It was my first semester back to school, my very first class on the long arduous road leading towards my master's degree, and you were to be the instructor. I had the date of the first day of class burned into my brain. As the day came close, I happened to look at a class scheduled and realized *GASP* the date I had in mind wasn't right at all. In fact, I had missed the first two class sessions already! Way to kick off your graduate career, smart guy!
I went through a brief moment of panic, but then quickly moved on to acceptance as it dawned on me that there was really nothing I could do other than suck it up and take the hit. Either that or drop the class, which I've never been fond of doing. I suspected I had an assload of reading to catch up on, and thought that perhaps I could email you to see about getting a copy of the syllabus, and maybe sneak in a weak little apology for missing class. Except when I pulled up my email, there was one in my inbox from the director of my program informing everyone that the first weekend of your class had been cancelled due to the sudden death of your mother. My emotions went something like "YEAH!!--ooooohh......shit." It wasn't in any way my fault, but I felt awful that I had somehow benefited from your loss.
Class resumed a couple of weeks later, and you led us masterfully through the finer points of ethics as it relates to the helping professions. Thanks for a good class.