My favorite class in college was an Adult Psychology course
for which the main premise was that we cannot become healthy adults if we
maintain unresolved issues from our childhood. A colossal assignment for the semester was to identify the
issue from our youth that remained most unsettling, and then confront it head
on. The idea was to write an
explanatory letter to the person with whom the issue remains and then follow up
with a face-to-face meeting aimed toward resolution.
My problem, if you could call it that, was that I didn’t
have a living person in my life that I had any real issue with. So unless going up to the Heavens to
confront my deceased father on the one fat joke he ever made (to my face) was an option, I was in a pickle.
Requiring a more tangible option, my professor allowed me to turn toward
my adolescence, in which there were plenty
of untapped issues. One
inscription from my high school yearbook read:
“KLP, I am not going
to say anything important in a yearbook.
You know how I feel about how you’ve managed through the years,
especially this year.
See you when I see
you. I’ll be in my office. –
SMacM”
In the CliffNotes version of this story, I’m KLP, the jovial
yet sensitive high school graduate known for her (now maiden) initials, and for
having learned in her freshman year that her father had terminal brain cancer.
SMacM was my advisor, which in my tiny private day school
meant that he was like a homeroom teacher for me and about 8 other students for
four years straight. He was the
“cool” one. He wore aviator
sunglasses, coached lacrosse and dated one of the other teachers. But this all meant little to me after I
got to know him, and it means very little to me now.
As my advisor, SMacM was responsible for making sure I
didn’t fall through the cracks.
Yet to use any of this brief description as a way of defining my
relationship with him only trivializes all that he meant to me- and all that he
made me mean to myself. Our
relationship was atypical, as were all of my years with him.
I identify with my high school as much as anyone. It’s the place where I shared my first
real kiss, developed a passion for writing, and a hatred for algebra. And it’s where the acronym I’d used all
my life developed much more meaning than just it’s similarity to the theme song
from that show about a radio station in Cincinnati.
SMacM, or Sandy, knew it all- even the stuff I tried to hide
from him. He knew when my free
periods were, who I was dating, how many cigarettes I smoked a day and how fast
I drove in the parking lot. Once
in a great while, you find someone who knows you better than you know
yourself. For me, he was that
person. And he knew it.
Sandy went above and beyond his call of duty. I was required to meet with him way
more often than the average student was.
In the beginning, I resented this.
Like all teenagers, I believed I could handle anything, and felt no need
to pour my heart out to him merely because he had been assigned to me. Until, that is, he proved that I was
more than just an assignment.
My father’s life began to wind down just as my senior year
did and though my graduation was a milestone, it does not bring back the
happiest of memories. Commencement
meant a new group of advisees for Sandy, and that unfortunately, under the
circumstances, my father had found the most perfect time to find his peace. Already in a Hospice, my Dad was unable
to attend my graduation, though he did see me in my cap and gown. Sandy did what he could to lessen the
blow, stepping in as a “father figure”, with a gripping hug as I held my
diploma in hand.
Less than one month after that ceremony, my father had a
ceremony of his own. Next summer
will mark 20 years since his passing, and I have little more clarity about it now
than I did then. The outpouring of
love and support from family, friends and strangers was unprecedented. But one face was missing.
I never heard from Sandy after my father died. No visit, no phone call, no card and no
fulfillment of the promise he had made to see me through the challenge whenever
it came. Despite the yearbook
inscription that his office door would remain open, it closed on the day I
received my diploma. I was made to
feel that because I was no longer a student, I was no longer part of his job
description, his assignment.
So to fulfill my
assignment, I wrote Sandy a letter, addressing the wound that clearly had not
healed. As you may have guessed,
there was no reply.
Still, I consider myself a healthy adult. Though unable to discuss the issue with
him in person, as outlined in the assignment, I was able to face it on my own.
I can honestly say that I have forgiven Sandy, but more
importantly, I have forgiven myself.
I have forgiven myself for the judgment I placed upon him in his absence
and for the disappointment I let myself experience.
Many (many) years later, I can confidently disagree with my
Adult Psychology professor. Our
health as adults is not based solely upon our ability to resolve, but our
ability to forgive. The challenge
then becomes doing so before time runs out.
