February became March, and then came the “permanent sub.” We knew it was something more severe than a funny little joke. We knew it was bad. Rod loved to teach. He sold a prosperous business to be able to do it. It was not something he was doing for his livelihood. And he was good at it, too. He made everything accessible, including himself. I cannot tell you how many times I spent lunch with him discussing how God is sick or dying, if still alive at all. He would rebut, as a devil’s advocate, and I would ask him why God has let children be raped. His suggestion was that these things all happen for a reason, so there must be a reason why my Existentialism in Literature teacher, Mr. Roderick A. Baird II, died of pancreatic cancer.
I denied it. It could not be true. It just didn't make sense, at all, why he could be suffering. And I had just stopped cutting myself, in February, when he left— it must be as Beckett said it: the tears of the world must be in a constant quantity. And that is when I got angry. It must be my fault; after all, if I had not stopped my self-injury, there would not have been a tear to go to him. Or was it my theory proving right? Is it true that once a person knows how the world works on an existential level that they are despised and tortured by God? Every day, I am thankful that I never shared that theory with him. It seemed it was my fault that he had fallen ill. There was nothing to be done.
I cried at night in bed for hours before sleeping, and once I fell asleep, I was awakened by The Dreams. Of holding him in my arms one last time. Of just seeing his face. Of his death. I was again in the undertow of depression.
I denied it. It could not be true. It just didn't make sense, at all, why he could be suffering. And I had just stopped cutting myself, in February, when he left— it must be as Beckett said it: the tears of the world must be in a constant quantity. And that is when I got angry. It must be my fault; after all, if I had not stopped my self-injury, there would not have been a tear to go to him. Or was it my theory proving right? Is it true that once a person knows how the world works on an existential level that they are despised and tortured by God? Every day, I am thankful that I never shared that theory with him. It seemed it was my fault that he had fallen ill. There was nothing to be done.
I cried at night in bed for hours before sleeping, and once I fell asleep, I was awakened by The Dreams. Of holding him in my arms one last time. Of just seeing his face. Of his death. I was again in the undertow of depression.
A person with a psychological history such as mine rarely believes in God, and I am no exception. But I prayed to God. For the first time in my life, I went to church. I asked God to heal him. I asked God to make it okay. I entered a hypomanic phase, believing that God is good and He would make it okay. As quickly as it came, it left, leaving me in a dysphoria.
We, being myself and my psychologist, are finding that I do not suffer from just the symptoms bi-polar depression. I have a severe non-verbal disorder and ADD. Some put me on the autism spectrum I exhibit traits of post-traumatic stress disorder. I live with Borderline Personality Disorder. And as it is that I have been experiencing the slings and daggers of these illnesses since a very young age, the weekly hour—which is never really enough—in a therapist’s office has been a source of reason and a time to reflect from a hectic life.
Some people have epiphanies in the shower: I had this one on the couch of a PhD. I can learn more from Rod’s death than his life. I when I first told him I knew of his diagnosis, he asked me to make him a solemn promise. I promised him that when my depression came to haunt me, that I would push it away like the ugly intruder it is, and remember how much he loved being alive. That is his dying wish for me. To be happy. A man that only knew me for six months, I realized, in some capacity, loves me. It seemed a foreign concept. But there is more meaning than that to his death.
Rod has finally assigned me some homework—something he was not exactly fond of in class. The assignment consists of this: I must learn what he wanted to, but will not be there to teach me. I must learn how to be truly happy even when there is immense sadness and tragedy in my life. I must learn the philosophy of Plato, read the works of Dostoevsky, Nietzsche and Sartre, perform the lines eloquently penned by the Bard and the mysteriously perfect ones plays Beckett. I must, or at least attempt, to understand, why he had to leave the Earth so soon, and why it is going to be okay. After all, I know that a person cannot leave this earth until they have done what the Universe put them here to do.
We, being myself and my psychologist, are finding that I do not suffer from just the symptoms bi-polar depression. I have a severe non-verbal disorder and ADD. Some put me on the autism spectrum I exhibit traits of post-traumatic stress disorder. I live with Borderline Personality Disorder. And as it is that I have been experiencing the slings and daggers of these illnesses since a very young age, the weekly hour—which is never really enough—in a therapist’s office has been a source of reason and a time to reflect from a hectic life.
Some people have epiphanies in the shower: I had this one on the couch of a PhD. I can learn more from Rod’s death than his life. I when I first told him I knew of his diagnosis, he asked me to make him a solemn promise. I promised him that when my depression came to haunt me, that I would push it away like the ugly intruder it is, and remember how much he loved being alive. That is his dying wish for me. To be happy. A man that only knew me for six months, I realized, in some capacity, loves me. It seemed a foreign concept. But there is more meaning than that to his death.
Rod has finally assigned me some homework—something he was not exactly fond of in class. The assignment consists of this: I must learn what he wanted to, but will not be there to teach me. I must learn how to be truly happy even when there is immense sadness and tragedy in my life. I must learn the philosophy of Plato, read the works of Dostoevsky, Nietzsche and Sartre, perform the lines eloquently penned by the Bard and the mysteriously perfect ones plays Beckett. I must, or at least attempt, to understand, why he had to leave the Earth so soon, and why it is going to be okay. After all, I know that a person cannot leave this earth until they have done what the Universe put them here to do.
~~~~~~~
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Rod Baird was born on January 8th, 1951 and
passed with dignity and grace surrounded by his
loving wife and daughters on February 4th, 2012.
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Rod Baird has been a high school English teacher for
eleven years. He is a graduate of St. Lawrence University. He earned his MFA degree in Creative Writing from Brooklyn College and attended Teacher’s College/Columbia University.
Before teaching, Mr. Baird worked for The New Yorker for many years, then founded Salesconcepts Associates, Inc., a national firm that develops markets for consumer magazines. Later he started The Natural Athlete LLC, a sports event-marketing group. In 2001, he sold his businesses to become a teacher.
Mr. Baird is the author of Counterfeit Kids: Why They Can't Think and How to Save Them, available on Amazon.
A memorial mass will be held on Saturday, Feburary 16th at 10am at
Our Lady of Perpetual Help, 559 Pelham Manor Road in Pelham Manor, NY.
In lieu of flowers, his family asks for donations made to:
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