It was Christmas again. The same magic that fills the air every year at Christmastime was in the hearts of most of the fifth-graders on that cold December afternoon - one of the last afternoons before Christmas break. As was the usual custom, the fourth- and fifth-graders were watching a Christmas movie. The magic that was in the air for most was not there for one fifth-grader, who was dealing with a burden much heavier than any 10-year-old should have to deal with.
As the carolers sang, Chris’ heart became heavier and heavier by the moment. He sprang from his seat and ran outside and into his mother’s car. His mother was a teacher, along with me, at the small rural school. Other teachers encouraged me to go and talk to him. How do you talk to a 10-year-old who knows that he has cancer, that he will probably have to have his leg amputated and face months of chemotherapy treatments? I’m sure he had a worry that he might die.
I was not just Chris’ teacher. I shared in the pain and anguish he was going through. It was just last year that magic was certainly not in the air for me, either. That December I had surgery and was given the news that cancer had been found. Mine had been operable, but I had spent the past year going through three surgeries, two of those within a month’s time, and the other six months later. I also had chemotherapy treatments.
How could I talk to him? This was the question in my mind as I slowly, hesitantly, left the building and went out to talk with Chris. About the only thing I could do was hold his hand and cry with him. He asked me questions and I tried to answer in words that he could understand. When I told him that I had to go every three months for checkups, he said that he sure wished that he was to the point of going for checkups. I tried to explain that the things we go through make us stronger people, and that perhaps he would be able to help someone else someday. Finally, we went back into the building that day, two hearts heavy with burdens shared.
In January the dreaded painful day came. The leg was amputated. Chris returned to school a few weeks later. He was soon fitted with a prosthesis. The children at school were fascinated that Chris could take off his leg. They were very understanding and helpful. In addition to coats and hats, it was not unusual to have a leg in our closet. Other students were always ready and willing to bring him his crutches or his leg. Whatever he needed, they were there and ready. It was a tough year, but rewarding to see the caring and giving of the other students.
As winter faded into spring, the chemotherapy treatments took their toll on Chris. He lost all of his hair. For a while, he tried to wear a nice looking wig that his mother bought for him. One very hot, humid day when no air was moving, right in the middle of class, off came that hot wig. It didn’t matter what he looked like, at that moment his comfort was more important than his pride. After another very hot day of physical education outside that spring, as he struggled with those crutches, I suggested that he come to the front of the line and get a drink of water. The other students encouraged him to do the same, but he informed us that he would just take his turn like everyone else. The only special privilege he really enjoyed was being able to wear a hat inside the school building to hide his hairless head.
One day an older man who had been a teacher and a principal before retiring came to visit the students and to tell them about a special contest that a civic club was sponsoring. This special man always quizzed the students and talked to them about the importance of patriotism and school. On this particular day, Chris sat there with his hat on. This very patriotic man walked over to him, removed his hat and said, “Boy, take that hat off when you’re inside!” As he removed the hat from Chris’ head, a look of surprise, sympathy and remorse all filled his face at the same time. Chris just looked up at him, smiled, reached for the hat and placed it back on his head. At that moment I think I felt even more empathy for the man who removed the hat than I did for Chris.
During all the health problems that Chris faced, he never lost his courage or his faith. He and his family began this ordeal having just partially recuperated from a terrible accident five years earlier, in which his father and his grandmother were killed, and Chris was seriously injured. How much must one young man face? I am sure this is a question asked by many people.
Chris and I are both doing fine now. In December, it will be eight years since I had cancer. I feel that I am better qualified as a teacher because of what happened to me. It has helped me to understand and help students who may have family members suffering from cancer or other serious illnesses. I hope I will not have any more students who have to go through anything like Chris had to deal with, but if I do, I’ll do my best to help them through it.
In October, it will be seven years since Chris was diagnosed with cancer. We are survivors! Both of us know it was the Lord who brought us through the tough times. Chris will graduate from high school this coming year. He is a very handsome young man who will soon enter college and pursue his career. I am sure he will choose a career that will involve helping others. He is that kind of young man.
- Louise Biggs