“Can You Relate To This Cancer Story?”
Thanks For Taking Care of Me
By: Author Unknown
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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