From Learning Magazine, July/August 1987
I was stunned when school nurse told me one of my 4th graders, Eddie Piller, had cancer. In the next few moments, everything I knew about this handsome, intelligent boy raced through my head. He loved chess, math, sports cars, drawing, the Buffalo Bills, the Yankees, and Nintendo. He'd become an important member of the class. After the school nurse finished talking, I got up, tripped on a folding chair, went into the bathroom, and sobbed.
That was in October. During the months that followed, I continued to teach this little boy reading, writing, and other subjects. And he taught me and my class about love and courage.
Eddie spent weeks in and out of the hospital undergoing chemotherapy and radiation treatments. He hardly ever complained, although he often felt sick from the treatments. And he remained an eager student, even during the times I tutored him at his home.
A good student
Eddie always listened intently to my lessons. If he didn't understand something, he asked questions. At times I tried to encourage him to share his inner pain with me. One day as we sat in his bedroom writing a story about winter recreation in Rochester, he wrote, "I don't go outside in the winter much because I have cancer." His head was bent down, and he seemed to be staring at the last word.
"That's a hard word to write, isn't it?" I asked him.
"No, it isn't, Mr. Sottile," Eddie answered. "I know how to spell cancer."
The other 4th graders respected Eddie. When he returned to school, they never mocked him because of his changed appearance. They saw that he'd lost his hair and had gotten thin, but they also saw the exceptional pride he took in his schoolwork, from his excellent handwriting to his perfect scores on chapter tests.
A fun-loving friend
Eddie knew he had a serious illness, yet he was armed with a zest for life. By January, he was too weak to spend more than a few hours each day at school. But he loved being with his friends, telling them jokes, discussing the most recent Buffalo Bills game with them, and chasing them around desks during snack time. Whenever I saw him chasing a friend, I said a prayer that he wouldn't slip and fall. There was too much glee in his eyes for me to stop his fun.
A winner
Eddie wanted to be treated like any other 9-year-old. And that's how his classmates treated him, except when he left for the day. Eddie's father would pick him up after snack time, precisely at 11:15 a.m. As Eddie left, the class would yell in unison, "Good-bye, Eddie!" it sounded like a victory cheer, as if he'd scored the winning touchdown by sharing math, reading, and snack time with us.
Near the end of May, Eddie experienced a major setback and was hospitalized. The class made cards for him, and his close friends stayed in touch by phone and with hospital visits. Eddie had a bone marrow transplant, but it wasn't the miracle everyone hoped for.
Accepting Eddie's death wasn't easy, but knowing him and seeing his courage touched all of our hearts. Mother Teresa once said, "We cannot do great things, only small things with great love." Eddie did countless small things with great love. He was always the first to lend someone paper or a pencil. He eagerly shared his drawings of sports cars, his sense of humor, and his curiosity. My class and I know that Eddie was a winner. And we're comforted by the belief that he'll live on in our memories.