The Last Lecture

On the first of May, I gave what I imagine was my very last lecture in a chemistry course. This was not the last lecture of the movies, where a grizzled professor in a tweed jacket waxes philosophical about life within the ivory tower, students hanging on his every word. This was not the poignant last lecture of a computer scientist in khakis and a polo. It was just my usual last lecture of introductory chemistry: on nuclear chemistry, on rads and rems and banana equivalent dose and how nuclear reactors work. And about the pile in the squash court at University of Chicago. (“Was it ever used to play squash on again?” wondered a student.) And when I was done, I wished them a good summer.

It was how I wanted to end my teaching days, with a solid lecture, not a flashy performance, covering material that mattered. To finish as I had gone along all these years, with the needs of my students directing what and how I structured a course, a lecture, an assignment. With an eye out to what might matter for the world. 

It felt like a good landing, and one that I could not have managed without a generous portion of chemistry, given how my own neurochemical machinery was misbehaving. What was utterly impossible the previous time I had  taught this course — writing on the blackboard, scrawling comments on student papers — was once again possible. What was then merely difficult — constructing notes on the iPad, walking down the hall, gesturing at the board, projecting my voice — I can now do without thinking. I am grateful for the chance to retire on my own terms and not because Parkinson’s is pushing me out. I am grateful for the all the pieces and people that made this possible, from the meds to the 50 grams of metal on my Bic pen. PTs and OTs, neurologists and psychologists, spiritual directors and pastors, colleagues and friends and family. I absolutely could not have done this without all the help. 

There have been celebrations and notes and recorded greetings. Crash crashed my retirement party, appearing unannounced at the door last weekend from the other side of the Atlantic. His brother, Math Guy, said they had something to drop off. He wasn’t kidding. And I still have work to do, a couple of letters of recommendation left to write, grades to assign (finals are graded!). Saturday I will march in commencement and get the last word before I, and this last class of students, walk out of the tent and into whatever is next.