The bus comes at 7:36.
For my daughter to be ready and out the door in time, I set my alarm for 6:00. I can usually scrape myself out of bed by 6:30, her requested wake up time. She does also set her own alarms, but she’s inherited my ability to sleep through almost anything—including what everyone in my cabin at music camp thought was a fire alarm but did not wake me up for—so I’m there with the assist.
I take care of the cats and make her a quick breakfast. By the time she’s done straightening her hair and selecting the perfect outfit and making sure she has packed enough of a snack to keep her pre-adolescent body and mind running between now and lunch, she’s ready to eat breakfast quickly and bounce out the door to catch the bus.
And, unusually, I just say goodbye and close the door and stay at home.
I’m on medical leave until some unspecified time later this fall, when I’m done with chemo, surgery, and radiation. This is only the second time in 22 years that I haven’t started school with everyone else. The last time this happened, I had a little baby to distract me. This time, it’s just me, my depressed immune system, and a whole lot of time.
The feelings I have about this are a really mixed bag. On the one hand, it’s September on North Haven, the most beautiful month in the most beautiful place. I am more or less free to wander the now-quiet trails and beaches with my tiny watercolor set and my sketch pad, at least when I’m not recuperating from chemo (one more infusion left at the time of writing!). I have ample time to write, whether for this publication, another one of my bylines, or to drag myself across the finish line of a novel draft. Household chores are done promptly (especially if I’m supposed to be writing). Nobody would look askance if I spent most of the day reading one of the books in the enticing stack on my nightstand. A beautifully bound edition of Beethoven sonatas sits open on the piano, where I can sit down and play from it on a whim.
But the other half of me is itchy and anxious for more structure and purpose. My actual, literal reason for being on North Haven is to teach and direct. My job is what brought me here, 22 years ago. It’s hard to detach my identity from that task. Just as importantly, I like doing it. And not just in an “absence makes the heart grow fonder” context, although that certainly has offered some clarity that can be useful for reaffirming one’s purpose. No job is perfect, but I’m very fortunate to be able to work with students as they act, make music, and write, my three greatest passions. And I can do it on a beautiful campus in a well-funded district with amiable coworkers.
Mindfulness, which I’m defining as truly living in the moment and not perseverating on an uncertain future, has been my key to experiencing the chemotherapy phase of cancer treatment with as little fear as possible. It has allowed me to embrace and thrive in the times when I feel close to normal; it has allowed me to peaceably endure diagnostics and lab work and infusions with the mantra “nothing bad is happening right now”; and it has gotten me through the worst of the chemo lows by reminding me not to imagine the worst that can happen, but deal with side effects as they occur. So, I plan to apply it to this context as well. I’ll take each day of my medical leave as it comes, not think too deeply about all the good work happening without me, and feel gratitude both for this time of rest and for the amazing educators in whose good hands my students will surely thrive.
Courtney Naliboff teaches, writes, and plays music on North Haven. She may be reached at courtney.naliboff@gmail.com.
