last non-fiction class

I cried for the first time in my non-fiction class Tuesday night. The drill is, we handout copies of our essays to the class, everyone takes them home to read them, and then next week we come to class having read the essays and ready to discuss them. Usually we get through about 3-4 in a 3 hr block class period. Tuesday was our last class for the semester and I even baked brownies for the class to celebrate :) ...that was quite an undertaking taking into account the kitchen I had to work with as well as trying to gauge an unruly oven that smelled like a gas leak was likely any minute.
Anyway, back to my reason for talking about my class, this girl named Stephanie wrote a piece that we were to take home, read, and discuss. The drill. So I sit down Sunday night to read Stephanie's essay for class Tuesday. 11 pages, tears by the 5th page. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to read. Hilary was not in the room (thank goodness) so there I was, sitting on my bed bawling by myself, surprised that something written by one of my own peers could have such an intense effect on me.
The essay was about her mom. Her mom was diagnosed with colon cancer last July and passed away in March. This March, as in last month March. She is a junior, only one year older than me, and no longer has the one person who is put on this earth to guide and coach her. She talked about memories of her mom, how she doesn't want pity, she just wants her mom back, and details of the funeral. She wrote about how her sister, dad, and her just drove around their town the morning after she passed reliving memories and avoiding the sympathy calls and casseroles that were already appearing in large numbers. She wrote about how her mom would never be there to watch her get married, have kids, or go through menopause. She wrote about how even if her mom showed up on her doorstep tomorrow, she wouldn't be mad at her for abandonment but just happy to have her again because "Love is never having to say your sorry."
I lost it. It was so eloquent and well written but at the same time held more emotion than I could even begin to comprehend. Judging by my initial reaction to the story I knew I wouldn't be able to get through the discussion without having some sort of emotional breakdown but of course, that would be even harder for her to see someone upset when she is obviously trying so hard to be strong.
Stephanie's essay was the last one we discussed and I could feel the vibe in the room change. I think our prof noticed this too because instead of focusing on content and opening up discussion, she focused a lot on style and sentence structure. But even with her efforts, I would look across the room and see Steph, composed, compliant, with a pasted smile that I knew was for everyone else besides herself. I don't even know her well but when you look at someone and know the things there dealing with are so raw and everything seems unbearable, reactions are anything but inevitable.
I was actually impressed that I only got the pre-freak out stage, watery eyes and dab-able tears that I creatively disguised as allergies (thank you, hayfever!) I knew, though, that I couldn't contribute to any of the discussion because I didn't want my voice to break so I just kept to myself. I want to send her an email telling her how touched I was by her story and how brave it was of her to be so vulnerable to a class full of students she doesn't know well either. I want to make it clear that I'm not writing something to her out of pity, but just out of awe. I want her to know I read what she wrote and thought it was brilliant.
I think I will write her.