Last fall, I was about two months into my first full-time
teaching job. Things were chaotic, but I felt I had a handle on the semester.
Kind of. I mean, I still didn’t know where
anything was, suffered from perpetual anxiety about forgotten deadlines, and
hardly knew any of my students’ names. But outside of that, everything was
going along swimmingly.
One Monday I woke up feeling queasy. I didn’t want to call
out and figured I’d feel fine once I got to work. I packed some granola and
yogurt for breakfast, which I ate at my desk while preparing my lesson. Partway
through my lecture half an hour later, I took a turn for the worse. A burning
sensation grew in my stomach. Should I let the class go early and head home?
No! Well, maybe yes. But no, I was a tough, no-nonsense teacher. I would not
give into a puny stomach virus, no matter how much it felt like I’d swallowed
battery acid!
That particular lesson was divided so that the first twenty
minutes of class were devoted to lecture, and the second half was devoted to an
in-class activity. Once I made it through the lecture I knew I’d be ok. I was definitely leaving work as soon as this class
was done, but I had not caved!
Just as that thought ran through my head, a student motioned
me to the back of the classroom to ask a question. I was in the middle of my
reply when something broke. No, this could not be—oh, oh, it was happening! But
not here.
I slapped my hand over my mouth mid-sentence. The student
looked confused, then horrified as I ran out of the classroom. The door had
barely closed behind me when I vomited in the hallway. A student who was
sitting on a bench nearby leaped away just in time to avoid being splattered,
and another who was walking by screamed and began running. I raced to the
bathroom where I was sick again. Had I even eaten this much for breakfast? How
could half a cup of yogurt turn into all of this? And why was it not ending?!
When I recovered myself, I realize that I had hit my shoes and
from my knees down on my pants. What should I do? I couldn’t just leave. Standing
before the bathroom mirror, I mopped myself up as best I could with cheap paper
towels, which really only worsened the effect by leaving bits of off-white paper
on my black (and puke-colored) pants. As I was rinsing my shoe in the sink, a
student came in. “Oh! Whoa!” She stared at me. “What happen—did you…?” She looked
at my pants leg, which despite my dizzy efforts had bits of regurgitated
granola stuck to the cuff. The girl looked at me in horror. “You-you did this!
You did THIS?! Oh! Oh!”
Yes, I thought to
myself, I needed you to clarify that I
did this because I somehow didn’t notice
when it happened…
I steadied myself and walked back to the classroom, where I
tried to act composed as I tucked myself behind the podium and calmly, coolly announced,
“I am going to have to leave for the rest of the day. You’re welcome to stay
put and keep working, or you can leave early. If you need me, contact me via
e-mail.”
The students stared, open-mouthed, but I turned on my heel
as though nothing had happened. Just as calmly, I walked into my boss’ office
and informed her that I was not well and was leaving early. She, too, stared. “Oh,
and a custodian is needed outside P-605. And in the bathroom near 605.” As I
left her office, I realized that I badly needed to wash my hair.
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