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I didn't even recognize Royce when I saw her. In the two years since she had become sick, she had physically changed into
another person. The cancer that ravaged her body was a thief, stealing the person that we all admired and loved, and replacing
her with a thin, frightened old woman. Royce had never seemed old; she was the opposite of old, always bubbling over with
energy and laughter and compassion. People like Royce aren't supposed to get sick. They're especially not supposed to get
cancer, to wither away like grass in winter. And they're not supposed to die. I didn't want my friend to die.
But I could tell she was going to.
Soon.
Sometime in December two years ago, one of the other teachers at my school popped into my room at the end of the day.
When she told me that one of our eighth grade English teachers, Royce Williams, had been diagnosed with stage III breast cancer,
it didn't really register with me. Cancer, huh? Wow. She'll be ok, though. I'd heard so many success stories --seen and read
about so many people who had beaten cancer-- that I just naturally assumed Royce would be fine. Royce is one tough mama; she'll
shake it off. It didn't matter to me if she had cancer or a toothache. On some basic level, I just thought she'd get well
and everyone and everything would go back to normal.
After all, Royce was a bear of a woman, in the most complimentary, affectionate sense of the word. She was large in every
way: in stature, she was tall and strong, but she was also exuberant and vibrant. Her voice was big and so was the love she
showed to everyone, teachers and students alike. Her students were crazy about her for good reason. Kids can tell which adults
are genuine and which are phonies, and Royce had the genuine-thing going for her in spades. She watched over her students,
mothered them, read to them and never set off their phoniness detectors. She cared about them her students knew that and returned
the love. When kids would enter her classroom, she would wait by the door and pick out the person who seemed to be depressed,
or in a bad place on that day. She would place a hand on the back of the student's head and say, "Your hair looks really
nice today, Ashley" and everyone --the student and anyone in the vicinity-- would feel a little bit better. Small gestures
are sometimes the biggest, and Royce was never too busy to stop and listen, punctuating the pauses in the conversation with
a pat on the cheek or a touch of a shoulder.
People like that aren't supposed to die.
Royce took a leave of absence that winter. I didn't know if it was the chemo or the radiation treatments that made her
hair fall out, but when she came back to visit in the spring, a few pounds lighter, she wore a wig. Someone who didn't know
her may not have noticed that it wasn't her real hair. I noticed. But it still didn't click. Hey, her hair fell out. Bummer.
But she'll be ok. If I wasn't so ignorant, if I wasn't so blind, maybe I would have noticed her fear. She had to be scared
at this point, but I was too preoccupied with my own thoughts to pay attention to her.
Royce rebounded that summer. She came back for the beginning of school the following August, ready to go. But she was
different somehow. She didn't seem so big anymore. She was a little bit smaller, a little bit sadder. She wouldn't make it
through the year. The cancer came back, again and again, until finally it was too much for even her. She left at Christmas
time and never returned. Until the last day of school...
The faculty and staff at our school hold our last meeting of the year the day after the students have left for the summer.
We meet for breakfast in our cafeteria and talk about our plans for the summer. Mostly, though, we meet to honor the people
who will be leaving or retiring. Because of her health, Royce was obviously retiring. We were just starting to eat when she
walked in with her husband, Bobby.
I looked at her and swallowed hard. "Holy cow," I said to Melanie, seated beside me. "Is that Royce? It
doesn't even look like her." The woman who hobbled in through the steel doors of the cafeteria wasn't our friend. Instead
of the Royce we all knew, I saw a thin, gaunt woman. She walked slightly bent at the waist, as if she were looking for something
she had dropped on the ground in front of her. One hand held a wooden cane, while the other hand rested in the crook of Bobby's
elbow. She moved with a series of small, short, slow steps until she finally reached a table near the front of the cafeteria.
She sat down and people began to flock around her, like children welcoming their favorite grandparent.
I watched Royce for a few minutes, and felt overwhelmed with sadness. I wanted to talk to her, but I had no idea what
I should say. What do you say to someone when you both know it could be the last conversation you'll ever have? So this is
it. This is where we end up. Bummer, huh? When the crowd around Royce had thinned a bit, I rose from my seat and walked toward
her table. After about four steps, I stopped, my eyes stinging and my throat starting to close. "Don't do this to her,"
I said to myself, "don't make her feel worse than she already does." I turned and sat back down at my table.
"I can't do it, Mel," I said. "If I talk to her, I'll start bawling and she doesn't need that."
"Do you want me to go with you?" Melanie asked.
"No, just let me sit here for a minute," I answered. "I'll figure this out."
I made another attempt to approach Royce with the same result. I knew if I said a word, I would cry. And if I cried,
Royce would feel sad too. And Royce already had enough sadness in her life without my adding to it. I walked out into the
hall and leaned against the cool brick wall. I leaned my head back and took a deep breath. "You have to say 'Hi' to her,"
I thought. "You know you have to..."
I shook my head a little to clear my thoughts, then screwed on my best fake smile and headed straight for her table.
"Hey, Royce," I said."Wow, it's great to see you. We've missed you here." I was determined not to
lie to her. No you look great or you're gonna come back and visit us next year, right? phoniness. Royce would see right through
it.
"How's Jennifer? And Grace...how's Grace?" she asked. Typical Royce; she and my wife were old teaching buddies,
and it seemed like every conversation I had with her started with "How's Jennifer?" before moving into the "How's
Grace?" questions about my daughter. The hollows in her cheeks were new, but the eyes were still Royce's, bright and
clear. Same ol' Royce...
We talked for a few moments about school and her garden. As a farewell gift, the staff had chipped in to buy her a stained
glass window for her home, and we talked about whether she should install it in her kitchen or her den.
"Tell Jen I said 'Hello'...and Grace too," she finally said. She reached out and patted the top of my hand.
"See you, Royce. You take care of yourself."
I went back to my classroom where no one could see my tears.
Royce lasted another couple of months. One day that August, she closed her eyes and left us. That spring after her death,
the school purchased a white dogwood, which one of our maintenance crew planted just outside the main entrance to the building.
We met after school, a few days after the tree was placed in the ground. It was a sunny spring day, clear and cool, and the
tulips and crocuses were just starting to peek through the ground. The old school year was drawing to a close, and a new summer
was about to begin.
I stood with the rest of our faculty in the breeze. Bobby was there, and so were several of Royce's former students,
back to officially remember her one last time. "This is a good spot," I said to no one in particular, "right
where the kids come in from the bus every morning." I liked the idea that Royce's tree would be the first thing they
saw when they walked into our school. Royce's school. After all, she had been a teacher here since the building had opened
many, many years ago. For almost thirty years, Royce had watched over, cared for and loved her students. It seemed right that
her tree would continue that watch for years to come.
I smiled a little, then turned and walked back into the building to get ready for the next day of classes.
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