Entry #16: A little girl's life and
death puts everything into perspective.
As I was driving to school Tuesday morning before Spring Break, I felt a
sense of relief. Three months ago, I began my quest for the superintendent's
position of our district, against the odds of my having only nine years
in education, being almost 32 years old, and being a woman in rural Kentucky
(there are only 14 women superintendents in the state). I entered the race
because there were no other local candidates, and we have worked too hard
for the past five years for me to look back six months from now and say,
"I wish I had." Throughout the process, I was in much prayer,
and I grew a lot professionally too.
On Monday, I had toured all the schools and the maintenance department.
After an hour's break from tours, I had dinner with the Board of Education
at 5 p.m., and the two-hour interview began after that. It was a long day.
I came home, though, rejuvenated. I'd given it my best shot, and I felt
good about whatever the Board's decision was going to be. Tuesday morning's
calendar had nothing on it, except a nationally acclaimed speaker for each
of our teams, of whom the Youth Service Center Director was in care. I planned
to "coast" for the first time in a long while.
As I walked into school, I was greeted by one of our exceptional education
teachers whom I have known since we were in fifth grade. She is my confidant
and will usually come by to chat for a moment before the day begins. This
morning, she shared, "I stopped by Pappy's Shell to get breakfast;
one of our seventh grader's mom works there, and they told me the little
girl died last night."
The words were cold, and my heart began to feel tight. What had happened?
"It's probably just a rumor," I reassured us both. It was now
7:20 a.m., and the students would be entering our classrooms at 7:48.
I picked up the phone as I scanned my computer screen for Jessica's home
number. "Get the facts, all the facts," our counselor said to
me as the student's aunt answered the phone. Jessica had indeed passed away.
There were no signs of her sickness until she went into some type of convulsions
or spasms the afternoon before. They had flown her by helicopter to Kosair
Children's Hospital in Louisville, but she had only lived about an hour
after arriving. The autopsy would tell more, but for right now, they didn't
have a lot of answers. She had been fine until the incident. It was now
7:30 a.m.
"Your attention please. Your attention please. All teachers who are
not on duty need to report to the media center immediately. All teachers,
please report to the media center immediately," I announced over the
loudspeaker. As I tried to walk calmly to the meeting, I also tried to collect
my thoughts. I tried to remember to treat them all like my children, the
staff and the students. Do for them what I would do for my family. They
needed that right now.
With eight minutes left before the students came in, the faculty meeting
was short. I shared all the facts I knew and asked our counselor to give
advice to help students cope with their immediate grief. We had to remember
that no one really knew the information until they got to school. I also
offered to cover classes for any of Jessica's teachers if they needed us
to, but all of them said they could make it, even the two first-year teachers
on her team.
The next hard task was the schoolwide announcement that I had to make over
video announcements. I didn't have time to prepare a written statement,
like the textbooks tell us to, but I did have time to collect my thoughts.
I shared with the students the support systems that were in place; we had
every counselor within the district at our school by 8:00. I told them they
were loved, and that it was okay to cry. Finally, we had a moment of silence
in her memory. After the announcements, I was comforted to know that our
counselor was in Jessica's homeroom, and I moved to the other homerooms
on her team to talk, just for a moment, about how we all grieve differently
and that no one should be made fun of for they way they deal with this.
About fifteen students had to be removed from their rooms that morning to
work with counselors. I grieved with each of them. Finally, when no one
was in the hallway, I cleaned out her locker, at the request of her family.
I found two math books, two social studies books, two agenda books, and
a science book (that had been checked out of the science room since early
fall). It was a typical middle schooler's locker, and I thought I'd fill
a garbage can with all the paper inside it. I almost chuckled at the sight.
I also located her writing portfolio and put it with her things. The family
had asked for that specifically. Then I went to my office, shut my door,
and cried.
Tuesday night, I found out that I didn't get the superintendent's job. The
other finalist with ten years' superintendent's experience was named
to the position. I was hurt, but it seemed so menial now. My two little
girls were sleeping soundly in their beds when I got the news. I thanked
God for the many blessings He has given me, and I prayed a special prayer
for our student's family. There would be a "next time" for a superintendent's
job, but I couldn't take away the family's hurt on that evening. A little
girl's life can put everything into perspective quickly.
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