I am a school district home teacher, working with children who, for one reason or another, cannot attend their school. The duration of my stay with each student is temporary, lasting a from few weeks to a few months. With Mason, I would end up being his teacher for most of the school year. At the end of the previous summer, after intense medical investigation, Mason had been found to have a cancerous brain tumor. When I first stepped through his door, he was at the beginning of his chemotherapy treatments. We met four mornings a week and every few weeks this schedule would be interrupted by Mason's four hour round trips to Portland's Doernbecher Children's Hospital.
Mason had a single mother and older sister. They were all living with the mom's parents in order to make ends meet. As I got to know his extended family, I saw the strong faith which they were passing down to Mason, and every once in awhile, Mason would give me a glimpse into what it meant to him. But I'm getting ahead of my story...Mason's story. Our lessons centered primarily on language arts, a pinch of social studies, and a huge helping of math with card games, board games and challenging puzzles thrown in. In the beginning, there was no difference between Mason and any other student I was teaching. He came to his table prepared, excited and ready to trip up his teacher with his budding intellect. Math was a pure joy, as I watched Mason lap up the numbers and teach me how to solve the ever more complicated problems of 3rd grade. And like any other 3rd grade student, he loved beating the teacher at the games we played.
The rosy beginning slowly grew into a more difficult phase. Chemotherapy made Mason sick and his mother shared with me how his and thus her nights became restless with her anxiety and his nausea. Mason's lovely hair thinned and fell out. But his balding head shone and his eyes still twinkled. Because the tumor was in his brain, balance was impaired. He began having trouble walking upright, and his mother was constantly by his side as she guided him to the table for our lessons. We now talked more than we studied. We talked about his estranged father. We talked about his hope-filled faith. We read stories, we played games; we did less math.
When I share with people that I work with kids who are fighting cancer, they give me sympathetic glances. But every morning as I drove towards Mason's house, my heart was full of gratitude. Mason was my gift. He was teaching me more than I would ever be able to give him. He was teaching me about courage, about having a positive outlook, about the preciousness of living. On one particular morning as I knocked on the door, the chill of the new born winter was at my back. When the door opened, however, there was Mason's mother with her usual generous, warm smile despite her tired eyes. I looked toward the table and saw no Mason. Then I saw him on the living room couch. We thought he'd be more comfortable on the couch. There was a high table nearby with his books, his juice cup and a small throw-up basin. I cuddled near Mason and asked him where he would like to begin.
Games brought out Mason's energy. We discussed history, rather than read the text. Math problems became insurmountable mountains. Rain and dark clouds became the norm and as the winter school break approached, the temperatures dipped into the thirties. Every morning, without fail, Mason's mother had a gracious greeting for me at the door. Though she was sharing more about Mason's eating and sleeping habits and the worsening effects of chemo, her optimistic spirit never wavered.
In late January we had the first rare dusting of snow. Mason's mother phoned and said Mason wasn't feeling well. I asked if I could come and simply read to him and she agreed. I walked into Mason's house and immediately headed towards the couch where he lay, looking ghostly pale. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he saw me. I pulled up a chair and patted Mason's hand. I had brought a favorite story and as I began reading, Mason gave me a grateful glance. The words softly flowed from my lips as my heart ached and Mason's eye lids drooped. Just as he fell asleep, his grandmother came into the room. I had liked her right away and knew she was this family's steadfast matriarch. Grandma put her hand on my shoulder. I stood and turned and hugged her. The words in her throat caught as she spoke: He is such a good boy.
By February Mason could barely get up, let alone take a step. And one morning Mason's mom told me that the Doernbecher doctors were giving up. There would be no more chemotherapy sessions. I saw tears. I caught my own tears and held them tight inside. This incredibly funny, mature and insightful young man-to-be was dwindling right before our eyes. I drove to and from his house with a heavy heart.
Then on a Monday as Mason's mom opened the door, I saw a light in her eyes. We sat down near Mason and she explained that they would soon be leaving for Ecuador. A clinic was there which specialized in helping people with cancer using alternative therapies. The doctors at this clinic did not promise a cure, but they did promise a better quality of life. Mason and his mother would be leaving soon for two to three months. I smiled and eagerly filled myself up with the positive promise being offered. As I was saying my good-byes the grandmother walked into the living room and we three women stood silently in a long, prayerful hug.
During Mason's stay in Ecuador the family kept in touch with friends, relatives and teachers through the Internet Caring Bridge site. Updates including pictures were posted on this site and thus everyone was able to be there in Ecuador with Mason. Mason's diet was completely changed: no meat, no sugar, no processed foods...only fruits, vegetables, beans and whole grains. As his mother remarked, What a difficult diet for a 3rd grade American boy. He was also taking steam baths. Though Mason was in a wheelchair, they were having mini travel adventures to nearby villages and natural scenic wonders. One month passed and another began. The plan was for Mason to stay an added month. I eagerly scanned my e-mail for news. These reports came sporadically, but everyday as I drove to the houses of my other home bound students, I thought of Mason and his mother.
By the third month, pictures showed a Mason with short, spiky reddish hair and a glowing, rosy- cheeked face. My heart warmed as I read about his progress: he was standing and even taking a few wobbly steps. They would be home soon. I was not able to visit Mason until the following autumn. When I finally walked through his door, there stood a different kid. He wasn't completely steady on his feet, but he managed a few steps towards me. His vibrant, mischievous manner had returned. His single mother had remarried over the summer, and she appeared ecstatically happy. The grandmother greeted me with homemade cookies and a hug. We sat down at the kitchen table for a celebration. To me, this celebration represented all the determination, all the positive, never-give-up energy that this family had poured into Mason's well-being. As I sat there with Mason, his mother and his grandmother, I told myself to remember and always carry with me the story of Mason's courage, resilience and bright being. Several years have passed since I had the privilege of being Mason's home teacher. During this time he has learned to ride an adaptive bicycle, has taken trips to visit his cousins in another state, has stood and given the scripture reading at his church. His mother is home schooling him. And though he has had setbacks, Mason's healing, and his precious life, continues.
Postscript: Mason was able to attend public school for 6th and 7th grade. My former supervisor and current special education middle school math teacher remarked about what a wonderful young boy Mason was. It was through her that I learned Mason had passed on Sunday, June 10th, one day after his 14th birthday. I am deeply sad for I always wanted Mason to “make it.” But he did make it. Mason did make wherever he was a better place to be. Even in the short time I knew him, he was and continues to be a rare gift. Thank you Mason. Thank you for your joyous and mischievous spirit!
© 2012
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