you have to do together.