Dr. Oliver Hubbard holds the grandson he'll never see grow up.
(Photo courtesy of Dereck Kamwesa, who left it on my flash drive when he was making his powerpoint)
The long awaited conclusion of my Ollie post:
Last night, I dreamed my cousin Angie died. I went to the funeral and cried my eyes out. I also got a nosebleed. Hmmm...
This morning, I woke up and checked my e-mail. Donna had sent the news about Ollie to everyone in her classes and some Echo people. Before I could think about it, I went upstairs and got ready.
I talked to my mom on the phone about it, and as I was walking into morning meeting, I wanted to start crying. Ollie was my first real professor for my first real class at Taylor (Fit for Life doesn't count). He looked like the Santa on the remake of Miracle on 34th Street. He was always so regal, so collected. He was the most majestic man I've ever met.
I remember having class with Ollie while he was dying. He was so weak, but he was still proud. He wanted to share his knowledge with us.
I think he only came to three or four classes before deciding it wasn't going to work. The spark of intelligence seemed to dwindle in his eyes. He was tired. So tired.
The dream, Reagan, the bomb threat (which turned out to be simply an unidentified plane carrying the governor of Kentucky) and Ollie have really made me think about death more seriously. I hate thinking about death. It always makes me want to hurl all over myself.
I need to take a shower. I'm pretty disgusting and I need sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment