Find A Cure Stamps!
Please read the following story and follow the instructions at the end!
Thanks.
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."
