Grief is Frying My Brain

I wouldn't consider myself a stranger to grief. I've lost some grandparents, some family pets, and some celebrities that I didn't really know, but cared for a lot. Even the circumstance I am in now is not new. I've lost six students in my career as an educator. Each time I've lost a student, it's been different.

I lost my first student in my second year of teaching. It was devastating, and I almost gave up on teaching all together. It's hard to explain to people who aren't in education, but students become a part of me. I care for them, I watch them grow, and they change me. I never thought that I'd lose a student so early in my career. Frankly, I never thought that I'd lose a student at all. The circumstances sucked; it was quarantine and I wasn't allowed to tell students anything. I ran. I ran away from that school and started fresh.

Or so I had hoped.

My third year teaching, I lost two more students. Neither student I knew very well. They were chronic skippers, and I had only interacted with them a handful of times. It was still devastating. "Grief is compounding," the crisis team person had told me. Compounding.

My fourth year of teaching, I lost two students again. And again, these students I didn't know very well. One was a quiet girl who sat in the back of my class whenever she did show up. The other was a boy I never met, but had been on my roster. It was still devastating. "Grief is compounding," the crisis team person told me again. "I've never seen a teacher go through so many deaths so early in their career," another had said. "This is not normal."

This year, my fifth year teaching, things had been looking up. No deaths at all. I'd entered quarter 4 with excitement and optimism. "Maybe this year will be different," I had told myself. "Maybe I won't have to go through this again for awhile," I thought, "and maybe that part of my life will be behind me."

And then I got the call. I'll be honest, I'd had a bad feeling. I saw a news article that was just too close. Something screamed at me through the words as they kept the victims anonymous, but my gut knew. When my colleague's number popped up on my phone, I already knew.

I never felt grief in my stomach before, but before I even heard who I'd lost or what had happened, my stomach twisted and turned. "We're so sorry," she said, "you don't need to come in tomorrow, but we will have the crisis team here." After I got off the phone, I threw up everything I'd eaten for dinner, and then I sobbed.

"Grief is compounding," the crisis team person told me again. I know that. I can feel it in my chest. I can feel it radiate through my whole body.

"I would just like to acknowledge that you are disproportionately losing students," said another.

And so grief is frying my brain.

People ask me why I don't just quit, maybe try another school, another career. Am I crazy to say that I don't want to?

The grief is frying my brain, and I want to stay right here. But it's not easy. I'm trying to keep my head above water with my job, my life, and my emotions.

I'm not going to lie. This all feels so unfair. I'm so overwhelmed. I catch myself trying to protect my students. I beg them to be careful. I fight my fear in letting them leave my classroom. I cry all the time. I can't keep up with chores. I hate grading. Why do grades matter right now when students are dying?

It's been a couple weeks. The memorial built by her locker is gone, her name has been removed from my roster, and no one is really talking about it. No one is really checking in with me anymore. I feel like the world has moved on without my student, all my students, and I'm trying to adjust to my new normal.

I am wondering when the grief will stop frying my brain. Will it be when the school year ends? When I have my new students in the fall? Ever?

There really isn't a conclusion to this. There is no conclusion to grief either. I just hope the next year doesn't compound my grief. I'd like more time to process it before then.