Confessions (#12)

Today I enjoyed a meal of ribs and wings with a side of biscuits; good conversation with my wife, children, parents, and a sibling; and a quiet evening sitting down, typing up a blog post. The week itself, started off rough:  I was knocked out for an entire day by my second Covid-19 vaccination. But I was fine by the next day, and settled into a week of talking and texting with friends, and getting things done. Oh, and reading books. 

So, why tonight's post? Well, memories are a funny thing, and this one is no exception. It has been on my mind for some time, and I needed to release it. Maybe this will help me feel better. Or inspire me to take some sort of constructive action. At the very least, putting it into words will force me to confront it. 

Here goes...

(I am going to pass on sharing an image. I am not in the mood.)  

As I have mentioned before, I have spent the better part of my life struggling with social anxieties. They have stymied my personal goals, undermined my academic progress, and prevented me, on at least on occasion, from an act of kindness that I deeply regret. My decision to pursue the Ancient Greek language in college, despite having three years of high school Russian, partly stemmed from my fear of a having to take a required placement test. Finding my way around a college campus, and sitting through a written and oral exam, scared me. Also, my knowledge of Russian was very limited--I did not have a good teacher. Finally, starting with a new language, especially one in which everyone who was attending had a strong desire to be there (who the hell, when entering college, chooses Ancient Greek?) sounded comforting.

That decision did set me down a long, meandering path that eventually brought me to teaching. In the end, it was worth it, if only because it brought me in contact with some very good, kind, intelligent, and creative people. However, I was young at the time, and not exactly in the best of places. Especially my freshman year. Those social anxieties tripped me up, a lot. And my immaturity made matters worse. Surviving college was not enough. 

It did not keep me from making a terrible mistake.  

There was an older woman who attended some of my Ancient Greek classes, and perhaps some philosophy ones, too. She had a worn look about her face, and thin hair, that may have been graying. In addition, maybe as a result of her obesity, or an injury she suffered, she struggled when she walked. To me she appeared middle-aged, perhaps older. But then most young people lack the ability to discern the age of those older then themselves. Therefore, she may have been much younger.

 
In the end, she clearly was an actual adult sitting in on a class full of young fools. Or, at the very least, sitting beside one young fool. Unfortunately, I cannot remember too many details about her. She participated regularly, asking and answering questions. She appeared to be doing the assignments, or at the very least, taking an interest them. I know nothing else about her, whether she was married, had a family, was working full or part time. She may have been retired. Vaguely I recall talking directly with her from time to time. With uncertainty I want to say she taught me something about theology--she may have taught me not to quickly dismiss a person's faith. However, the more I bend my mind to remember her, the deeper her mystery grows.

Yet, I cannot escape the gravity of her being, for one simple reason. At some point, I believe several years after college, I received an email, from the Philosophy Department. It was a request to share my email address with this woman. She was terminally ill, and wanted to speak with me. At the time of the email, I clearly remembered this woman, and her presence in my classes.

I have no idea if her reaching out to me was some acknowledgement that I meant something to her. Perhaps she remembered that theological conversation, which I cannot seem to rediscover in the recesses of my memories, having a great impact on the both of us. Maybe she saw me as the awkward, but curious young man that I was, struggling through college, and wanted to give me some advice. Most likely, she was reaching out to most of her fellow students in her Ancient Greek and philosophy classes (we were a relatively small, connected group), and saying goodbye, because she was the kind of person who did that kind of thing. She was on the verge of death, and wanted to say goodbye.

I have no idea, because, in the end, I never responded to that email. I cannot, for the life of me, tell you why, dear reader.

However, I can tell you, with no uncertainty, that I have regretted that decision ever since.

Partly, because I want to remember what she meant to me, or could have, if I was willing to listen better. Partly, because I want to know if I somehow meant something to her. But more importantly, someone was dying, and the least I could have done was strike up a conversation via email. 

It would have cost me nothing.

And possibly have meant the world to someone else.