A 15-year-old student passed away due to cancer. He surprised his teacher with a life-changing gift
Joshua Adam Cosmo Castle was the inspiration for this piece. Alligator, I’ll see you later.
“My desk was obscured by a shadow. As he showed me a picture on his phone, a 13-year-old boy looked directly at me, grinning. “Hello, my name is Olivia.” “She’s my cat, and she occasionally naps on my neck,” he explained. I chuckled out loud, silently blessing the Grade 8 students. They haven’t yet figured out how to be “cool,” so you get them in all their weirdness.
I expressed my gratitude to Josh for sharing his photo of Olivia with me. I continued grading class papers after he waved farewell. Josh’s essays were always a high point in the class. He was intelligent, mature, and humorous. Oh, and he was a cat person. He became a strong favorite, which is partly why I felt like I’d been smacked in the face with a shovel when we learned of his cancer diagnosis at the start of his Grade 9 year in a staff meeting. “If you are possible, Josh has stated that he would prefer visitors in the hospital,” my principal added, reading from her notes.
I obtained his mother’s contact information and scheduled a visit for the next afternoon. The scent of hand sanitizer transports me back to that corridor, to Josh’s room, even today. Josh was in the center, surrounded by people. “Ma’am!” he said, ecstatic at the prospect of some new entertainment. He introduced me to everyone in his immediate vicinity. I suddenly forgot all of the names. He was the only one there. That’s my boy.
I pieced together the news in bits and pieces. Cancer. Cholangiocarcinoma is a type of cancer. He possessed it despite the fact that he was six decades too young to have it. It’s in all four stages.
As often as I could, I visited him every few days. To help with deep vein thrombosis, he was fitted with tights. I arrived with my satin ballet slippers one day. He was overjoyed and wore them for several hours. We’d talk about school, what the other kids were up to, and how he felt about the nurses and hospital food. I’d whine about my schedule and administrative workload. He smiled and nodded. “Do you know what’s worse than a terrible schedule?” he inquired. “Wait, what?” I inquired. “Cancer,” he answered wisely, smirking as the audience gasped in surprise. That was his sense of humour, and it couldn’t get him anywhere.
Josh was sent home to die since there was nothing further they could do. Josh was unstoppable. “Will you continue paying me visits at home?” he inquired, fearful that I would answer no. “I’d pay you a visit on Mars, cherub,” I said. Mars turned out to be right around the corner from where I live.“
At his house, there were fewer people than there had been at the hospital. Penny Castle, his mother, squatted in the earth of her garden, sifting under emerald vines for the fattest eggplants, remarked, “People are done visiting.”
Josh’s family radiated light, and I could see where he got it all from. Shannon Chris, his younger brother, was gentle and friendly. My visits were frequent and lengthy, with tea time frequently turning until dinner.
I scheduled a meeting with my psychologist, who I hadn’t seen in years. I asked her how I could begin to accept the fact that my child, my student, a person I cared about, was dying. Her eyes welled up, and I recall her crying. When I was able to make my therapist cry over how horrible it all was, I remember believing that I’d somehow “won” treatment. It made me feel better about how much I was crying on any given day, at the very least.
She informed me that I had two options. I could either get away from him now and soften the blow later, or I could get closer to him now and cushion the blow later. Or I could take advantage of the time I had left and plunge right in, knowing I wouldn’t be wasting any time and that it would shatter me. I went with the latter option. All “property” about keeping sufficient space and detachment between a teacher and a student was thrown out the window. Josh was no longer a student; he insisted on going to school when he felt well enough, but I saw him more at home than in class.
I wish I could tell you that Josh defied the odds and is now a 20-year-old Ivy League student studying robotics or astrophysics. Josh died in his mother’s arms on Jan. 18, 2018, 354 days after his diagnosis, and my world as I knew it came to an end. Grief began in a way I had never experienced before. It was all I could think about.
I was scared that after the memorial, his family would ask me to stop visiting them. Josh wasn’t there any longer, and I was just his teacher. I convinced myself that they would want to grieve alone, with their closest friends and family. They drew me in with them as I hovered on the edge. We continued to see each other and lean on each other.
Over time, the well-wishers stopped visiting, but I stayed. People wanted to stop talking about Josh, for fear that it would upset his family. All I wanted to do was talk about him, and we did. It was messy, it was loving, it was real. I adopted two cats, and named the black cat Cosmo, a reference to Josh’s middle name. She doesn’t sleep on my neck but on my shoulder instead. I honoured Josh’s birthday with sour worms, Nando’s and DC movies. A week without seeing the Castle clan felt strange. Empty.
The Castles informed us in 2021 that they would be moving to England. I was devastated by their decision, but it was not mine to decide. Friends have moved countries before, but this was different. Visceral. Before they left, I celebrated the final birthday I’d have with them. An envelope with a Photoshopped plane ticket appeared among the balloons. My name, as well as my husband’s, was on the list. The flight path showed return flights between Johannesburg and London, where we lived. Instead of “business” or “economy,” the class said “family.” “You won’t get rid of us that quickly,” they said on the back.
Since Josh’s death, more time has gone than the years I had the honour and privilege of knowing him. His family has been mine during that period. My dearest friends are 20 years older than me, and their kid, Chris, is ten years younger than me. Persons I should have only met at parent-teacher conferences became the most influential people in my life.
When Josh invited me to see him in the hospital that day and when he asked me to continue visiting him at home, I believe he understood precisely what he was doing. Josh was my student, but he taught me so much more than that. He educated me about the concept of “chosen family,” which is defined by love rather than blood. People who have my heart in theirs and mine in theirs.
