The Death of a Teacher

I began this year with new hopes, restructured dreams and aspirations. After a failed attempt at becoming a psychologist at a prestigious institution, I decided to try another route: becoming a pharmacy technician through an accredited school. Since I am recently married, and my husband just joined the Air Force, I decided that becoming a pharmacy technician was the most reasonable 'career' that I would pursue. It would leave me time to spend with my husband, as well as raise children....since at the moment, we are trying to conceive. I decided that I didn't want a stressful job that stole me away from my family. I wanted to become a pharmacy technician.

I went through the surprisingly rigorous questionnaires. I wrote the pre-requisite essays to enter the pharmacy technician school. I was finally in, and I was given the honor of ringing the school bell which signified that I was now a student of this pharmacy technician accredited institution.

Oh, how I was proud.

My husband, of course, was very elated of the news. And, of course, he went to the orientation with me. That's when I met Mr. Bolinger. Mr. Bolinger was a rebel without a cause. He was a construction man. He was a business man. He was a family man, a jokester. He was everything a teacher usually wasn't. He was real.

He told us stories of his life. Everyday he shared a tale of his deceased wife. Throughout all the jokes, you knew that his wife's passing still ached in his heart to his very last day. When he spoke of her, he spoke of her as she was alive. He loved her. Mr. Bolinger told us that he didn't care about the school's petty rules concerning food and drinks in class. He told us that he didn't even care if we came to school naked! He was proud to be a rebel! He was proud of his motorcycle, and told us of he how loved riding at 150 miles per hour. In fact, he told us that he was going to die one day from going too fast on a motorcycle.

But you know...one day, on a very normal Monday, Josh (my husband) took me to my class. I sat in my seat, where I have been sitting since I started this course. I waited for the teacher...

Waited...waited...

And at a strange time, a group of administrators walked in with solemn faces. What the hell is going on? The person leading the group told us, "We have sad news to deliver today." And I knew. Mr. Bolinger was dead. I was never to see him again. His body was somewhere else, not where it should be...which was in class. I looked at the man who delivered the news, and I couldn't believe it. This was a joke, right? A cruel prank? It is almost April Fool's Day...but why are the women crying? Why are they telling this to us? Where is Mr. Bolinger?
The only thing I could ask was this: How did he die? The lead man told me that it was due to a cardiac arrest at work two hours before he was to appear in class. How could this be? I have never had anyone in my life die before. I've known distant acquaintances. I've heard of so many deaths in Iraq. I avoid the news just to avoid death. I used to cry at the thought of losing my parents of even my brother. And here I was, in this classroom, staring straight ahead, with dry eyes. I couldn't cry. I still believed it was a joke. I felt like this: Maybe it was a mistake...maybe they'll bring him back to life somehow. Maybe he'll be in class again tomorrow. Maybe they resuscitated him. Just maybe I'll see him again.

Then I couldn't help thinking about how he was telling us the other day about how he painted his dogs' room in black and white, with white paws on the black paint, and black paws on the white paint. I couldn't help but echo his voice in my head, remembering those silly quotes that were so repetitive. But I would love to hear those old stories again. I want to hear about him bragging about his life, his fearless demeanor, his health. I want to hear him teach pharmacy. I even want him to give that goofy smile at something mildly funny, or even see him stroke his hand across his forehead in an effort to keep his comb over intact. Poor Mr. B. He is gone now.

It's just strange remembering is scent of smoke lingering as he walked across my seat. Thinking of Mr. Bolinger is like remembering a dream. It feels like a bittersweet dream that you want to forget, but never want to cease remembering. \

And then new instructors come in, trying to ease the pain. They try to joke. They change the rules. They kick Mr. Bolinger's shoes aside and make room for their dirty feet. They enforce the rules of food and drinks in the classroom as if we were still in high school. I almost never want to return. I almost never want to continue the pursuit of pharmacy technician...at least not at this accredited institution. I don't like how one of the fill in teachers reprimanded me in class....and accused of me of plagiarizing. I don't like how another of the teachers is going to give us timed tests. Mr. Bolinger never hurried us. Mr. Bolinger didn't care about the school, just about us...and I loved that.

He told us what's true. He didn't sugarcoat it for us. He knew we were adults. He treated us as such. He told us of the real world, a place so cruel and ever changing, but he also taught us how to overcome that with intelligence. I can't leave this school for several reasons, but the most important reason is because Mr. Bolinger wouldn't have wanted that. He always told us to keep learning, keep trying, to never give up. I wish I could tell you exactly what he said, but I can't. I just remember the effect he had on us as a person, friend and teacher.

And I'm so happy that I knew him for the short time that I did. I'm so happy that I told him "Bye" before I left the class on Monday. If I had known he was going to be gone on Tuesday, I would have given him a huge embrace. But life is funny like that. I'll never forget Thomas Bolinger. May you rest in peace forever, and enjoy spending eternity with your beautiful, loving wife.