Be Where You are Supposed to Be When You Are Supposed to Be There

As a teacher I have been present for many motivational pep talks given by school administrators to an auditorium full of eighth graders.  The most inspirational messages by far were delivered by my favorite principal- Mr. D.  Mr. D was an energetic principal who purposefully walked up and down the aisles of the packed auditorium as he addressed the students.  He spoke with emphasis and feeling as he shared his three rules for success in school and in life:

1. Be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there.
2. Bring your best self to everything that you do.
3. Treat everyone with courtesy and respect, regardless of the circumstance.

The message was simple and easy to remember.  During the years Mr. D was the principal of my school I heard the three rules repeated countless times.  I never tired of hearing them because I agreed with their widespread application and relevance to life in and out of a school setting.  I also never tired of hearing Mr. D's passionate delivery of his trademark advice.  When Mr. D retired I was asked to commemorate his career by making a video to be shown at his formal retirement party.   I filmed the testimonials and tearful goodbyes of many educators that worked with Mr. D over the years.  These colleagues shared stories of how Mr. D's warmth and wisdom had touched the lives of his students and his faculty.  When it was my turn to be on camera, I sat in the school cafeteria, reciting the famous three rules as the piece of Mr. D's legacy that I would treasure the most.  Sadly, Mr. D died from cancer within a few years of his retirement.

I thought of Mr. D often and repeated his rules to students and even to my own children.  Whenever I found myself conflicted between two commitments or attempting to decide between two options,  I would hear his voice inside my head saying, "be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there."  Then, I let my heart and my gut take me to "where I was supposed to be," whether it was physically, mentally, or spiritually.  Making choices using Mr. D's rule assured me peace at night, knowing that the decision I had made was right for me. 

Never was living by this simple rule as powerful as it was on June 10, 2013.  It a warm, sunny Monday and I was at work.  My mother was fighting a long battle with cancer, and she had been admitted to the hospital the previous Friday.  My weekend, as had every weekend for the last eight months, was spent by her bedside, either at home or in the hospital, watching her suffer while trying to look, and stay, hopeful.  I was mentally and physically exhaused, and on this particular day being at school with my adolescent students was a welcome distraction. 

I called my sister Donna to check in on how mom was doing this morning, and was told that the doctors were going to operate at 10:00.  I knew Mom needed to have another procedure, but I was surprised it was scheduled so soon.  "She is going in shortly, " Donna told me.  "There is nothing you can do now.  Just come by after work when she is awake."  "Okay, " I responded and hung up the phone.  The day had just begun and I was nearly one hour away, at school, where leaving early unexpectedly required the logistical problem of acquiring a substitute.  I spent the weekend with my mother and would certainly spend that afternoon by her bedside.  I had been there for every procedure, major and minor.  It would be no problem to go to the hospital after work.  She would be under anesthesia for most of the day and would not even know that I was or wasn't there.

As these thoughts were going through my head in the seconds after I hung up the phone, I heard it as I often did.   The rule that had guided me in the past.  "Be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there."  Suddenly, there was nothing to decide.  I knew what I had to do.

I quickly made the arrangements to leave school and drove as fast as I could to the hospital.  When I arrived I called my sister on my cellphone, and she gave me directions as I jogged down and around the long hospital hallways, looking for the right door to enter.  When I finally found the pre-operating room, I pushed back the curtain and saw my mother.  She was lying on the bed with my sister on once side of her and my father on the other.  She was ready for her surgery, with an iv in her arm and a cap on her head.  I remember the nurse saying, "Oh, your whole family is here."

I approached the bed and took my mother's hand.  In recent months my mother had lost so much weight that she looked frail and weak.  Some of her surgeries had left her in a confused state, something that I learned was called "icu psychosis," and weeks would go by when she could not recognize us or communicate with us in a meaningful way.  I had hardened my emotions and could tolerate seeing her in any state.  But today, I was taken aback by what I saw.  My mother was alert.  She did not say much, but she looked at me and smiled.   She looked very scared and I will never forget the fear that I saw in her eyes.  I said, "Mom, I am here now.  Good luck.   I will see you on the other side."  Then my father, sister, and I left the room as they wheeled mom to the operating room.  I was there for a total of about one minute. 

The surgery revealed an agressive and terminal cancer, and like before, mom emerged in state of confusion.  After two weeks we were told by the doctors that she would not recover and that we needed to consider letting her go.  Her mental state did improve, but she was only to learn that she was dying.  Mom went home, with more tubes and drainage bags than I could count.  She was so weak she could barely move and could barely talk.  I said my final good bye to her as she lay unconsious in a hospice bed. 

The last time I had seen any trace of who my mother truly was, an energetic, alert, brilliant woman, was  during the thirty seconds I spent in her pre-operating room before her last surgery.  That was the last time she was truly focused and aware of her surroundings, and she clearly saw me.  I take comfort in the fact that she knew I was there.  I was where I was supposed to be because I was supposed to be there.

After the video I made for Mr. D was played at his retirement party, he stood from his seat in the front of the banquet hall and turned around. His eyes found my location and he raised his hands together first to his lips and then out to me, clapping.   Despite our distance, I could see that there were tears in his eyes. I have a vivid memory of that moment between us, of the way my video captured the emotions of the room and of Mr. D's unspoken yet clearly communicated appreciation.    I wish I could  return the gesture.