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I was kind of walloped by this conversation.
Posted on 2008.05.12 at 19:17
Tom Stevens is the dean of the School of Liberal Arts and Sciences here, and he's also a math professor, so his office is down the hall. He is a great guy. He is even-handed and fair to a fault. He is silly and good-hearted. He's probably around 60. He is one of the two math professors that go to these MAA meetings with me. His wife is a biology professor here, too.
I submitted all my grades, which felt great, and the whole building was empty except for Tom's office, so I stopped by to say hi. We talked about why my semester was so busy, (I bitched), and pay scales, and things like that.
Then I asked him about the plaque I'd noticed under a small tree, which says "Tom Stevens, Jr". And has some lifespan dates.
He said he had another son, who died. Tom said his son was a student here. I asked him how old his son was when he died. Tom said he was 17. He said that he died just after his freshman year here. Then Tom started to cry, and then I started to cry too.
I asked him how he died. Tom said that his son had asthma, and something about the inhaler. Something like, "We know more now about the dangers of those inhalers than we did then." We were both crying, really, with passing tissues around and everything.
Tom said his son died on the 4th of July. His son had stayed in town, taking summer classes. Tom Sr had left for Canada three days earlier, where they usually spend their summers. He said he wishes he'd stayed.
I asked him how long ago his son died. I thought the plaque might have said 1994, but I didn't really remember. Tom said, "I don't know. I really don't know when exactly it was. That whole time period is a blur."
We sat there. I was astonished that you could suppress knowing what year your son died.
He went on, "I try not to think about it, because I can't handle it. I listen to the radio all night so that I won't think about it."
I asked him which child it was, in order compared to his other children, and he said that this was his oldest. His other children are adults in their late twenties and thirties. So Tom Jr must have died over fifteen years ago.
We sat there, and I didn't know how to wrap things up, but Tom said gently, "I think I'll change the subject. It's still about death, though." And he started telling me about a documentary he saw on The Titanic.
We talked about other movies, and the subject of Tom Jr wasn't totally gone - Tom mentioned that he avoids sad movies, and reiterated that he really does sleep with the radio on. We talked about politics and the Democrats for another fifteen minutes or so. Without crying.
Grief that gigantic scares the living hell out of me. I worry for my mom, if my dad should die. Grief so terrific that you must suppress your brain, just to go on. For over fifteen years. You can't prepare for that, because that would be equally sad - to live in the shadow of a hypothetical tragedy of this scale.
God really can hand you more than you can handle. In fact, I hate the saying that says otherwise, because I feel it trivializes how people really can break from pain.
* * *
I submitted all my grades, which felt great, and the whole building was empty except for Tom's office, so I stopped by to say hi. We talked about why my semester was so busy, (I bitched), and pay scales, and things like that.
Then I asked him about the plaque I'd noticed under a small tree, which says "Tom Stevens, Jr". And has some lifespan dates.
He said he had another son, who died. Tom said his son was a student here. I asked him how old his son was when he died. Tom said he was 17. He said that he died just after his freshman year here. Then Tom started to cry, and then I started to cry too.
I asked him how he died. Tom said that his son had asthma, and something about the inhaler. Something like, "We know more now about the dangers of those inhalers than we did then." We were both crying, really, with passing tissues around and everything.
Tom said his son died on the 4th of July. His son had stayed in town, taking summer classes. Tom Sr had left for Canada three days earlier, where they usually spend their summers. He said he wishes he'd stayed.
I asked him how long ago his son died. I thought the plaque might have said 1994, but I didn't really remember. Tom said, "I don't know. I really don't know when exactly it was. That whole time period is a blur."
We sat there. I was astonished that you could suppress knowing what year your son died.
He went on, "I try not to think about it, because I can't handle it. I listen to the radio all night so that I won't think about it."
I asked him which child it was, in order compared to his other children, and he said that this was his oldest. His other children are adults in their late twenties and thirties. So Tom Jr must have died over fifteen years ago.
We sat there, and I didn't know how to wrap things up, but Tom said gently, "I think I'll change the subject. It's still about death, though." And he started telling me about a documentary he saw on The Titanic.
We talked about other movies, and the subject of Tom Jr wasn't totally gone - Tom mentioned that he avoids sad movies, and reiterated that he really does sleep with the radio on. We talked about politics and the Democrats for another fifteen minutes or so. Without crying.
* * *
Grief that gigantic scares the living hell out of me. I worry for my mom, if my dad should die. Grief so terrific that you must suppress your brain, just to go on. For over fifteen years. You can't prepare for that, because that would be equally sad - to live in the shadow of a hypothetical tragedy of this scale.
God really can hand you more than you can handle. In fact, I hate the saying that says otherwise, because I feel it trivializes how people really can break from pain.
