Inspired by Phouka’s thread here
When I started working at the school district where I am now, one of the first people I met was you - I called you Pirate Woman right off. I knew the bandana was there because of the chemo, yet your attitude, and humor just made me feel so at ease with you, I couldn’t stop.
You came to see the new boss even though you were out on sick leave at the time. The first words out of your mouth were obscene, but delivered with such a lighr humor, I was laughing with you in minutes.
Your daughter worked here at the time too. Her and I were not so close as you and I. You freely admitted that I was completely justified, and I totally respected your right to defend her right or wrong. I didn’t respect you because you’d driven special service kids for 24 years, I respected you for your big heart, huge smile and genuine love for kids.
We fought, we laughed, yet we both always seemed to find the right tone together.
You were a union leader, in a workplace where my predecessor created a confrontational environment. You and I had no taste for confrontation. You told me you had enough of a fight with “this goddamn cancer” and didn’t have the taste for more.
Two years ago, when you ran out of sick time to use, your co-workers held fundraisers to pay your bills while you were incapacitated. I ended up tossing about 20 taffy apples in the trash that I’d bought. You called me a sentimental ass.
Last year, I came to work on Halloween dressed in a hoodie, sweatpants and a bandana. Everyone in the place knew I came as you.
Last month ytour best friend Judy waled into my office, closed the door and told me you’d fallen into a coma.
God Damn You.
I saw you in that bed last week, attached to the drip and the ventilator and could only hold your hand.
Sunday morning, you finally got to rest. I remembered the last time I saw you in my office and you told me that if you were told that they found any more after this last round, that you were gong to tell them to just keep you comfortable and let you go.
So you went. In the face of what you had to deal with, you were the bravest person I’ve ever known.
Tomorrow afternoon more than 100 of your colleagues will arrive at the chapel in two school buses to pay tribute to you. Later, bus #517 -your bus - will lead the funeral procession. That’s the last bus you drove for us. The current #517 is 8 years old and will be retired next year. There will not be another 517. We’ll retire the number.
In the fall, we break ground on a $4 million transportation facility. Tonight I wrote my recommendation to my superintendent that the facilty be named in your honor.
Rest in peace Teri. Put a good word in for me, ok?