Critical Incident

Andrea is not the typical ten year old girl. She was in my class last year, and I found her to be an ideal student. She was brilliant, but still personable. She had a great sense of humor. Her most prized possession is a 3-D model of the human body. Throughout the entire year, she never turned in a paper late or without her name on it. While her classmates were obsessed with Hannah Montana and teen movies, she was obsessed with Broadway, especially Phantom of the Opera. She loves Converse shoes and emo bands. She has a running standup routine with stories about her baby sister who is in the throws of the terrible twos and threes.

But, most importantly, Andrea is a survivor. During the course of last year, Andrea went through many trials. Her father was diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus. He was given a 10% chance of survival. As the year progressed, her father fought that cancer with all he had. I watched him shrivel away as the cancer, chemotherapy, and radiation took effect. Andrea would walk into my classroom and stand at my desk while all the other kids were excitedly updating me on whatever happened since I had seen them last. Andrea would just stand there, commenting when she felt like it, but mainly waiting until they went on their way.

When it was just her and me, she’d tell me some snippet about what her father was going through- another check up, another bout of chemo, etc. Sometimes she’d talk in front of the other students, but she, in her own young wisdom, seemed to understand how upsetting her situation was to her fellow students. One afternoon, I was sitting on the curb outside our concrete playground standing guard over the fifth grade class. It was an Indian summer day in early December. Even for Texas, this heat was out of the ordinary. The sun shined brightly down and there was not a trace of wind in the air. The students’ skin was flushed from the heat and I could see the glisten of sweat across their faces. Two little girls had taken refuge from the suns’ unwavering gleam to sit in the shadows next to me. They were in a heated discussion about the kickball game taking place in front of us. I looked up as I saw Andrea walk over to us. Her shoulders were slumped as if she was holding the weight of the world on her skinny little shoulders. Her face was flushed with the heat, but there was no animation in her face. “Are you okay Andrea?” I asked. I bet it’s another fight with her best friend”, I thought to myself. Maintaining a friendship in fifth grade was quite a lot of hard work. “No,” Andrea softly replied. She looked up as if she was going to say more, but cast a look at the other two girls and put her head back down. She bent down with a sigh and sat down next to me. I gave her a pat on the back and a smile, but left her alone. I observed the other two girls animatedly talking about the game. They seemed so carefree compared to Andrea. I looked over at Andrea again. She looked up at me and said, “My dad has another Cat Scan today.” “Really?” I asked cautiously. I had learned in these past few months that she could care less what I had to say. She just needed me to listen. “Yeah. They need to see if the cancer’s spread.” Andrea said. My heart broke at the reality of her world. One of the little girls had stopped watching the kickball game and was eavesdropping on our conversation. The little girl looked at Andrea and then looked at me. A worried look crossed her face. She beckoned me with her finger. I leaned over to her curious as to what she wanted. “Ms. Haagen? “ She whispered. “Is he going to die?” My heart sank as I heard her question. The little girl’s voice was quiet, but I was sure Andrea had heard. Andrea squared her shoulders as if she was reaching into her inner reserve of strength. She looked at the little girl and caught her eye. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he might die.”

During this same time, Andrea’s grandmother and childhood friend succumbed to cancer within weeks of each other. She brought in the funeral bulletins. She would come in and talk to me about what she saw and felt. She’d write in her journal to me about her fears. I never quite knew what to say- throughout the majority of the year, we didn’t expect her father to survive. I couldn’t tell her it would be okay. It wasn’t and it might not ever be. My heart ached for her. After a hard day with Andrea, I would come home and talk to my roommate. I would cry as I talked about the struggles Andrea was going through and how desperately I wished to make it all better. I lay in bed at night and asked God why she had to go through something so hard. It just wasn’t fair. Andrea was only ten years old and learning that difficult lesson- that life was seldom fair.

Several months later, she flew into my classroom, her brown hair flying off her shoulders. Her normally fair skin seemed to cast out a soft glow. Her cheeks were flushed so that they matched her bright red uniform shirt and her light brown eyes sparkled and danced. She had a smile on her face as big as Texas. Like the Tasmanian Devil, she tore through the classroom and braked quickly upon arriving at my large brown desk. She put her small hands onto my desk, leaned over and caught my eye. In a loud clear voice, she proclaimed, “His cancer’s gone! Ms. Haagen, it’s gone!” Her entire body shook with the excitement of her news. It was as if the joy in her heart penetrated through every cell in her body causing them to move. Knowing the severity of his cancer, my mind raced, but I quickly pushed it aside. I got up out of my desk, came around the corner and opened my arms. I pushed back the chair with a squeak as I came around my desk. My pulse and heart raced for her as I stood up and stretched out my arms. All four foot ten inches of her tore into my arms and we hugged. This, beyond my doubts, was a time to celebrate. I felt my eyes begin to twinkle. Her enthusiasm was contagious. My mouth stretched open as a smile began to stretch from ear to ear. I gave her a high five. “How exciting! Andrea, that’s wonderful news!” I said. No matter my doubts, this was a time to celebrate.