How I’m Coping With The Loss Of My Student

“Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.”

–Vicki Harrison

My worst fear as a teacher is not that my students would fail or that I would fail my students. My worst fear as a teacher is losing one of my students; starting with a full class and ending the year with a dwindling roster. When I first started my training to become a teacher, one of the conversations I distinctly remember was with my mentor. She told me to mentally prepare for the worst, because students dying is a common reality in America.

I never thought that I would experience this during my time in Vietnam. But this is the reality we live in… everywhere.

One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life is cope with the loss of one of my dearest students. For confidentiality reasons, we will call this student Rick (because he loved Rick & Morty). They always tell you not to have favorites, that favoritism will hinder your judgment and in turn, the effectiveness of teaching and learning. But I’m an emotional human so of course, I will always have my favorites; Rick was my favorite. But he wasn’t my favorite student. In fact, he was a horrible student. He was lazy and never submitted his work on time. He always did the bare minimum in my class despite being one of the smartest students in the room. But he was an amazing person, and that’s what I loved most about him. He was smart, inquisitive, and thoughtful. He was a lingerer. He always lingered after class to get in a 5–10-minute conversation about his existential crisis, mental health, fitness, study strategies, parenting, and so many more things I can’t remember. I would always let him linger, but only for a short period because I didn’t want him to be late to his other classes. And now I wish he was still here, lingering after each class for as long as he wants, searching for the meaning of life.

Our conversations would go like this:

Rick: “How do you deal with anxiety?”

Me: “Well, for me, I usually do breathing exercises when I start to feel anxious or stressed. Something else I used to do more often is write — I just write out all of my thoughts and feelings, it can be very therapeutic.”

Rick: “I just have too much on my mind, everything is really stressful and I’m tired all the time. I just need to get through this year.”

Me: “I understand, being a student here is really tough. You guys have double the workload and study until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning… you’re almost done though!

Rick: “Yeah, I can’t wait to get out of here. I hate the education system here, it’s not effective at all. All we do is learn to memorize things.”

Me: “Yes, that is very true. But in life, there will be a lot of times where you’re gonna have to push through and do things you don’t always enjoy… OKAY TIME TO GO! Before you’re late for your class again!”

Rick: “Okay, okay, I’ll be back later.”

It usually ends with me cutting off our conversation, worried that his other teachers will be upset about his constant tardiness.

In class, if Rick is not sleeping, then he’s usually pushing my buttons.

“What’s the point in learning this?”

“Why can’t I type this on my phone?”

“Why do I have to use my laptop?”

“Why do we have to wear this stupid uniform?”

“Why do I have to sit here?”

“Why do you keep calling my name, I didn’t do anything.”

Me: “YOU’RE INTERRUPTING MY LESSON.”

And that would be that.

Then of course, he would linger again after class about something else that had been on his mind.

Kids are funny like that. They can be annoying in that moment, getting on your every nerve, causing stress and tension for everyone. But 10 minutes later, it’s as if they had forgotten what they were mad about and things go back to normal. In all my years of teaching, this is the one thing I know for sure — every day is a new day for them; kids don’t stay mad for very long, so don’t take anything personal.

But death… I take death personally.

I’ve encountered death many times but losing someone you love is something I’ve only experienced a few times, and here’s what I can tell you: it never gets easier.

I remember thinking to myself, “I know what this feels like, I’m going to be okay.” But I wasn’t, and I’m still not really okay. Most days, I’m okay enough to go to work and do what I need to do, carry out my responsibilities, and more recently, write. But other than the necessities, I struggle to find meaning in function.

For a while after Rick’s death, I didn’t know how to be myself. I didn’t know how to be around people. I didn’t know how to put my feelings into words. Me, someone who has always been good at communicating and articulating my thoughts, a writer of my own feelings — I was at a loss for words. What you are reading now started as a scattered stream of consciousness that I’m finally able to make meaning of.

Grieving is a bitter and tormenting process. It’s like being blindfolded on a rollercoaster — you can feel when the pain is rising, but you don’t know when the drop happens, until it does.

About a month after Rick’s death, I felt like I was finally getting back to “normal”. I was able to focus better, increase my productivity, and think more clearly. Little did I know, a storm was brewing. That Saturday would be one month since Rick’s passing, and it was something that I had been counting, as if waiting for a miracle to happen on his death anniversary.

I remember this night vividly. I had gone out to dinner for a friend’s birthday. This was the first time I was out in a social setting with a bigger group. I had a lot of anxiety leading up to this part since I hadn’t been social and had not seen many people, but I mustered up the strength to go because it was an important occasion.

I remember feeling present enough to celebrate my friend’s birthday, to catch up with friends I hadn’t seen in a while, and I was genuinely feeling okay. But on my way home, the silent storm that had been brewing within me decided to erupt. One moment I was okay, and the next I couldn’t control the flooding from my eyes. And just like that, the pain was as fresh as the day I heard the news. It hurt and hurt and I wasn’t sure if my heart could take it. How is it possible to feel this rush of pain, so raw and relentless, pulling on every fiber of my body? When does it stop? Does it ever stop? These thoughts replayed in my mind over and over until I realized that this doesn’t go away, that memories of him will continue to surface, and that feeling the pain is okay.

I’ve come to accept that my emotions will be scattered for a while, and I won’t always know when a breakdown will happen, but I’ve learned to embrace the pain because this is all I have left of him.

Milestones are hard. Anniversaries are hard. And with the upcoming graduation ceremony for my 12th graders, it will be very difficult time for all of us.

But the one thing we have is each other. We are together, riding out this wave, embracing that same, familiar pain, and I think there’s warmth and comfort in that.