Quiet hallways scare me. Having passing period come and go with so little chatter is disturbing. These are high schoolers, and their lives have been affected in ways very few know how to be prepared.
The class across from me is always buzzing. Today I can barely hear the teacher.
There were going to be humorous presentations, now instead there are crosswords, study halls, and word of another teacher fighting cancer.
He was in the school teaching last week. LAST WEEK. He wanted more than anything to make it until the AP Calculus test and be there for his students until then. He did. He made it. But he paid for it, because he left the school early that day, driven by another teacher, because he was malnourished and dehydrated.
The cancer took advantage of his big heart and shredded it to pieces.
I see several math teachers throughout the day. It hurts that all I can ask is "how are you holding up" knowing that they have it so much worse than I do. They *knew* him. They worked with him. They LOVED him.
He was incredibly involved in the school. While we only exchanged smiles in the hallway a few times, I knew who he was because of the impact he had on the school. He was the wrestling coach. He tutored after school. He climbed mountains. He ran half-marathons. He had more teacher awards from students than could be counted.
Quiet hallways scare me. All anyone ever said was "if anyone should be able to beat this, it's him." While I'm sure this is a common phrase among most victims, I truly believe this to the core. He fought it for four years. He showed strength in times of weakness, and hope in times of helplessness. He was in school last week. He found out his liver was failing last night. He died hours later. It all happened so fast... Screaming...and then silence.
I donated today. even though everything is final, I had to reach out somehow. He had only been married for seven years. He had two daughters, 4 and 6 years old. He left behind a family of falcons that have so much respect for him, they are silent in the hallways. I had to do something. I had to do something.
It is easier, for me, to support rather than mourn. I will continue to ask how the math teachers are doing and will continue to hope that the silence turns from something scary to something beautiful.
Dave Thornton, you will be forever loved, forever missed, and forever remembered. God bless.
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