The Lesson In the Eyes

So, I've had quite an emotional ride over the last few days. The first quarter of teaching hybrid has come to an end. It wasn't the disaster it could have been, but it was indeed every bit as challenging as expected. Imagine, if you will, two equally powerful forces taking turns pulling you in opposite directions while trying to balance a stack of plates on your head. That has pretty much been the hybrid experience.

At the beginning of the month, I was posting daily thanksgivings like I do every November, but it fell to the wayside as school got busier, not to mention all the other stuff of life one can become overly preoccupied by.  While I remained thankful in my prayers, I felt like I was getting caught under a grind that was slowly wearing me down.

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And then, in the middle of my race to finish one marking period and start another, my heart was first broken and then uplifted when I encountered a seven-year-old boy named Danny Sheehan on social media. A video of Danny gushing with unrestrained excitement over receiving an Aquaman action figure went viral the other day, and it was shared by some comic book buddies of mine, which is how it came to my attention. 

His expression of pure joy just rocked me to my core because of how familiar it seemed. I knew that joy as a child, and, like Danny's, it was often associated with a superhero. I suppose upon recognizing that feeling, I felt connected to Danny as a result. But, that just served as a cruel set up for heartbreak as I learned through the video that Danny is also battling a rare and aggressive form of brain cancer and has been doing so for the last three years. So nearly half his life has been a struggle to simply live.

Physically, he shows the ravages of the aggressive treatment he's undergone. His hair has fallen out. His face and body are bloated. In one Facebook picture, you can make out the outline of his stomach tube as his mother, Natalie, comments about being grateful that the changing of a faulty tube would mean no more stains on the front of his shirts. Tears flowed from my eyes when I saw pictures of Danny as a vibrant, healthy-looking little boy in contrast to the physical changes that have overcome him.

But, then I noticed something in nearly every picture or video I saw of Danny: his eyes. With the exception of pictures of him sleeping, Danny's eyes never change from one image to the next. And, I realized I can see in those eyes the same joy and playfulness and cheer that I connected with in the Aquaman video. It just beams out of him despite the physical toll of the cancer and despite everything it has cost and continues to cost him and his family.

Coming to this realization, I was completely humbled by this display of persevering hope. This little boy, who has been dealt just about the worst hand a child could be dealt health-wise, still finds joy. He chooses joy.

Or perhaps more accurately, Danny, like most children, is gifted with the ability to just assume the best in every situation, and his heart seeks out the joy in even the most dire of circumstances. And, again like most children, that joy is mostly expressed in his eyes.

That's something we tend to lose when becoming adults. I wonder if my eyes ever had that type of joy. I remember feeling it when I was Danny's age, and I certainly remember when there was so much happiness and magic to be found in playing with your favorite toys or reading a great story or watching an exciting movie. But, what about now? My adult sensibilities get in the way far too often. I am critical of books and movies more often than I simply enjoy the journey they take me on. And, toys are collectors' items now, not something to share with a child in order to help them create their own adventures. Maybe when I was a child, my eyes were like Danny's. But, as an adult, I know they are serious and stern most of the time.

Learning about this child and his situation has me aching to feel that unbridled, innocent joy once again, however elusive it may seem. Ove the last few days of thinking about Danny, I have been shaken emotionally in ways I didn't know I still could be shaken and in ways I'm still discovering. This kid's happiness in the face of so much adversity was the kick in the butt I needed to get me out of my stressed out funk and not only be grateful for what I have but strive to feel truly joyful about those things. We absolutely should be hollering with joy about being blessed with good health, the love of family, and our connections with friends. And, even our darkest moments, there is joy to be found in something as small as a simple gift.

This has been an exhausting year on every level, and it would be so easy to give up and wallow in the darkness. But, dammit, if a little boy with terminal brain cancer can conjure up that much excitement over a plastic doll, then what the hell excuse do I have for not being grateful or not choosing happiness?

I'm keeping Danny and his family in my prayers. As much as his plight saddens me, I am thankful I noticed his eyes because in seeing the light in them, I feel like I got a little of my own back. And, I am grateful for the different perspective he has shown me.

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Some notes:

Here is a link to the video I write about if you would like to see it. Be prepared to laugh and cry: https://youtu.be/7hV345HFpKk

Danny has a Go Fund Me to help with expenses related to his treatment: https://gf.me/u/y4bcgf

Finally, thanks to efforts from people on social media, Aquaman actor Jason Momoa heard about Danny and called him. It was a beautiful gesture and one that I know had a great deal of significance to Danny because, like I said in the blog post, I know that joy. And thinking back to when I was Danny's age, it would have been like getting a phone call from Christopher Reeve or Harrison Ford. Here's a link to the video showing a portion of their FaceTime conversation: https://youtu.be/UipxF2VGGgw

What To Watch Wednesday: The Apartment (1960)

There is a moment in my life that comes to mind whenever I re-watch Billy Wilder’s The Apartment. I was having dinner in a restaurant with a woman I had been dating for some time and with whom I was madly in love. We were seated perpendicular to each other at a corner table by a window, and we were leaning into one another while we ate, joyously lost in our own little world of flirtation and laughter. At one point, an elderly woman stopped by our table on her way out the door and said, “It gives me such joy to see two people so much in love. You two clearly enjoy being in love with each other. Don’t ever lose that.” Sadly, we did lose it. Things happened. Choices were made. And we found ourselves needing to move on. Heartbreaking, yes, but that’s how it crumbles, cookie-wise (if you’ll forgive me using a line from the film). Still, my memory of that moment and what the woman said has stayed with me through the years, and it helps me remember how wonderful it is to be madly, head-over-heels in love. And, it has become apparent to me that this feeling is exactly what The Apartment is celebrating in the characters of C.C. Baxter and Fran Kubelik.

I don’t know if it is due to Wilder’s direction, the screenplay, or the unmistakable chemistry between Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine, but something happens between Baxter and Kubelik whenever they are together, one-on-one, without the intrusion of other characters or plot developments. When the two interact, they both just come alive with such ease and comfort which quickly turns to love. And, what is more, you are happy for them as they discover their feelings for one another.

For instance, there is real joy in watching Baxter prepare a spaghetti dinner for Kubelik, who has been recovering in his apartment from an attempted suicide. Yes, suicide...in a romantic comedy. And, yes, the plot details and a bit of the dialogue venture into some dark, seedy territory at times, but Baxter and Kubelik never head in that direction when they are together. Realistic or not, you can see how Baxter’s affection and goodwill start to bring Kubelik out of her depression. And, you want to believe that the love from someone who cares about you can lift any darkness from your life, just like Baxter does for Kubelik.

Whatever the reason for this little bit of film magic, The Apartment, with all its goofiness and filmic stylization, pulls off the nifty trick of putting you squarely on the side of its protagonists. And you route for them through all (and despite of) the plot beats of a conventional romantic comedy. I suppose what I’m really getting at here is the film’s sense of hope. Baxter and Kubelik hope for success; they hope for happiness: and they hope for love. And, if a movie can get you to believe in that hope for even the tiniest moment, doesn’t that make it worth watching?