Sadness

Yesterday, I found out that Clare died. Even now, I can't believe I've put those words together.

I found out on Friday that her cancer had returned and that she was in the hospital with pneumonia. I came to school Monday and asked Xan if she knew how Clare was doing; Xan said no, but she'd let me know, and the department was going to send a card, and all that usual stuff... then ten minutes later Xan walked into the adjunct office with tears in her eyes and said to me, "you wanted to know. Clare died this morning. I just got the call."

You know when you've heard something, but you can't actually believe you've heard it, because now the blood is rushing to your ears and all you can hear is your heartbeat?

I said, "what???" but I knew the words I had heard.
It took me a long time to cry--I wanted to, I still need to, but I'm not sure if I have earned the right.

It wasn't until later in life that Clare realized (in every sense of the word) her purpose. She was a bookkeeper who went back to school and kindled (or rekindled; I do not know) that love of language and literature. She worked hard to earn her Master's; I remember her once saying that she had given birth to a child, but giving birth to the thesis was a much more strenuous and painful process. She began to teach writing, and she reveled in guiding others to create words and meaning. Sue Ellen was her mentor and her friend, and I think she kept Clare strong on her path through encouragement and (deserved) praise. Perhaps it took Clare a long time to know her purpose in life and work to achieve that purpose, but how many of us ever get to that point? Sadder still, how many of us realize it, but build obstacles to stymie us-- "I'm too old," "I can't do it," "It's too much work," "I can't afford it." I know I'm guilty of this. Yet Clare, at a time when many were looking to retire, decided that it was time to start living. If only for a few imperfect years made harder by cancer, treatment, and surgery, in the shadow of death Clare began to live.

I respected Clare, and at a time I feel we were friends, but we had drifted apart in so many ways. Clare was staunchly loyal with a fiery spirit. She had a strong, unwavering sense of what she felt should be, and perhaps my decisions did not sit right with her. We never discussed it, and now we never will.

So my grief is like so much grief, selfish in that I grieve missed opportunities and lamenting that I cannot change the past. As Clare was always first and foremost a teacher, she may have left me with a final lesson that (as most teachers challenge) the student must make meaning of on her own.