.
Like most elementary schools, it was typical to have a parade of
students in and out of the health clinic throughout the day. We dispensed
ice for
bumps and bruises, Band-Aids for cuts, and liberal doses of sympathy and
hugs. As principal, my office was right next door to the clinic, so I
often dropped in to lend a hand and help out with the hugs. I knew that
for some kids, mine might
be the only one they got all day.
One morning I was putting a Band-Aid on a little girl's scraped knee. Her
blonde hair was matted, and I noticed that she was shivering in her thin
little
sleeveless blouse. I found her a warm sweatshirt and helped her pull
it on. "Thanks for taking care of me," she whispered as she climbed into
my
lap and snuggled up ag ainst me.
It wasn't long after that when I ran across an unfamiliar lump under
my arm. Cancer, an aggressively spreading kind, had already invaded
thirteen
of my lymph nodes. I pondered whether or not to tell the students about my
diagnosis. The word breast seemed so hard to say out loud to them, and the
word
cancer seemed so frightening. When it became evident that the children
were
going to find out one way or another, either the straight scoop from me or
possibly a garbled version from someone else, I decided to tell them
myself. It wasn't easy to get the words out, but the empathy and concern I
saw in their faces as I explained it to them told me I had made the right
decision.
When I gave them a chance to ask questions, they mostly wanted to know how
they could help. I told them that what I would like best would be their
letters, pictures and prayers. I stood by the gym door as the children
solemnly filed o ut. My little blonde friend darted out of line and threw
herself into my arms. Then she stepped back to look up into my face.
"Don't be afraid, Dr. Perry," she said earnestly, "I know you'll be back
because now it's our turn to take care of you."
No one could have ever done a better job. The kids sent me off to my
first chemotherapy session with a hilarious book of nausea remedies that
they had written. A video of every class in the school singing get-well
songs
accompanied me to the next chemotherapy appointment. By the third visit,
the
nurses were waiting at the door to find out what I would bring next.
It was a delicate music box that played "I Will Always Love You." Even
when I went into isolation at the hospital for a bone marrow transplant,
the
letters and pictures kept coming until they covered every wall of my room.
Then the kids traced their hands onto colored paper, cut them out and glued
them togeth er to make a freestanding rainbow of helping hands. "I feel like
I've stepped into Disneyland every time I walk into this room," my doctor
laughed. That was even before the six-foot apple blossom tree arrived
adorned with messages written on paper apples from the students and
teachers.
What healing comfort I found in being surrounded by these tokens of their
caring.
At long last I was well enough to return to work. As I headed up the road
to
the school, I was suddenly overcome by doubts. What if the kids have
forgotten all about me? I wondered, What if they don't want a skinny bald
principal? What if . . . I caught sight of the school marquee as I rounded
the
bend. "Welcome Back, Dr. Perry," it read. As I drew closer, everywhere I
looked were pink ribbons - ribbons in the windows, tied on the doorknobs,
even up in
the trees. The children and staff wore pink ribbons, too.
My blonde buddy was first in line t o greet me. "You're back, Dr. Perry,
you're back!" she called. "See, I told you we'd take care of you!" As
I hugged her tight, in the back of my mind I faintly heard my music box
playing . . . "I will always love you."

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