For those not in the know, my Mother worked her tail off a my high school for almost half her life. She devoted 31 years to Benet Academy and she was never one of those teachers who clocked in at 8am and dashed gleefully out to the parking lot when the bell rang at 2:35pm. No, she would often arrive before the sun came up and remain long after the halls settled into silence. Many nights, she would briefly return home for dinner before making the hike back up the hill so she could work crowd control at basketball games or emcee some fund raising event until long after my bedtime. She was also the party host since our house was 1,000 yards downhill from the Academy. The interesting nights were after dances. I would return home after midnight and half the faculty would be drinking in my living room. Good times.
Really, Sheila was the den mother for both the students and the faculty at Benet. What she put in she certainly got back over the years and her memorial service in the main gym of Benet Academy was an amazing example of that give and give. The Benet community rallied together for the event like nothing I had ever seen.
It sounds odd to have what amounts to a funeral--her body was not present--under the harsh lights of a gymnasium, surrounded by flags touting 1st place East Suburban Catholic Conference finishes for our sports teams. And yet, despite some sound system issues, it felt oddly natural.
Sheila always wanted bagpipes played at her funeral. One phone call placed from a Benet Academy board member later, we had Chicago's best pipe band, the Shannon Rovers, walking us into the gym (thanks, Ray!). The service was a full on Catholic mass complete with lots of standing and sitting. The celebrant (read: Head Priest) was Sheila's cousin, Father Bill Watson. Flanking him were the Benedictine monks I grew up knowing: Fathers Julian, Jude and Beckett, Brothers Guy and Charles and 3 different Abbots of the monastery across the street.
The mass was lovely. The homily was given by Abbot Hugh who did a bang-up job comparing Sheila to Audrey Hepburn. My nieces and nephews did readings along with my Uncle Tom and most of the family presented the gifts; we tried to get everyone involved. The family was concerned that the memorial would be too Benet-centric so Diana and I both gave eulogies, after a fashion. Her's was more traditional--equal parts heartfelt, heartbreaking and funny--and I read the Wordsworth poem, "We are Seven" with a typical Mike Jacklich lead-in.
But after Sheila, of course, the real story was Benet Academy.
I pretty much grew up in Martin's Hall. That was where my Mother kept her office throughout my childhood and high school years so I got to see firsthand how the students, faculty and staff treated her. She was revered, the queen of the Academy, if there was such a thing.
When word got out that she was sick, the community rallied together. Suddenly, all sorts of baked goods and frozen casseroles showed up at our house. Cards, emails and visits increased with people not only reaching out to my Mother and Father, but to us kids as well. One anonymous Samaritan sent my folks a cashiers check for $5,000.
As her body weakened, the administration took a "no questions asked" policy when it came to Mrs. J. If she needed time off to go downtown to Northwestern Medical, she was free to come and go as needed. She was encouraged to take a few nights off...Sheila of course didn't listen. In spring of this school year, when even she knew the end was near, she powered through. Sure, sometimes she needed help getting to class but there was no shortage of male Benet students who would escort her, giving her an arm on which she could support herself. Her goal was to make it to graduation. Weak, she spent the ceremony in her office, but damned if she was not there.
Five weeks later, she was dead.
Sheila had had cancer for 5 1/2 years by the time she died. But even 6 months before she was up and around, visiting friends and appeared relatively healthy. Her decline towards the end was swift and brutal. Cancer is a sonuvabitch.
Her condition was hard on her family, of course, but it was also hard on one person especially: Jim Brown. Jim was hired a year before my Mother at the Academy as the Dean of Students. The next year, Sheila was hired as the Assistant Dean of students; at the time, her title was Dean of Women. Jim and Sheila became fast friends and stayed besties until the end. Her decline and death was incredibly hard on him.
These last few weeks I've seen a lot of Jim and his wife Linda. They, along with former Principal and--I now realize--comedian Ernie Stark, spear-headed the day-to-day activities of Operation Sheila. They were around to bring my Father food and wine and cheer; they organized the faculty to take turns staying with her while my Dad was at work; they sat us down and asked the hard questions that needed answers in regards to her end of life choices; they sent out emails to the faculty and alumni when things turned for the worst; they flooded the house with groceries when she finally did pass when my entire family was in town; they were the ringleaders for the set-up and execution of the Memorial Service at the Academy; they recruited my new favorite faculty member Mike Hand to help Krishni and I print up the programs for the Memorial Service.
In short, they went above and beyond.
Jim's eulogy was amazing. He stood before a gym full of people and spoke to us, spoke to the alumni, spoke to the teachers up near the alter. He told us of their beginning, their middle and their end. He peppered in emails sent to my Mother from students after the email blast went out about her condition.
Most importantly, he stood before us as Sheila's friend. His words were simultaneously beautiful and tragic. If this eulogy was not the hardest thing he ever had to do, it had to have been in the top two.
It's funny; growing up at Benet, Sheila was known as the sweet Dean; if you did something wrong and knew it was going to hit the fan, she was the one to seek out. Jim was known as the Dean to be feared. He was the no-nonsense, sometimes downright gruff Dean, and I get the feeling now that he enjoyed playing up that image. These last few weeks, I saw no semblance of that man.
Giving the eulogy, all I saw was a man who missed his friend.
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There are not enough words of gratitude I can extend to the Benet Academy family. Short of having ten kids and paying ten tuitions, I'm not sure I could ever repay them (note to current Principal Stephen Marth: I will not be having ten kids). I do know this: Sheila may be dead, but my bond with these people and this institution is set in bedrock. My wife likes to tell the story about how I once picked her up to go to the grocery store while wearing Benet Academy sweatpants, a Benet Academy hoodie and a Benet Academy knit hat. Was I wearing Benet Academy underpants that day? I guess we'll never know (the answer: no). Anyhow, if she thinks I was devoted to this place before this summer, she best be prepared.
I might just do all of my shopping this Christmas at the Spirit Store.
