Honorable Mention

On Monday, my husband and all my teacher friends will drag themselves out of bed at a rather un-summer-like hour, blearily put on their semi-professional pre-student-arrival clothes and head back to school. They will sit through long, arduous, tuckus-numbing meetings. They will laminate until they can laminate no more, and then they will collapse to the carpet to cut out the giant mound of glossy posters. They will make to-do lists for their to-do lists and undoubtedly, at one point in the week, they will cry their anxious and exhausted sorrows into a glass of wine/cold beer/giant bowl of ice cream. Their paper cuts will have paper cuts and they will think there is no possible way that they will be ever be ready for the students to arrive on the following Tuesday. Oddly enough, it always gets done. No matter what, they are always ready.

I thought I was ready and I thought I would be there, but I won't.

As miserable as the previous paragraph sounds, I wanted every part of it, but I came up short. My doctors cleared me to return for 2 half days a week, but it was denied by the county. To be honest, I completely agree with them. I adamantly refuse to let my obstacles negatively impact my students and having the main teacher at school for significantly less than the substitute just isn't conducive to good and consistent teaching. So I understand the decision and deep down I know my body really isn't ready, but I can't fight the disappointment.

I feel a little bit like I've been handed an honorable mention ribbon. Ya know, one of those light blue participation ribbons that basically says "Hey, you worked really hard and did a great job...but it just wasn't quite good enough to make the cut. Better luck next time!"

So yes, I came up short in this race. I didn't make the team.

Today I let myself be sad. I let myself be disappointed. As hard as I tried, I couldn't shake the feelings of failure.

In case you weren't sure, it is, in fact, very possible to convince yourself that nearly any romantic break-up song on the radio is actually written about a teacher who worked really hard, but didn't get cleared to return to work. Ya know, just in case you were curious. Oh and it works better if you are simultaneously drowning your sorrows in a bowl of frozen yogurt. Just sayin'.

When I look at myself in the mirror, at first glance I see the scars. The surgeries. The PICC lines. The IV attempts gone wrong and of course, the tubes. I could look at these scars and remember pain or the lonely nights in the hospital or the long, agonizing months of uncertainty.

But I've decided to embrace them. My scars tell a story and, mark my words, it will be a story of survival. Today a scar was added that you can't see, a deep imprint on my pride and yes, I am ashamed to admit that today I wallowed.

Every great athlete has an off race, moments of doubt and uncertainty and most importantly, every great athlete has moments of failure. Perhaps it is those painful and frustrating moments that fuel the desire to work even harder, to shape who they are and what they want to accomplish. Today I let myself be sad, but now it's time to move on.

After all, no one ever made the podium by wallowing.