(trigger warning: suicide, mental illness, death)
I wanted to post on Monday but I was too lost in thought and couldn’t figure out quite how to put it all together. A former college professor of mine–who has long since retired, mind you–had gone missing. Word spread through Facebook land like wildfire–he had ‘friended’ pretty much every Bethany alumni that he encountered whether he’d had them as a student or not. Dr. Thompson was the happy hippie psych professor. He was head of the department when I was there, he was incredibly smart, but beyond that he was probably one of the most compassionate and empathetic people I’ve ever known. The very epitome of a counseling type. And while I was in school I struggled hard with him–never overtly, we always got along fine, I did well in his classes–but I was (am) soooooo Type A and he was definitely NOT (he was a legit hippie, like lived in Haight-Ashbury for awhile hippie), so while I enjoyed the backrub portion of his classes, sitting in a circle, sharing highs and lows, or scheduling small group meetings for other days to discuss feelings was not my bag. At all. Still I muddled through and even took a handful of electives from him because I liked the topics. I remember blasting senior seminar in my journal for the class when it was over. He responded very thoughtfully to the concerns I’d raised, which made me feel slightly bad even though we both knew I wasn’t attacking him but the class itself (It should’ve been junior seminar in the psych department–if you waited til senior year for some of that stuff you were behind the 8 ball, and ultimately he agreed with me on that). So I liked him, I respected him, but if you had asked me, he was definitely not my favorite professor.
Years later, however, when Facebook happened, with age and wisdom (ha!) I’d mellowed some. I’m still insanely type-A but definitely less intense than I was in college. I accepted the friend request without a second thought, and I thoroughly enjoyed his bits of wisdom. With time and distance I appreciated him on a whole different level and I could better understand what he was trying to accomplish in his classes–creating connections, teaching that openness and vulnerability are so important to the human condition, ‘what is most personal is most universal’–I got it. And I looked forward to daily wisdom and humor in his posts, and the annual “Happy birthday from your OLD professor'” greeting on my birthday (he had over 3000 Facebook friends and wished every single one a happy birthday. I can’t imagine how long that would take). So when I woke to the news that he had gone missing, with a newly minted diagnosis of dementia, I was concerned. When I finally came across the suicidal FB post referenced by the news I was shaken. I hoped they’d find him in time.
They didn’t. We later got word that he was found dead in a park that he loved. And I have all the feelings about it. Loss, grief, disappointment, but also a sense of relief and calm. Relief that he was at least found and there can be closure. And calm because this was what he wanted. He was always the type to live life fully and on his own terms. Being a psychologist he knew what his diagnosis meant, what was ahead for him and his family and it was a life he didn’t want, and didn’t want to burden others with. So he dealt with it on his own terms and in his own way. And therein, he continues to teach us.
Life is a journey and life is in the journey. Death in itself is a teacher, and forces some of the introspection he was so fond of. I thought about him during my run on Monday morning, and as the memorial posts flood my feed on FB. He’s touched so many and the world is simply better because he had been in it. And in death he’s doing what he strived to do in his classes–creating connections as we bond and grieve and share and connect with others who knew him at different times and in different contexts. And while I’m seriously bummed that we’re not going to get the personal growth book he always promised to write in retirement, in a way we already have it–in his posts, in the notes from his classes, in the things we remember him saying and sharing.
Thank you T. Gale Thompson–rest well and journey on.
