“Sure,” I said. “Here, have some cookies, too.”
But the teacher heard us talking and came over. “We don't share food in here,” she said to me. “It's against the rules.”
After school, I went up to talk to her. “This child is still hungry,” I said. “Can you please check and see if there's a problem at home? Maybe his parents can't afford to buy him lunches. If they can't, please let me know. I'll be glad to buy him lunches or send him some food.”
If I can befriend some child, maybe he or she will see there is a different side of life. Maybe that will give them the strength to go on, no matter what they're going through.
These days, in addition to helping out LVA, I'm still working with a tutor to learn spelling and writing. I've worked really hard on spelling, but it's still so hard for me to get. That's a real handicap for me because I have so much I want to express.
My dream is to one day write a book about the story of my life—to write it for my children. It's a big project, and it won't be easy to do. But I know I can achieve it if I just keep working.
Share Donna's dream. Reach out and help someone increase his or her personal freedom. Increase literacy for adults and their families in your own community by contacting: Literacy Volunteers of America, Inc., 635 James Street, Syracuse, New York 13203.Tel: 315-472-0001. Fax: 315-472-0002. Email: [email protected]. Web site: www.literacyvolunteers.org.
CHAPTER5
Always a Teacher
RICHARD PICKERING
I GUESS I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A TEACHER. I used to be a teacher of art. And now, I guess I'm a teacher and a student of life. I see things now that I never saw before. I can communicate now in ways I never could before. I understand people, and animals, a lot better than I did before.
Now I learn new things all the time. I talk to people whom others pass right by. But I stop and talk for a while, and I always learn something from them. In my old life, I used to have to do things. Now I get to do them. Everything is a learning opportunity these days. That's what a brain tumor can do for you._________________________________
In 1989, I was a ceramics instructor and the assistant head of the Department of Fine Arts at the University of Oregon in Eugene. I worked mostly in clay myself. I made pitchers, bowls, coffee cups, and dishes.
I was married then to Rebecca. She was a researcher in the biology department. My son Tyler was about a year old, and my daughter Madeline hadn't been born yet.
I would say I was basically a happy guy, maybe just slightly depressed. But I loved teaching, and I loved my students. I especially loved the freshmen because they were always so eager to learn. I loved my graduate classes, too. They were harder to teach, but the students were so curious about everything. I like curiosity.
My students and I talked about everything together. It felt like I spent about ninety hours at school every week. We talked about the philosophy of life and poetry. I lived in the moment.
I would meet my students two nights a week, from 7 P.M. until midnight. We had a big workshop where they could weld or do anything else they wanted to do. And I always got there early so I could set everything up.
One day, when I was driving to school, I was backing down a street, and my vision got blurry. I thought it was time to go have an eye exam and get some glasses that work. But something was odd about the eye exam. The person who was giving it kept saying, “OK, let's take a break.” So we would take a break, but then the test would be odd again. Finally, he told me to have an MRI.
When the MRI was finished, there were seven people standing around looking at the screen. The doctor told me I had a huge brain tumor. I cried. My wife was having a party at home. The doctor called to tell her the news.
The tumor was so big that only one doctor in the country was willing to try surgery on it. He said I had a fifty-fifty chance to come out of the surgery OK. I took the chance. The surgery took fourteen hours. They were able to get most of it out, but some of it is still in there. That means I have an MRI twice a year.
After the surgery, I was doing well at first. But then I had a brain bleed. I went into a coma, and it took me three weeks to wake up. When I woke up, I was suffering from brain damage. I didn't know that I had been asleep for three weeks. I couldn't imagine how I got so much mail overnight. I couldn't walk and I could barely talk. I didn't recognize people.
I had a very short rehab program in the hospital, but when I came home, I didn't have any formal rehab. I learned to walk again because I wanted to. It took me five months to learn. I would practice around the house. A friend of mine who had been a graduate student came over to help. We paid her to help me walk, write, speak, and learn to ride in a car again—it really frightened me to ride in a car.
I see myself as an image of a human brain. There's a devil and an angel in there. Before, the devil was taking up most of the room and coming to the front. But after my surgery, I feel like the angel came forward and gave the devil a little bit of a kick in the butt. The devil could handle a lot of hard situations. The angel is very slow at those situations. But the angel can do things the devil couldn't do. The angel can cry. I cry a lot. Before the tumor, I only cried once—I hid in a closet when I cried that one time.
There was an old Dick. And then there was a new Dick. Both of them were curious and interested in things, but from different places.
After the surgery, I was very depressed at first. I kept a journal with pictures I cut out of magazines. I put a lot of Einsteins in there, many Einsteins. I could barely write. I thought it was pointless to stay alive. Everyone was afraid I would commit suicide. They took all the knives, forks, and everything else that was sharp out of the house. Nobody knew I had a heavy-duty pistol in a drawer, underneath my socks. But I never did do that. I was just too curious. I was always thinking, “What will happen if I do stay alive?”
My wife Rebecca took my journal to a therapist named Meira Yaer, and I began to see her. She was a psychologist, though she didn't seem like one. We met once a week for a long time. I was struggling on so many levels, and part of me just wanted to give up. But mostly, I was fascinated with life. Meira and I spent most of our time talking about the beauty of life and how, in a funny way, struggles are opportunities.
I was the first person Meira worked with who had a brain injury. So, in a way, she was learning while I was learning things, too. We were both teaching and we were both learning, too. I like that.
Meira decided that if there were others I could share stories with about brain injuries, it would help me. So we started the Healing Bridge Group. Three other people and I started the group. Every time someone was willing to tell their story, I learned a lot. More people kept coming. Meira and I are still working together to help people with brain injuries.
While working with Meira, I was also learning other things. For one thing, I learned I could understand animals a lot better than I could before. I first knew that when I saw the boxer.
Near my house there is an alley with a big sign saying, “Beware. Beware. Beware.” The family who lives there has a big boxer dog. And the boxer would bark and bark. It annoyed the hell out of me that this boxer would bark at me
