Memorialis: Without my Donor

 

"Memorialis" is Latin for "serving as a reminder."  The past two weekends have been filled with moments that have reminded me of how fortunate I am.  They've been crammed with so many joyful experiences-- events that I would not have lived to see without my donor.  In this post I examine what these past two weekends would have been like for my wife and son if my donor hadn't given me this second chance at life...

"Gonna Fly Now"

     This past weekend held many "firsts" for me.  My first trip to the Philadelphia.  My first time flying alone.  And, the primary reason for this post, my first time flying since the transplant.

One Year Blog-iversary

     When someone told me the night of April 29th, 2015, that I should write a book about my life, the logical step to take was to just start writing.  But, my wife encouraged me to do it through a blog, because a) it would be refined enough to be in (or close to) "publication form," and 2) writing for an audience right away, rather than just in the long term, would provide motivation to keep going.  Now, it is just over a year later (the blog-iversary was on April 30th) and I have written more in this past year than in any other in my life.  I posted 126 entries, which means I wrote and published something on just over one-third of the days in the past year.  And, over these past 366 days, my writing has been read over 10,700 times. 

     My wife, as she always is, was correct-- telling my story though a blog was the best way to approach writing a book.  I have only about seven or eight "parts' of my life yet to write about, some more lengthy than others, before I can send my work to a few select people who have agreed to help me with the editing and proofreading process.  That will be a major step toward this blog becoming a book, but as one of my mentors stressed, "It isn't about writing, it's about re-writing."  I accept that I'm further away from being ready to contact publishers (I have a lead or two but if you know of anyone, let me know!) than I'd like to believe. 

     In the meantime, below is a post that contains links to the video of my speech from just over one year ago, as well as a link to the transcript of that speech. 

     I want to thank those of you who read this, whether you know me personally, whether you live half a world away and only know me through this blog, or both-- my former student in Germany is, I think, the only person in that category.  Your readership has been a huge motivating factor that has kept me coming back to the keyboard much more often than I otherwise would have.  You will definitely get special mention in my book.  Not individually, of course, though if you all want to send me your names I can make an appendix or something. ;)  And if this is your first time reading my posts, welcome aboard!  Most people who "follow" me do so through the open group page on Facebook called "Student, Teacher, Husband, Father: Evin's CF Journey."  Maybe I should think about shortening that group name.  ;)

~~ Alright, enough of all that... a previous blog entry with the aforementioned links are below!

     I am very happy to share the video of my speech at the CF Family Education Night.  U of M created a social work focused website with a Cystic Fibrosis subsection, and they have linked the video there.  By going to this link and clicking Part 2, you can see my entire speech, including the question and answer session which followed.  As far as I can tell, the speech will play on mobile devices as well as regular operating systems.  If you already read the speech when I posted it, you will see that I pretty much stuck to the script, with a few notable exceptions.  I am so grateful for having had the chance to speak at this even and for all of the great questions people asked after I spoke.  I also can't thank Dr. Simon enough.  He was my pulmonologist for 14 years prior to my transplant and gave me a better introduction than I could have asked for.  Feel free to let me know your thoughts or ask any additional questions in the comments section, or by contacting me through Gmail.  

"Have You Always Been Humorous?"

     I said something funny at lunch yesterday.  I could probably start a blog entry that way any day of the week and it would be a true statement.  That may sound braggadocious (what a fantastic word) but making jokes during conversation is "my thing."  So, when the person across from me asked, thoughtfully and earnestly, "Have you always been humorous?" I was, for a moment, thrown off.

Pot 'O Gold

     While I always enjoyed days that invited teachers and students to dress in costume or some other silly fashion, one of my favorites has always been St. Patrick's Day.  Because of the timing of my leave, in 2013 I didn't get to dress up like a leprechaun and dance a jig, which annually delighted some students and confused others.  This year, I was interested to see how 7th graders would respond.  While their initial comments when they walked in were less than positive ("You've sunk to a new low..." and "This is way over the top") at the end of class, when I was going to deliver on the jig I promised, I could tell they were more "into" it than my 10th graders had been in years past.  That is why the actual footage of me doing a jig is only one second long.  That was literally the maximum length I could share publicly without there being at least one student clapping, laughing, jumping, or actually dancing along side me.  I did the jig for 63 seconds, and my lungs didn't let me down!  Was I a bit winded?  Sure!  But wouldn't you anyone be after a minute long jig?  ;)

 

 

 

 

A "Last"ing Memory

This first appeared as a lengthy Facebook post last year. On February 13, 2013 (02.13.2013-- good thing I'm not superstitious) I did not know I was experiencing a "last."  Hopefully it turns out not be be a last, but that will be determined by whether or not HR moves me from teaching middle school to high school next year. In the meantime, here is what I posted last year at this time, when I was still uncertain if I'd ever be able to teach again at all. It includes the first hand account of one of the protest organizers.  She wrote about it for a Senior writing class and shared the essay with me.

     Today marks two years since I last taught at Canton High School.  On that day, I staged a debate in my American Lit. class, and because I was out sick the day before, I kept Thursday's plan intact and cancelled our initial Friday plan-- going to the student produced African American History performance. When I announced this change, it greatly upset the three young African American girls in the class. In less than a 24 hour period, they organized a protest: everyone refused to speak during the debate. One of the leaders of this initiative, Victoria, wrote an essay about it and shared it with me earlier this week. 

Below is a portion of that essay; "the male" is a boy who called the class protest and the African American History performance "stupid."

"Mr. Green realized what was happening as the drama continued to unfold with my friends and the male. He didn’t understand how we felt misunderstood, unimportant and didn’t wanted to fall within the stereotypes that were made for us. We were smart, a lethal weapon with our minds, just a different skin tone. It was my first time having an actual confrontation with someone and not ignoring it like I ignore the constant whispers I was used to hearing.

Mr. Green yelled for it to stop and then he quietly sobbed. We didn’t know why he was crying but those who had initiated the protest with me and I cried; we cried for our struggles. I would never forget the words Mr. Green said to us. “I’ve never been so proud of my students for sticking up for something as important as race”. He acknowledged race and he believed in giving other people the knowledge of other cultures. He was really proud of us and he stated it was one of his best moments in his teaching experience. We couldn’t go to the African American play but we used the rest of the debate time to talk about what it was like to be African American.

I was able to share my feelings and it helped me grow as a person. I was very proud of myself because I was able to make an impact on the students who did and didn’t understand our struggle."

There are myriad factors in play that will determine whether I teach high school again, many of them beyond my control. But if the events related above indeed turn out to be my teacher swan song, I'll be proud to have gone out on such a high note.

"I Never Saw That Coming"

     One of the first TV/Movie quotes I recall my son using perfectly in context is "I never saw that coming," spoken by a villain in a Lego Avengers show.  About two years ago, something sudden and surprising happened, and my son immediately used this quote in response.  Since we watched the show together, I laughed and laughed, on a slightly deeper level than my wife, who also found it hilarious, but didn't know our son was quoting a show.  This quote has been most apropos during the low and high points of my recent 24 hour medical / emotional roller coaster.

    The preliminary page of results of my bronchoscopy on Wednesday revealed nothing too surprising, based on my symptoms.  Some thick areas of mucus, some inflammation.  All of it lined up.  Since I'd left the clinic the day prior hearing my doctor say that IV antibiotics were the standard treatment for my symptoms, and I'd done IVs at home with my old lungs more times than I care to remember, I assumed I would receive a call telling me that the appropriate medicines would be sent to my home on Thursday.

     When I got the call Thursday afternoon, my assumption proved wrong.  My doctor wanted me to be admitted to the hospital later that evening, as soon as a room was available.  "I never saw that coming..."

     Another factor which made the news worse was that it was being relayed not by my doctor or transplant nurse, but someone filling in while those two dealt with other pressing issues.  This has happened before, and rightly so, but in this situation, I really wanted to have more answers and clarification about why I couldn't avoid a hospital stay.  The notes left by my care team did not have such answers. 

     There is never a "good" time to be hospitalized.  Every time I've been admitted, the same thought process occurs-- what was I planning on doing that I now must cancel, rearrange, or delay?  There is always an event, a project, a trip, or a stay-at-home-cuddling-weekend that is impacted by a hospital stay.  In this particular case, I spoke to my wife, and we evaluated all the things in the near future that must be recalibrated.  The first priority was her cancelling a trip to her hometown to plan a summer trip to Ireland with her mom and aunt.  Anything else we would figure out later. 

     Then came the negotiating.  I talked to my transplant nurse and lobbied for staying at home and starting the IVs.  My biggest hesitation centered around the prospect of being admitted and kept in the hospital into next week, missing work and time with my family unnecessarily.  After all, although I was "sick," I only missed days of work that week for medical appointments, not because I wasn't physically well enough to teach.  Putting me in the hospital seemed like quite a leap.  But the preliminary test results and need for me to be monitored while they put me on an antibiotic I'd not been on before made the hospitalization necessary.  I packed up some clothes, something to read, and my laptop, and prepared to leave.  We explained to my son that the doctors needed to give me medicine and I would be home soon, we just weren't sure when that would be.

     Upon my arrival, I wrote on the whiteboard next to "Goals": Establish medical plan and go home ASAP.  It seemed like wishful thinking as I put the cap on the marker.  But my experience at the hospital could not have been better.  They began giving me IVs almost immediately, through the port in my chest-- which I lobbied to keep after the transplant, since even though I will need it much less frequently with these new lungs, it's way better than having a PICC line (which enters inside the upper arm and goes straight to the heart) placed each time I needed IV meds.  A late-night CAT scan of my chest revealed my right lung had pneumonia, and the final results from my bronch from Wednesday came back, demonstrating that yes, I was on the best medicine for my particular infection.  Evidence of mild rejection also mimics that of infection, so I would be treated for that as well with high doses of steroids.  The night I arrived, when the nurse practicioner said that would happen "three or four days from now" I quickly jumped in to clarify whether or not I needed to be in the hospital for that.  He said it would depend on which steroid approach they went with.  In the morning, they had decided it would be the sort I could take orally at home-- all of which meant that I could leave later that day.  Once again, "I never saw that coming."

     My wife and I spent the day together, since she had already expected to be not working on Friday, she was by my side instead of planning a vacation with her family.  We celebrated the wonderful, unexpected news with some lunch from the cafeteria, and I was discharged in time to pick up my son from school.  We had emailed his teacher the night before to inform her of the situation.  She replied before noon the next day telling us that my son had immediately told her about what was going on:  "My dad is in the hospital because the doctors want to give him some medicine.  I don't know when he'll be home."  As heartbreaking as that may sound, she said he relayed the information without seeming sad, and was having a great day.  Water off a duck's back. 

     I had tears in my eyes as I drove to his school, knowing he would be elated to see me, and even more happy that my surprisingly short stay meant that our weekend plan could proceed unchanged:  I would take him to the Red Wings game, his first, instead of his mom filling my shoes.  The hug I got when he saw me was great, but was later overshadowed by high fiving him as we jumped up and down screaming each time the Wings scored Saturday night. 

     As we prepared signs before the game and put on our gear, I almost couldn't believe that the roller coaster of the previous two days had led me to that point.  Even if someone had told me exactly how Thursday to Saturday of last week would play out, I still don't think I would have saw it coming.

 

Liveblog of a Non-Routine Visit to the Doctor

     The sinus infection I've had since November didn't respond fully to the two different types of antibiotics my doctors prescribed, and as of Saturday, it was clear that this infection has found its way into my lungs (specifically, just my right lung).  I called the Transplant Coordinator yesterday and told her that my symptoms included a sharp pain in my lower right rib cage area, and raspy breathing sounds.  She scheduled me for the first available appointment, which was this morning.  I share now with you a liveblog of the 2 hour and 14 minute experience.

8:00 am: My Driveway

I am leaving for the appointment and giving myself ample time to arrive. I am so grateful I live only 20 minutes away from my doctors at a hospital that is so highly regarded.  A pink and blue cloud spans the my entire field of vision after my second left turn.  At least the drive there will be pretty.


8:22: Stoplight within the Medical Complex

After turning onto the road which encircled the University of Michigan medical complex, I stop at the red light, prepared to go straight onward as I do each time I come here.  I take a moment to look closely at the signs, realizing that many people turn right toward the Cancer Center and various other medical specialty offices.  They never go through this light.  After coming here for one overarching medical issue for 16 years, I've taken for granted all of the other amazing work done by incredible doctors in other areas.  The light turns green.


8:29: Parking Garage

My radio always frizzes out as soon as I drive into the parking garage, but at least my window wasn't so frozen that I had to open my door to get my ticket.  I'm grateful to get a parking spot very close to the entrance as I put my winter hat on to stave off the bitter morning air.


8:35: X-Ray Dressing Room

As I prepare for my chest X-ray, I contemplate the necessity of the final line on this sign.

8:43: Exiting X-Ray Reception, Walking toward PFT Lab on Floor 3

I always take the stairs as much as possible to put these healthy new lungs to good use, particularly on days like this when I feel not-so-great, as a way to gauge "how I'm doing."  Today, after I get to the third floor, my right lung is telling me, "It's good you've come to the doctor."


8:47: Standing Confusedly Between Reception D and Reception C

I momentarily forget which reception area I am supposed to go to.  I could blame the recent renovations, but that's the First Child in me who has to either be right or have a good reason not to be right talking.

8:53:  Reception C Waiting Room

I've filled out this paperwork so, so many times.  Why write something pedestrian when you can write something fun?

Reason for Visit:

9:05:  Inside the PFT "Box"

Results of PFT were as I expected-- a marked dip from last time.  I don't even ask what the numbers were.  Not relevant. I see on the tech's screen that the point at which I inhale and feel a sharp pain during each of the four pulmonary function tests is quite visible as a spike marking a decrease in how much air I'm taking in.  I'm in a "box" (a glass room with a door) because they have all the CF patients do their PFTs in there now, and then thoroughly scrub it down after each test as part of the new anti-infection protocol. 


9:08:  Exam Room
Make myself cough so I can provide a sputum culture.  As I put the lid on the plastic cup and seal it into the bag, I realize I can't remember the last time I did this-- certainly when I had my old lungs, so at least a 17 months ago.


9:11: Technician Leaves Exam Room
My blood pressure is nearly perfect, as usual, and I don't have a fever. I haven't had one during any of this ongoing sinus infection business, so that's a plus.  Isn't it?  I don't know.  In my book, fever = bad. 


9:18: Doctor, Nurse, & Social Worker Enter Exam Room

My medical team is like a small family-- teasing each other about shoe and jewelry choices, asking me which movies I've seen recently (Ex Machina-- definitely worth your time and money) and overall just making me relaxed about the fact that yes, my lung function is down, yes, we need some better answers about what is going on in my lung, and yes, that means I need to have a bronchoscopy done ASAP. 


9:33: Nurse Remains in Exam Room to Schedule Appointments

After listening to my breathing and confirming that the pain I'm feeling is from either inflammation or fluid, the next step has to be going inside the lung with a camera and taking a few tiny snips of it to get a full picture of what to do next-- likely IV antibiotics that I would take three times a day for three weeks.  But that remains to be seen.  My transplant coordination nurse is on the phone making all the necessary appointments, and also schedules a CT scan for me, prior to the bronch.  This is because I told the doctors that my sense of smell is G-O-N-E.  I also have trouble tasting food.  My family couldn't believe that I couldn't tell the difference between a chocolate jelly bean and one designed to taste like dog food.  An appointment with an ENT who specializes in CF is scheduled for sometime next month.  Maybe he or she can help restore 2/5 of my senses!


9:54:  Blood Draw Lab Waiting Area

The lab is packed.  This is a good time to text my wife a few updates about what is going on.  She will need to take tomorrow off in order to take me to the bronch, since I can't drive at all the rest of the day.


10:10:  Blood Draw Lab

I have had my blood drawn several hundred times in my life.  I still never look, and apparently my non-verbal communication is frequently alarming, as I am almost always asked "Are you alright?" by the person drawing my blood. I am alright, but somehow I've failed to get accustomed to needles and blood despite years of experience.  Maybe I should just start watching the whole procedure instead of staring off in the opposite direction.


10:14:  Parking Garage

I'm grateful yet again for living so close to my doctors-- because I'll be coming back here less than 24 hours.  I hope to leave with answers to two things:  a) What is the best course of action to get my lungs back on track? And 2)  Has anyone ever really reused a nipple marker?

I bet if I ask the second one while under sedation, the question won't seem that out of the ordinary.

What is a String Man?

"It was the role I was born to play."  I've said that in response to numerous people who have asked me, "Who is String Man?"  (and once, "What is a String Man?")  I quickly followed by explaining that the middle school orchestra needed someone to play the titular role during their performance of the song, "The Adventures of String Man."  The person in the role basically upstages the kids for three minutes and then gets to go sit down and watch the rest of the show.  It's a sweet gig.

A "Dad Can Do It" Weekend

     While day-to-day I recognize what an amazing gift my post-transplant health is, sometimes I have an extra clear window into how different and better my life is now than it was when I considered myself "healthy" four or five years ago.

     This past weekend, my son was invited to be in a flag football tournament about an hour away from our home.  The two day affair precluded him from going to hockey on Saturday, but not Sunday.  (We misread the forms and thought we were signing up for a once a weekend group, but, hey, now we get twice as much for our money!)  All told, my son spent four hours playing football and one hour playing hockey over the weekend.  On top of that, my brother-in-law gave us three 50-yard line tickets to the University of Michigan football game-- so my wife, son, and I attended as an entire family for the first time in three seasons. 

     My son was four then, and I remember thinking that I was grateful that the tickets did not require me to walk any stairs, which is only true of a tiny number of seats inside that stadium.  I thought this because it meant that if he wasn't able to behave at the game, it would be very easy to leave, and also because it saved me from the strain and embarrassment of getting winded and coughing when I reached my seat. 

     This past Saturday, I had no concerns about either of these issues.  I had spent the morning walking around an unfamiliar high school football complex, first to find my son's teammates, and later to scout out the nearest bathroom for the parents on the sideline who were concerned about the distance between our field and the main hub of the event.  By comparison, getting to a seat in a football stadium, albeit the largest one in North America, was a breeze.

     Now, all of this is not to say that I'm Superman or something.  (I'm more of a Spidey guy anyway, of course.)  After all the walking, the driving, the hauling of sideline chairs, and the lugging of hockey equipment, I was exhausted on Sunday afternoon and enjoyed a well earned nap.  But so did my wife and son.  Two years ago, I took a daily nap triggered by the exhaustion of just living my daily life, the most demanding aspect of which was folding and putting away laundry.

     The overriding realization that a weekend like the one I just had is this:  I feel so far removed from the man who, two years ago, was on oxygen and got tired just putting on a sweater that I need to take time, like I'm doing now, to record how grateful I am for how far I've come.  It would be easy to let the old me fade into memory and lose appreciation for the restoration my life has undergone.  Instead, just as I did while watching the game with my son, I maintain a laser focus on keeping the 'gratitude train' on its tracks.

After a fantastic weekend, we all wished we could take a nap during the drive home.  Only my son was afforded that pleasure.  Although "pleasure" may be the wrong word based on how uncomfortable he looks.

Never One to Turn Down Seconds

     Now that I am almost 14 months post-transplant, the calendar doesn't have any "firsts" for me, but "seconds" are just as wonderful on this journey as they are during a fabulous meal.  The first holiday related tradition that I've now done twice is walk around Greenfield Village at the Henry Ford Museum during "Halloween Nights," where the park, typically only open during daylight, allows families to stroll the grounds, get treats, eat cider and donuts, and see semi-spooky things along the way. 

     Last year when I went, I was much more immunosuppressed, quite concerned about the crowds of people giving me an infection, and nervous about inhaling the synthetic fog used to increase the Halloween atmosphere.  While all of those issues still drifted though my mind at some point this year, they were crammed way to the back, and I could focus on enjoying a Star Wars themed evening with my wife and son.

     As you can see in the photo, my bald faced, glasses wearing Wookie isn't nearly as menacing as Boba Fett.  But we probably had equal amounts of fun!

     As I look forward to the upcoming holidays and the traditions they bring, I am eager to pile as many "seconds" onto my plate as possible. 

"The Perfect Shot"

     My son led me into his room, telling me to close my eyes.  He then asked for my phone.  I could tell he was up to something, but wasn't at all sure what it could be. This "close your eyes, I want to surprise you with something" bit is a fairly common one in our home, as my son relishes pranks, tricks, and scaring people just as much as he loves setting up a Lego scene and revealing it to my wife and I.  So it was difficult to know what to expect.  My son walked me "in to position" as he said, and when I asked why he wanted my phone, he said it was to take a picture.  As I handed him my phone, he said I could open my eyes.

     I found myself standing between his bunk bed and his rarely used chalkboard easel.  He told me to look down, and on the front of the chalkboard, and from my upside-down perspective I saw what he had written: 

                            My Dad

     He beamed with pride as I looked at him, but only for a moment, because his face quickly changed to a look of intense focus as he held the camera up to get "the perfect shot."

     Moments like this remind me of how lucky I am, but also make me wonder-- would I appreciate little situations like this is not for the transplant?  Would I have been able to recognize how precious this little occurrence is had I not experienced the nadir and subsequent dramatic improvement of my physical health over the past two years?  I like to think I would, but I'm just as content never knowing the answer, as long as I can keep having these moments and recognizing how wonderful each of them are.

One Year Bronch

     Here is a "live" blog of my one year bronchoscopy experience, the last routine bronch I will need! 

9:38 am - Checking in, I'm asked if my visit today is accident related.  Does an accident of genetics count?

9:45 - I am measured at 64 and a half inches. Did I grow?  Post-transplant steroids, perhaps?  Whatever the case, every half inch is important when you are a short person!

9:47 - My pulmonary function test (PFT) starts out with a lower than I'd like number (83% FEV1) which is normal for me. I typically add ten percentage points to what I score in the first run.  Which is exactly what happened this time- my final effort was a 93%. Very nice. 

10:11 - My wife and I arrive down the the Medical Procedures Unit. They confirm that she is my driver since I won't be allowed to operate a vehicle for the rest of the day. 

10:24- IV is in. No matter how many times I've had an IV put in, I can never look at what they are doing. Same with standard blood draws. But I can access my own chest port without a problem. I think I have an aversion to veins being stabbed more than just needles in general. 

10:30- I am so glad I am not a hairy guy as the electrodes are stuck to my chest. One less thing to deal with. 

10:32- I read and sign the form saying I understand the risks of the procedure. It reminds me of how often we sign stuff without really reading it. This form warns me that "death" is a possible outcome from this procedure (infinitesimal though it may be), so this is slightly more important than an iPhone OS update user agreement. 

10:37 to 11:24 - Nap!  The doors open, noise is pouring in from all the hallway traffic, and the lights are on, but I don't let that stop me!

11:26 - I'm wheeled to the room where the procedure will take place. 

11:32 to 11:36 - I inhale an analgesic through a nebulizer to numb my throat for the procedure and overhead a conversation between the two doctors about a patient with lymphoma. Of course, they don't violate HIPPA, but I do get to hear firsthand how medical professionals engage in debate over the best course of treatment for someone. Balancing immediate patient comfort with long-term health concerns sounds difficult to navigate. 

11:45- My pillow is taken away in favor of a piece of foam which gently thrusts my head back to make access to my airways easier.  The doctor gives the order to send the sedatives through my IV. 

11:46 - I'm out. 

Not sure when? - I remember moving from the procedure gurney to the movable one. Vaguely. 

12:51 pm - I wake up from the sedation and, after a few minutes, I'm able to remain conscious enough to have them tell me the initial results of the bronch. (Looks pretty good).

1:17 - An X-Ray to confirm my lungs don't show any visible reason to keep me around is done. No need to tell me what positions to stand in, X-Ray tech-- I've got at least a hundred of these under my belt. 

1:25- X-Ray looks good and the IV is out!  I can leave and go eat-- not being allowed to have breakfast is pretty much the most annoying thing about this procedure. 

1:31 - Made some wonderful choices in the cafeteria- lasagna and garlic bread with sautéed veggies. And chips and a brownie. Enough to account for having missed breakfast. ;)

     When we got home, there was a package on the porch, and I had a hospital wrist band on-- just like the day I returned home after the transplant. I could not resist changing into the outfit I had on that day (well, the shorts are different; I outgrew the pair I wore in the original photos). Makes a pretty spectacular before and after, no?

"Life Renewed"

    Yesterday in the mail I received the formal invitation to this year's Vita Redita, an annual fundraiser for the University of Michigan Transplant Center. I am honored to have been selected as the guest speaker for this year's event. 

     They have asked that I speak extemporaneously for about ten minutes, but I will be sure to post my planned remarks here on the blog once I write them. This will probably be the swankiest fundraiser I'll ever attend, let alone speak at, so I want to make sure I'm starting off with a solid foundation of what to say before I go improvising!  

And Here is the Host of Jeopardy!

     As a teacher, one of my "things" was starting off the class each day with extra credit (.25 points for a correct answer) in the form of questions (well, actually, answers) taken from the page-a-day Jeopardy! calendar. It served as an excellent way to get all the kids focused on me, partly because I play the Jeopardy! sounds "This is Jeopardy!." And "Here is the host of Jeopardy!..." after which all the kids shout, "Mr. Green" at a reasonable volume. 

     I was finally able to resume this tradition, 948 days after the last time I was greeted with a chorus of teens yelling my name. The calendar arrived yesterday, and I was so grateful to have yet another thing "back," something that, without my donor, donor family, my own family, and so many amazing medical professionals, would have never been possible.

     I asked my wife to take a picture of me holding the calendar like Rafiki holds Simba in The Lion King. Yet another circle completed, and so many new horizons to behold. 

Beyond Four Walls

     One of the suggestions I received repeatedly from former students about how to approach teaching 7th grade was, "Have class outside!"  So today, we did. 

     To establish a strong foundation for our everyday journaling, we spent most of the hour outside writing, taking advantage of the last full day of summer-- scientifically speaking.

     

     Ultimately I think the number of words written was roughly equal to the number of bugs played with / killed. It was worth a try!

Open House of Gold

     I continue to add to my list of "firsts" in my career (and potentially to the list of "first time for any teacher ever").  Tonight, I almost cried at Open House in front of the parents of about half my students.  I blame my lung transplant.  It's a funny thing, talking about my transplant experience, because I've done it so many times and for so many audiences that you't think I'd either A) know what moments might make me cry, or 2) not get emotional about it at all.  Usually, the latter is the case, but tonight, I was caught off guard when I got choked up because of how happy I was in that moment, to be doing a thing that most teachers (including myself in prior years) pushed through and said, "Well, I'm glad that's over."

     Earlier in the night, one of my new colleagues asked if I felt ready.  In my most braggadocios voice, I claimed that this and parent-teacher conferences are the nights I live for: seeing kids every day and educating them are not why I went into teaching-- it was because I love talking to the adults at Open House.  We chuckled at how silly I was being, and that was that.  The clock neared six and we all had to be in our rooms-- well, except for me-- I wouldn't see any parents until 6:25 since I only teach the one class.  

     When parents walked in, I did what I do every year at Open House.  I greeted them as they entered and then they answered a few questions written on the board (What is something you know about me?, What is something you want me to know about your child?, etc.) as people all filed in and got settled.  As everyone wrote, I announced that it was not okay to write "You had a lung transplant" for the "What do you know about me?" question, since that was probably the first story out of the kids' mouths at the dinner table that second day of class.  We all had a good laugh, and then I spoke for a only two or three minutes about the transplant.  With a mere ten minutes of time with these folks, I didn't want to spend too much of it on the Evin show.  They care more about what their kid's experience in the class will be like this year, and that's as it should be.  But as a I talked about going on medical leave, being on the waiting list, getting the call, all things I've told to individuals and crowds more times than I can count, I got to a part of the story I hadn't really told before, and before I knew it I was swallowing away a lump in my throat.  

     When I was on the waiting list, recovering, and especially when I was in limbo not knowing if I could return to my career or not, conversations with my wife (who is also a teacher) and colleagues often took a "I bet you don't miss this!" tact-- Open Houses, angry parent emails, ridiculous student behavior, parent teacher conferences where the ones you need to see the most don't show up, meetings (so many meetings!), standardized testing.  It's a long list.  I remember one particular conversation with Kayla, during the "limbo" portion of this past summer, and she told me that what I was longing for was an idealized version of our career-- that I'd been away from it so long that I was forgetting or ignoring what it might really be like to be back.  She did this, of course, to soften the blow in advance in case the decision was, "No, Evin can't teach again..." She's good like that.

     So, as I spoke last night, I told the parents that I was so happy to be back, even if it isn't at the high school, because there was a time when I didn't know if I'd ever do another Open House, or any of the other not-as-awesome-as-actually-teaching-the-students parts of the job.  I didn't think that would make me cry, but it almost did.  And the reason I became emotional is because I do actually like Open House.  And I did miss kids acting a fool, talking to parents at conferences, and even meetings (so, so many meetings!).  Because those parts of the job are the dross, yes, but they have to be sifted past to get to the gold.  When I realized tonight that what I was in front of me, an occasion that many, most, my old self, would have discarded was, for me, a piece of that gold-- one I was unsure I'd ever touch again-- I choked back some tears.  Then I wrapped up my opening speech before taking questions about what kind of writing kids would do and how much homework there would be.  In other words, it quickly became a completely normal Open House.

In the end, I'm really glad this all played out as it did, because now I know I'll need an entire box of Kleenex to conferences in October. ;)

And Just Like That, the Wait is Over

     Question:  Who has two thumbs, two transplanted lungs, and is teaching 7th graders this fall?

     Answer:  This guy!

Different Kinds of Waiting

     I've found that even though I already played the most epic Waiting Game of my life, waiting for other things post-transplant aren't necessarily easier.  I am currently waiting to find out if I will be teaching 7th graders this fall, or if I will be able to move back to my "professional home" at the high school where I've spent my entire career.  And, as silly as it sounds, this Waiting Game is in some ways tougher than waiting for "the call" about my new lungs.

A Glimpse of Summer Fun

     As summer winds down (today is the start of Professional Development week for teachers in my district-- yay!) here is a video that effectively captures how great the past few months have been.

     It was my son's idea to use the blaster as a trombone. 

http://youtu.be/rtA6qVfxgdU