Today is Tuesday, November 25th, 2003; Karen's Korner #182

A favorite "Chicken Soup for the Soul" email; one which would make us thankful and chucked full of wonderful memories from someone who went through a difficult time:

 

I Will Always Love You
By Suzanne Perry

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
against 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 out. 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 together 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 to 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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