Here Comes the Sun

 I am really grateful to be in a job I love.  As probably the oldest junior faculty member on campus, I am awarded the opportunity to step out of my comfort zone and grow alongside younger, older, and more experienced colleagues I truly respect for their knowledge and rigor.  I am slowly finding my place as well within my corner office where I have listened daily over the past two years to new construction erected from frameworks of sturdy metal that are continuing to evolve into restored dormitories next to our education building.  This is a place where my old soul has been under construction as well.  I’ve always told my students — whether they were 8^th graders or college students — that they can choose to use whatever happens to them in life to make them stronger and better.  In some way, life will prepare them for what they are meant to do next.  This includes every job, organization, position held, service opportunity, personal experience, and special interest.

I learned to play guitar when I was 13. I attended youth group Sunday evening fellowships at my church where there were college students leading music. I’d watch them play and ask them to show me different picks and chord progressions. I’d go home and practice. Music of the 60s/70s moved me and has returned to comfort me. My signature song these past few years has been “Here Comes the Sun”. When Erin was sick and we lived on campus at Fork Union, I’d fill trash bags each morning with plastic and break down medical supply boxes, taking them outside before the maintenance truck came down our lane to pick up the trash. I would watch the sun rise. The night she died, I asked my close friends who came to the hospital to bring Diana to go to my house and get some of the medical equipment out of Erin and Diana’s room. I didn’t want to see it. The first and foremost objective I had was to get everything returned to the proper company and service provider. It was methodical. I made calls and calm requests informing them she had passed. Trucks came quickly within days to pick up boxes and equipment without conversation. Drivers, pharmacists outside our community, and company reps with whom I’d converse on the phone on a regular basis and who were lifelines for my daughter became people I would never see or talk to again. I was numb. I combed Belk stores in Farmville and Charlottesville for a pink sweater to wear to the memorial service, because Rob said we would all wear something pink. I briefly stopped in a jewelry store in Fashion Square Mall and bought a heart necklace in sinus rhythm — a sign of life that I had watched on hospital monitors through the years. I told the sales clerk I didn’t need a box and put it around my neck. It was always about her heart, and I’ve since continued to feel her near my heart as I put it on each morning. Rob planned the service, which was what he needed to do and would do in ways we all knew would perfectly capture all we cherished about our girl while I drove back and forth to Longwood to teach my classes. I clung to my routine and drove through the empty space of Buckingham between Farmville and Fork Union. And, for months afterwards, I’d still go out in the early mornings in Fork Union to watch the sun rise.

I saw some beautiful sunrises.  At that moment when the sun would first appear, I’d imagine it as a wink from Erin.  In life, Erin’s winks were not always sweet ones.  They were hard bats of the eyes together — showing her disapproval or obstinance.  I look for signs in small things in life that shed light on a greater meaning.  There was never any doubt about the meaning of a hard wink from Erin.  It meant she was stuck and was determined to stay stuck.  She dared you with her eyes to challenge her and would look at you twice to see if you’d try.  I’d sit in IEP meetings and hear about Erin being stuck.  It meant teachers and therapists were also stuck and were looking to me for answers.  My suggestions were not ones they were expecting.  I once read a book about children with Down syndrome getting stuck in a repetitive behavior/speech cycle like a broken record and needing to break the chain or hit the reset button.  I’d suggest changing their personas to talk like Curious George, a cat, or Alvin the Chipmunk.  It worked at home like a reset button.  Rob was frequently “Dave” calling Erin to the next location or activity of the evening.  Erin’s fixed gaze would immediately soften.  She would perk up and call back as “Alvin” would in one of multiple episodes she had watched many times. Erin cycled through different characters of her favorite cartoons.  Our boys were masters of “Curious George” monkey impersonations they inserted in conversation with Erin.  Diana was always the literal thinker saying, “Oh, Erin!” shaking her head and sighing.

“The cat” was usually a last resort. It was not a cartoon cat character.  It was just Erin.  One year I included Erin’s self-contained class in my Robin Hood musical with 8^th grade English students.  I loved that play because I could literally bring the woods behind Fluvanna Middle School to the stage along with barrels, ropes, and cow bells from “The Barn” in Palmyra, which sold all sorts of odds and ends.  I’d jump on rocks in the “river” with large sticks chewed clean of bark by beavers on the riverbed teaching students how to joust in mock battles without hurting each other.  Even my students understood how to get Erin unstuck and moving behind stage.  I’ll never forget one of my J.V. football players reminding another student to “Be the cat” to get her to move forward and sing with the group.  They knew it worked every time.  For months and years after that play, Erin would, on occasion, put on her peasant costume from the closet, insert her CD in her CD player, sing all the songs from the musical, and run to the stairwell and yell with passion, “Run, Robin, Run!”  as the grand finale.

The wink of the sun and the display of color that follows in the sky has always been a warm and wonderful reminder of my daughter.  “Here Comes the Sun”, a reminder of hope and a promise of a smile that is returning, ice that is slowly melting, feeling like myself again…it’s alright.  It’s about what I’m doing now that gives me purpose, that brings light to my life, and that reminds me there is more to do.

There is a “next”. Here comes the sun.