reflections on 81%

The other day I got a low B on a hard test in my aphasia class. Let me tell you, it was a miracle I didn’t get a C. (If we get below a B on some tests we have to retake them, and then still have to try to pull off a 3.0 even though the first test score still counts.) So, I should have been happy with a B. (Especially considering how many fill-in-the-blank questions I missed. I HATE those types of questions because sometimes I just blank on the word.) But it was really hard to be happy about it because ¾ of the class got A’s and my score was definitely the lowest. 

So this is my life every week in grad school. Somehow getting a B on the tests, but never an A, and always feeling the pressure and stress of weekly tests. I’ve never really dealt with this before. In undergrad, you could get a 70 on one bad test and make up with it with a solid A on the next one. In undergrad I wasn’t barely making it or wondering what really would happen if I couldn't pull off a 3.0. 

With all the constant pressure of grades and tests, and I've realized how completely unimportant it all is… whether I get an A or a B or whether I missed one question or five. The important thing is just that I make it through... that I accomplish my purpose and that I begin a meaningful career that will change my life and others' lives in deep, profound ways. Sometimes I doubt my abilities and the reality of that goal, but mostly I just keep hoping it's possible. 

And when I forget about that larger picture, sometimes I’m reminded of why I’m becoming a speech therapist and what got me this far. Today I was reminded by a beautiful blog post from a mother whose daughter died age six. The little girl named Ava had Aicardi syndrome and was missing her entire corpus callosum (look I’m learning something… I know that’s a major part of your brain). Other posts talk about her therapists and her life, but I was especially touched by reading how much this little girl meant to the lives of her family. 

This amazing mother wrote of her grief after her daughter suddenly died:

I will live every day of the rest of my life waiting to leave this earth and be with her again.  I will live but for every second some of my heart will be missing.  I will wonder all the days of my life what it will feel like when our souls hug.  Will it feel as warm as it did the first moments after she was born?  Will it be as warm as it was a few days ago when she nuzzled her little face into my neck?  Will she finally be able to tell me what she’s thinking and what she feels?  Will we be able to walk together hand in hand to the feet of our Father and thank him for creating a mommy/daughter team between us? And for making it last as long as it did?

I had similar thoughts about what it must be like for those who live all mortality with a disability and then have perfect abilities in the life. I often wondered what the little girl I used to nanny, Ali, (who had severe disabilities) would be like after escaping the handicap of mortality. I’m grateful for all the experiences I’ve had taking care of children with disabilities. At the same time I've felt my fair share of failure during different special education work experiences I've had with special education. I still have my fears that I won’t measure up as a SLP, but I also know that the scrutiny I’m about to undergo for the next 4 semesters clinic is going to make me stronger and more capable.

I’m more than a bit worried about how I’m ever going to pay back the tuition that’s quickly adding up for all this education. It’s made me stop to think about whether I’m willing to work for a comparatively low salary as a speech therapist for children with disabilities (versus medical speech therapy settings involving mostly adults with solely speech disorders). But today I’ve realized where my heart lies and I have faith that following it… through grad school exams,  and mountains of school loans, and the constant battle of my fears… will ultimately be more than worth it.