The Cincinnati Enquirer
Monica Rolfes, Paul Thomas' mother, helps him onto the couch in the teachers' mail room in Finneytown High.
(Michael E. Keating photo)
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December 1999
For days after the death of 16-year-old Alan Huhn, students and teachers came to Cathy Counts' office and shed tears. Parents, too, called and asked, "Why can't I get over this?"
The timing was bad, but the Finneytown High School counselor knew she had to tell students about Paul Thomas, one of three sophomores battling cancer this year. With Ms. Counts' help, the school had rallied around each boy.
In early December she called Paul's closest friends into her office, one by one, and told them he had tumors in his lungs. Then she made the rounds of English classes to talk to other students.
The news upset 15-year-old Rachael McAdams. But the pretty, auburn-haired sophomore remained optimistic. That was her way.
"I heard some kids talking about how they didn't think he would live that long, but I think he will," she said. "You never know. He could live forever. He told me himself, The doctors say I have a slim chance, but all I can do is pray because there's still that 1 percent chance.'
"He's really strong with that stuff. Stronger than me. I don't think I could handle that. He's got a great attitude about it."
Rachael had known Paul since eighth grade, when they sat next to each other in math class. Their friendship had blossomed this year. Paul wasn't in school much, so he called her often from the hospital or from home.
Teachers no longer expected Paul to do class work. They knew he came to school because he wanted to be with his friends. And as 1999 wound down, he wanted that more than anything.
Ms. Counts asked Beth Cullen Canarie, her contact at Children's Hospital Medical Center, if Paul might die at school. It wasn't likely, Ms. Canarie said, but possible.
That worried teachers. They respected Paul, and wanted him to be at school. Many saw him as heroic. But they wondered, what if he were in class and there was an emergency? How would they deal with that?
Paul's mother, Monica Rolfes, also had concerns. She called Ms. Counts and asked how she felt about him coming to school.
"Monica, Paul is a source of inspiration and strength for us. If he wants to come, bring him," Ms. Counts said. "We want him here. We want him to feel a part of things.'
Paul also had the support of principal Joe Speaks. In 27 years at Finneytown High, including 10 as principal, Dr. Speaks had seen his share of sick, disabled and special-needs children. In his final year before retiring, he never considered Paul too sick for school.
"Who could be that heartless?" he said.
If Paul wasn't in class, teachers and classmates usually knew where to find him in the teachers' mail room, just down the hall from the counseling office. He could rest there on a black couch, propped up by a blue bean bag chair.
Rachel McAdams pushes Paul Thomas' wheelchair to class as Kenny Smith walks by.
(Michael E. Keating photo)
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December 9
Third-year math teacher Jenny Breissinger thought Paul was asleep. She was on the mail room phone with her husband, whose grandfather was dying in Buffalo, N.Y. They were debating whether to leave immediately, how much school she might miss, the need for a substitute teacher.
She hung up, then realized Paul had been listening.
"Mrs. Breissinger, are you OK?" he said from the couch.
She sat in his wheelchair. "I just don't know what to do, if we should go up or wait."
Paul touched her hand. "Mrs. Breissinger, you have to go. You're going to regret it if you don't."
The Breissingers arrived in Buffalo an hour too late. But Mrs. Breissinger knew Paul was right. She would have regretted not going.
Friends and family lighted memorial candles for Paul during the service at the school's Performing Arts Center.
(Michael E. Keating photo)
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December 15
Mrs. Rolfes pushed her son's wheelchair into the mail room. Even in a bulky Green Bay Packers jacket a gift from Children's Wish Foundation he seemed to be all bones. A few wisps of hair lay limp on his head. His red-rimmed eyes peered through oval glasses.
He gingerly stepped out of the wheelchair, sat on the couch, and vomited into a trash can.
"If you want me to hang out with you, Paul . . . " Mrs. Rolfes said, rubbing his back.
He soon felt well enough to go to boys' chorus, where choral teacher Theresa Merrill and three dozen teens were ready to rehearse for the holiday concert.
"Sit tall in your seats, please," she told them. "Get rid of your gum."
In 20 years of teaching, including 10 at Finneytown, Mrs. Merrill had never met anyone like Paul. Back in October, a half hour before the fall concert, he'd shocked her by coming on stage on crutches during a last-minute rehearsal. "Mrs. Merrill, surprise!" he had said.
Now in the choral room, the boys' husky voices boomed: Sing Noel, celebrate this joyous season now and throughout the year.
Paul hunched in his wheelchair, his eyes following the music. The holiday concert was five days away. He wanted to perform.
When Mrs. Merrill complained that the boys were fidgeting too much, the room began buzzing with chatter. It grew louder, until . . .
"Shut up, everyone!"
Paul's voice was not loud, but it was effective.
After the rehearsal, Paul met his mother outside Ms. Counts' office, where he vomited again.
Paul's family listen to a humorous story during Paul's memorial.
(Michael E. Keating photo)
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December 17
Two days later, Paul got sick on the way to school, and arrived too late for the final boys' chorus rehearsal. He and his mother were in the counseling office when Brian Weiss walked in.
"Here's trouble," joked Mrs. Rolfes.
Brian had been diagnosed with leukemia in October 1998. It was in remission, but his medication still gave him headaches. He looked healthy, his round face topped by short, brown bangs. He and Paul had grown close during their time together in Children's Hospital.
Brian put an arm around Mrs. Rolfes. She lowered her voice, and told him Paul's tumors had multiplied; he might not live to see Christmas.
Later, in fourth-bell English, Paul sat in back of the classroom as Brian, Rachael McAdams and other students took a test. Paul pressed a pump near his waist nine times. Each time it made a little beep and released a dose of painkiller.
Rachael watched him bow his head, then lay his head on his arms and close his eyes.
She whispered to a boy in the seat closest to Paul: "Ask Paul if he's tired and wants to lay down."
"You ask him," the boy said.
"Ask him!" she demanded, and the boy quickly turned to Paul. "Rachael wants to know if you're tired and want to lay down."
Paul wanted to go to Mrs. Breissinger's proficiency test study class.
Rachael always pushed Paul's wheelchair to the class. She always made sure he had what he needed, a Dr Pepper or a peppermint. They always sat next to each other and caught up on goings-on at school.
Mrs. Breissinger liked Paul, too, and not just because of his advice to go to Buffalo. She knew he was smart. A year earlier in freshman algebra, he tickled her by saying fractions were easy.
He also changed the dynamics of her class. Most days, students divided themselves into two cliques, neither acknowledging the other. But with Paul in the room, the groups talked.
This day, everyone worked on self-evaluations. They read statements, then marked their answers.
One statement: I accept my body the way it is.
Paul's answer: Often true of me.
Another statement: I have the ability to make friends and create valuable relationships . . .
Paul's answer: Always true of me.
During Paul's memorial service, his sister, Nicole, could not read a poem she had written.
(Michael E. Keating photo)
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December 20
Monica Rolfes arrived at the school's Performing Arts Center for the holiday choral concert. Her seventh-grade daughter, Nicole, would sing. But not Paul. He was home with walking pneumonia.
Nine days later he was admitted to Children's Hospital.
January 3, 2000
On the first day of school after winter break, Ms. Counts drove to Children's Hospital. She took the elevator to the oncology floor, peered in Room 525 and saw Paul, asleep.
He reminded her of how her sister had looked just before she died of cancer.
Looking for Paul's mother, Ms. Counts wandered a bit, then stepped into the hospital chapel. She sat down and cried. Then she caught her breath and returned to Paul's room.
He was awake now, sitting up in bed, wearing an oxygen mask. He was hooked up to monitors and tubes.
"Is it OK if I stay a little bit?" Ms. Counts asked.
He nodded.
She filled him in on the morning's events at school; people had been asking about him.
More nodding from Paul.
She moved closer to his bed, touched his arm, and asked him to look at her.
"Paul, thank you for sharing your courageous spirit, your spirit of hope and truth and honesty. You have touched me deeply, and I will forever be grateful to you for that."
The ends of his mouth curled up in a slight smile.
"I know we don't often talk like this," she continued. "But you need to know that even though I'm a public school person . . . " Paul chuckled at that "I am praying with you on this. All will be well."
Paul pulled the oxygen mask away and looked at her.
"Ms. Counts, I want you to tell all my friends, thank you for being my friend."
He put the mask back on. Then removed it again.
"That includes you, Ms. Counts."
She almost broke down. But she knew she needed to be strong.
"You're tired, aren't you?" she said.
He nodded.
"I'm gonna go, now."
He removed the mask again.
"Ms. Counts, have a nice day."
Back at school, she individually sought out students and teachers closest to Paul, including Rachael McAdams.
"Rachael, he's not doing well."
"He's going to be fine," she countered.
"No, he probably isn't."
"Yes, I know he's gonna be fine."
"Rachael, he's very, very ill. His spirits were good."
"I'm so glad to hear that."
January 6
Three days later, Ms. Counts got the call from principal Joe Speaks at 7 a.m. Paul had died about 3.
The timing had been different with Alan Huhn. There had been more time to alert the staff. Now, Ms. Counts tried to catch teachers in the hallway before first bell.
Mrs. Breissinger found a note in her mailbox. Her first thought: Does Rachael know?
When Mrs. Breissinger walked into her first-bell class, senior Shannon Macarthy was there.
"Mrs. Breissinger, did Paul Thomas pass away last night?"
"Yes. I need to make an announcement."
Shannon began to cry. Mrs. Breissinger began sobbing, too.
Soon, 16 students, mostly seniors, arrived for pre-calculus. Mrs. Breissinger couldn't stop crying as she read the prepared announcement. It said students who needed to grieve could go to the counseling office.
Half joking, some students told Mrs. Breissinger: "Maybe you need to go to the counseling office."
It was busy there, as Ms. Counts expected. When Rachael McAdams arrived, she didn't know many of the other kids. She hesitated.
She and Ms. Counts stepped into a file room.
"He's not dead."
"Yes, Rachael, he is."
"No."
"Rachael, Paul died."
"No, he didn't."
Rachael turned pale. "I gotta throw up."
But she soon returned to the crowded office. The group shared stories about Paul. They ate pizza. They talked about a memorial service. It was good, Rachael thought, to see that her friend had touched so many others.
Sophomore Brian Weiss pulls down a rebound during gym class. His leukemia remains in remission.
(Glenn Hartong photo)
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January 13
More than a dozen students planned to speak at the memorial service, including Brian Weiss. Brian was now the last of the three boys who had been fighting cancer. Early in the day, he stopped in Ms. Counts' office so she could read his piece, titled "A Unique Kind of Friendship."
She found it somewhat distant. She wanted him to tap into his feelings.
"Brian, if you had a unique kind of friendship, Paul touched you and you touched him in a way that I can't begin to understand," she said.
He dropped his defenses. He allowed himself to cry.
"You need to go deeper," Ms. Counts said.
He shook his head, no. He imagined himself reading the words in front of a crowd; he didn't want to lose control.
"I want you to look at me," she said. "You have cancer. You're probably going to be fine. Everything says you're going to be fine. Do you worry that this is going to happen to you?"
"No."
"You're feeling lonely because you don't have other friends with cancer to talk with?"
"That's right."
"You miss your closest friend?"
"Yes."
"Then you need to speak to that," Ms. Counts said. "As you speak to that, you can own it. But if you don't acknowledge it, you're not going to get it out."
She left to get him a Pepsi. When she returned, he was busy writing.
A few hours later, Ms. Counts and six teens stood near a black baby grand piano on the Performing Arts Center stage.
"This looks good down here," the counselor called to students in the lighting booth, "how's it look up there?"
More teens arrived, including Brian Weiss.
"Be sure you talk into the mike," Ms. Counts told students. "If you start to cry, it's fine. Take a deep breath. Try to get through it. We have all seen tears in this place."
Mrs. Merrill arrived to direct the boys' chorus. The singers were dressed in white shirts and red ties.
"Are you guys ready to walk through it one time?" Ms. Counts said to the teens on stage. They did a walk-through. But nobody would read what they'd written.
"I need someone to track down some tissues," Ms. Counts said.
Rachael McAdams quietly sang to herself. "I wanna be loved by you, by you and nobody else but you . . . "
As 7 p.m. neared, people streamed through the lobby. Some stopped at a photo collage before entering the auditorium. They picked up programs that said: "Memorial Service in Celebration of the Life of Paul Rolfes."
(Before he died, Paul had requested that the name Rolfes his mother's name after she remarried be placed on his gravestone.)
On the stage, a table held more than a dozen candles. Each speaker lighted one, then walked to the lectern.
Jeanne Flick, the attendance secretary, said: "No matter what he'd been through, he would never complain. The only time I heard him complain was when the pop machine was out of Dr Pepper. I think Paul has touched every person he ever met in some way."
Ange Koesters could not finish her piece, so Ms. Counts stepped in to help with the last lines: "Paul made me realize how much I love life. I am thankful to have had a friend like him."
Rachael McAdams: "Paul taught me any old wheelchair can go 40 mph down school ramps. . . . Paul also taught me no matter what life throws at you, take it as a challenge and a blessing. . . . He was a true inspiration and I thank God for letting me get to know him."
Brian Weiss was the last student at the lectern. He focused on the paper in front of him. He dared not look at the crowd, lest he see people crying. He needed to get through this.
"My relationship with Paul was very special," he began. "We spent a lot of time together in Children's Hospital."
He told funny stories: Paul pinching his IV line, causing an alarm to sound and a nurse to come; the two of them racing wheelchairs down hospital halls at 3 a.m.; his last visit with Paul, over winter break, when Paul said, "Brian, I have to ask you a very serious question. Who do you think is better Superman or Batman?"
Brian did not look up. He had to finish.
"I want to thank Paul for helping me feel better, even when he wasn't feeling well. He cared about his friends and family and cherished them more than anything; he always put them first in his life.
"Thank you, Paul, for everything you have done for me in the short time I've had to spend with a great friend like you."
When all had been said and people began filing out, Brian sought out Paul's mother. He placed an arm on her shoulder, and gave her a gentle hug.
He followed her to the lobby, where they were joined by several other students. They continued to chat. Then the teens and Paul's family moved outside, into the cold January air.
They stood there and told stories about Paul. They chuckled, and told some more. It was as if nobody wanted to say goodbye and step into that dark, ominous night. As if they needed to hold onto something.
Each other.
And that, after all, was the life lesson, taught over a span of 16 months at Finneytown High School.
It was simple, and yet not always easily understood. It was as valid for students as for teachers. It would serve them all the rest of their days.
It was taught in classrooms, but also in the school driveway where the Walk for Hope began; and in the band room, where awful news was delivered; and in the counseling office, where many tears were shed; and in the Performing Arts Center, where two memorial services were held.
It was about coming together, leaning on each other, and drawing strength to go forward, no matter how dark the night.
Epilogue
On Jan. 18, Cathy Counts sent an e-mail to a friend.
"Today is the first day since early November that I haven't had a student in my office in tears."
Three days later, she received word that her second Pap smear was positive. Her doctor scheduled her for a biopsy to determine if she had cervical cancer.
On Feb. 2, she got the test results.
They were negative.
Part 1: A school confronts cancer
Part 2: Death casts its shadow
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