Moment-by-Moment

In my last post - full of complaints rightfully deserved and still applicable - I mentioned a simple fact off-hand: I had a jaw surgery.

While the world is crazy right now and education is probably less crazy than headlines make it sound, I am reminded of this moment back when I just out of surgery and recovering. I was in a lot of pain. My mouth felt like it was full of cotton and three-times as large as it was.

I couldn't feel any of it, and I could barely breathe without thinking about it. In the hospital bed, I couldn't sleep. I was too afraid to, really. Nurses would come in, and I would have to type to them because I couldn't talk. My face wouldn't work. My tongue didn't know where it was. My lips couldn't move to make the sounds correctly or to suck on a straw.

I was the more miserable and scared than I have ever been in my life.

Every four hours, I was allowed to take a narcotic pain medication; it was my only sense of solace, calm, and peace in my life. I would take it, and I would be able to sleep, to escape, to not be afraid of what was happening to me.

Don't worry. I am not about to let loose that I am addicted to drugs now, but, truly, I understand the temptation at this point.

I could sleep. I could relax. I could forget about the fear and anger and unknowingness of it all.

But, of course, it was temporary. I would wake up usually around two hours later, the meds wearing off. I would look up at the clock that was right next to the TV that was playing The Food Network on a constant loop (even though at one a.m. all I saw was Meredith Grey advertising some sort of skin cream. I think Cindy Crawford was there, too...? I promise this wasn't a dream.)

I would look at the clock and then to the time the nurses would write on the board that showed me when I could take more medication. I would look at the clock. Then the board.

Then the clock.

Then the board.

Two more hours. I remember it feeling like eternity. The room was dark. The seconds on the clock were ticking. The hustle and bustle outside the room. The squeaking of the bed whenever I moved barely an inch.

My mind would wander. I would complain. I would wish it were over. I would think of what else is on TV. I would wonder.

And, I would look up, and only a couple minutes would have passed.

I didn't think I was going to get through it.

I wanted to cry. And scream. And run outside. And drink a gallon of water. And throw the ice pack on my face against the wall. And rip out my braces. And fast forward.

To my next moment of relief.

Here I am, months later sitting and working through a worldwide quarantine, on top of everything else I complained about last time, still recovering, but I made it through.

Lying in that hospital bed, I had to make a choice. I had to choose what to do in each moment that would get me to the next moment. Because what I wanted and what I needed was too far away.

I returned to my breath. I would simply close my eyes, take a deep breath in through my nose, and sigh it out through my nose. I would take another deep breath in through my nose, pause at the peak, and sigh it out again.

In each breath, I was passing through a moment in time.

And breath-by-breath, I made it through the next fifteen minutes.

Twenty.

Sixty.

I would make plans to ask the nurse for more ice within the next amount of breaths. The changing of the ice was another way in which I made a moment move forward.

Eventually, two hours would be over, and I would have relief. I called the nurse in exactly on time. I would take the medication. I would drift into rest. I would forget. I would move forward.

Two hours later, I would wake up and do the whole thing again.

Breathe. Ice. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Ice. Breathe.

I was stuck in that room for less than 24 conscious hours.

Those 24 hours were the longest 24 hours of my life.

Those 24 hours may be the hardest thing I have physically had to overcome in my entire life.

And here we all are right now. Stuck.

I don't know how I feel right now. In fact, I feel nothing at all. And the fact that I feel nothing scares me.

I don't feel angry.

I don't feel scared.

I don't feel sad.

I feel everything.

And I feel nothing.

I am not okay, though. I don't know that I have ever been this not okay before. The world as it stands right now is just one more thing on top of the pile of personal and professional difficulties I've been living with.

Anyone who has listened to me recently should know that I am definitely not okay now.

But, this post isn't about me. Really, it's not.

It's about what we all need to do in order to get through this.

From someone who has only recently learned this lesson, there is an immense power in moving moment-by-moment throughout life. There is immense power in being present.

There is immense power in taking a deep breath.

And another.

Because, after those breaths, the moments will move forward.

I guess I'm saying that we need to find our breath - the conscious choices we can make to get us through times we wish would be done.

For me?

I am finding time to play video games - something I rarely get to do when school is in session.

I am finding time to do yoga. I have done yoga every day of this quarantine, and, physically, I have never felt better. And, honestly, a lot of these thoughts about being present and breathing come from yoga. Surprise.

I sit and drink tea every morning - almost always burning my tongue in the process. It's okay, though, I can barely feel it.

I listen to music and sing and dance alone. Conan Gray's new album is my current favorite.

I get to enjoy the little moments of taking relaxing showers, going on walks, cooking.

And, then, suddenly, it's dark. The day is over.

Because, in each of these moments, I'm not thinking about how hard school is going to be. I'm not thinking about how much I miss my students. I'm not thinking about when this will all be over. I'm not thinking about school not coming back to session this year. I'm not thinking about the future, really.

If I do (which let's be honest inevitably happens), I come back to my moment. I look up. I open my eyes. And I breathe. Because the things I am doing now to be happy, to pass the time, to get through the struggles of life I have been facing since January 16th are better for me.

It's already March 23rd. So much time has already passed. And I believe the true secret to all of this is living presently. Taking a breath.

And then another.

I wish I knew what this had to do with teaching.

I think it lies with this: I love teaching. I could write a book about why. (In fact, I'm working on a book about why. Ask me about it.)

Every moment passes so quickly. My very first and very favorite class of 8th graders are going to be seniors in high school next year. How did that happen?

Moving forward isn't the goal all the time. I don't want to take each moment in teaching and push through it. I want to remember them.

In teaching, the idea of being present focuses some other goal: breathing in each moment to cement its importance and necessity.

There are so many wonderful moments in my teaching career that have passed. Some of which I remember. Some of which I don't.

With how fast time goes, my least favorite thing about teaching is forgetting these moments that make the job worthwhile. You know the ones: the memories you keep, the smiles, the lessons, the trips, the conversations, the tears.

There are so many things I want to remember, but so many things that I forget.

Recently, especially with having already been gone and knowing that this is my last year teaching English in my own classroom, I have been working on being present.

When my students are coming into the classroom in the morning, I sit and look around at them. I take a breath and watch.

When my students are chatting too much and I am getting frustrated, I sit and look around at them. I take a breath and watch.

When a group of 8th graders are sitting in my room during lunch and being chaotic or not chaotic or working on something or laughing, I sit and look around at them. I take a breath and watch.

When my struggling group of Study Hall kids are making inappropriate jokes or shouting or knocking my lights off my ceiling, I sit and look around at them. I take a breath and watch.

When those same kids come up to me for a one-on-one conversation about how their world is working for them and what they are struggling with and what they are feeling good about, I sit and look at them. I take a breath...

Because, to me, teaching is so full of wonderful, inspiring, frustrating moments, and I don't want to forget them.

And I am trying to be present enough to remember them.

Because forgetting is my worst fear in the world.

I guess being present doesn't only help move you forward.

Being present allows memories to stay present.

And, while the world is a hot mess right now, I know there are things happening that people don't want to forget.

As we are collectively working to both move forward and remember the times that are worthy of remembering, be present.

This will all be over.

Eventually.

For now, it's okay not to be okay. That's something I tell my students so much that I have taken it on as a mantra myself recently.

I'm not okay.

But, I am going to keep breathing.