Merci, Monsieur Nusbaum

I'm no good at goodbyes. I avoid them like the plague. And if you know me well enough, I've probably tried to dodge a few of them with you, too, with my "Oh, I'm sure I'll see you soon," or "I'll stop by before I leave..." phrases. I don't like goodbyes, so I just look forward to the next meeting.

But sometimes that doesn't happen.

A little less than a year ago, I was told that one of my favorite high school teachers had pancreatic cancer. I spent three years in Mr. Nusbaum's French class (under my French name, Elise) learning everything from proper French grammar to how to make a quiche. Mr. Nusbaum was one of the most quiet, kindhearted men I have ever, ever met. I took French in college and hated it, which was more a testament to how fabulous Mr. Nusbaum was than anything else.

One of my most poignant (yet mortifying) memories from his class came in my third year. It was the beginning of the hour and we were making small talk, as we did every day to open up the class. One of my classmates, a guy who went by the name of Jean-Paul, came to French after gym class and his cheeks were always bright red at the beginning of the hour. Mr. Nusbaum asked me to tell him about someone in the room, and I said "Jean-Paul est chaud."

Mr. Nusbaum literally almost fell off of his stool: I had said Jean-Paul was hot. I was mortified and, as I remember it, Mr. Nusbaum was shaking with laughter (as was everyone else). My cheeks by that point were as red as Jean-Paul's! Though I was embarrassed beyond belief, I look back on that moment with fondness--it was one of the only times I had seen Mr. Nusbaum emerge from the scholarly, steady persona he created for the benefit of all of us.

So then we fast-forward, a dozen years later. It didn't seem possible that someone so young could have a terminal illness. He was younger than my grandparents. Younger than my parents, even! How on earth is that fair!?!

Still, he passed away on Saturday. I grieve for his wife and for all of the students who will never experience his classroom. Selfishly, I grieve for myself, because I never "got around" to sending him a note about what an impression he made on my high school years.

Mr. Nusbaum, who shared his love of French and contagious personality with all of us, was a gifted teacher who was taken too early. He will never know how much he meant to students like me because we didn't tell him in time.

I'm going to make a mental note to do a better job of not shying away from the sentimental goodbyes or the words of thanks, just in case I don't run into those influential people again. I invite you to do the same. I imagine there are a handful of people in all of our lives who might take great comfort and pride in the fact that they meant so much to someone else.