The guardian of the unfinished "chapters of life" for children with cancer.

The classroom is on a fine line.

For nearly 20 years, those lives unfolded in Ms. Phan's classroom in a very different way. No schoolyard, no drumbeat, no summer or school year. Only lessons measured by each child's health, and encounters that adults always feared might be the last.

Her journey began on a special morning, when she walked into a hospital room and met the eyes of children waiting for something ordinary.

It was September 4th, 2009, the day when students across the country were starting the new school year, when Ms. Phan entered the pediatric oncology department of the Ho Chi Minh City Oncology Hospital to begin a class unlike any she had ever taught in her teaching career. There were no school bells, no neatly arranged chairs. Only hospital beds, IV drips, and bald heads.

The children's faces beamed with joy at the opening ceremony, even though many still had IV tubes in their arms. (Photo: Provided by the interviewee)

Few people know that before stepping into that special classroom, she had spent more than three decades teaching. In the years after liberation, she left the city for the Central Highlands, learned the Ede language to communicate with her students, lived among the villagers, and was affectionately called "Ho Phan" by the locals.

Those years taught her what disadvantages children face, that even going to school is sometimes a struggle. But it wasn't until she entered the Pediatric Oncology department that she confronted a different reality: some children not only lack the means to learn, but also have to fight for every day to survive.

Ms. Phan recalled with emotion: "The first time I saw the children, I was afraid to touch them. Not because I was afraid of getting sick, but because I was afraid of hurting them. Then there were those eyes looking at me. No questions. No cries of pain. Just looking, as if searching for something normal amidst the smell of disinfectant and the sound of the heart monitor. It was those eyes that kept me there."

The Sunflower Class was born from that moment. The first lesson she taught was writing their names. For many children, it was the first time they saw their names on a piece of paper, no longer listed as "bed number patient."

The children expressed their gratitude to teacher Phan with beautiful flowers. Photo: Provided by the teacher.

In that classroom, success wasn't measured by grades. Sometimes, success was simply a complete lesson, a burst of laughter amidst exhausting treatment days, or a child having the strength to sit through an entire class.

Along with those classes came unexpected farewells. Over 17 years, she has welcomed countless students, and for those same 17 years, she has had to come to terms with the reality: It's quite possible that tomorrow, a familiar face will no longer be there.

In that classroom, there were remarks that left the adults speechless. One lesson, while the teacher was correcting papers, a little boy suddenly said very naturally, "I'm going to die from illness, I'm not going to study anymore." No one cried. No one screamed. The words fell on the classroom as lightly as a notice of dismissal. The tone was so nonchalant that if you only heard it without understanding the meaning, you might think it was just a child who was bored with school. But the adults in the room were all stunned. Ms. Phan's hand holding the pen froze in mid-air. The volunteers looked at each other. The mother standing behind quickly turned away.

The child didn't say that out of despair. They spoke in the voice of a child who had heard too many adult conversations, who was familiar with words like "seriously ill," "not surviving," and "dangerous." For them, death was no longer a distant concept. It had become a possibility, spoken of as information.

Ms. Phan didn't react strongly. She pulled a chair closer, placed her hand on the girl's shoulder, and said, "Let's study whenever we can. Let's study for the sake of enjoyment."

The class continued that day. They still practiced writing and reading. But from that moment, something changed in the hearts of the adults. They understood that in this class, the children weren't just learning to read and write. They were learning how to live each day with a serenity that adults often lacked.

And from such words, Ms. Phan understood: What needs to be taught here is not just literacy, but preserving for the children a final period of normalcy in their childhood, before it becomes too late.

Those words didn't carry a tragic undertone when they came from children's mouths. What pained the adults was their composure. Illness had become ingrained in their consciousness as a part of life. There were days when the nurse called a child's name in the middle of class. The child would put away their notebook and say, "I'm going for a quick IV drip, I'll continue studying later." Some "later" never returned.

In that classroom, Ms. Phan gradually understood that what the children needed was more than just letters. They needed a place to be children. In the small room in the middle of the hospital, they vied with each other to tell stories, show off a math problem they solved correctly, and boast about their beautiful handwriting. Some children asked her to let them write more because "I feel better than usual today." Some children, too weak, still begged their mothers to push their IV carts to class just so they could "sit and watch their friends learn."

Besides learning to read and write, the children also participate in fun cultural and recreational activities, experiences they had never had before.

The classroom, therefore, is not just a place to teach literacy. It's a rare moment of normalcy amidst days filled with needles and medication. There, the children are no longer patients. They are students. "At first, tears just flowed uncontrollably. Later, I learned to hold them back. Not because the pain stopped, but because if I didn't become stronger, I knew I wouldn't be able to continue," Ms. Phan recounted.

That strength didn't come naturally. In 1989, her eldest son died at the age of eight. That tragedy tore her life in two. The pain didn't disappear, but it made her see other mothers in the hospital in a different light. When they cried in the hallway while holding their children, she didn't need anyone to explain. "The mothers would cry as soon as they saw me. I knew where they were hurting," Ms. Phan recalled.

It was her past wounds that prevented her from turning her back on the children battling illness. Her personal pain didn't numb her; it gave her enough empathy to stay, even knowing that many more farewells lay ahead.

Notebooks that are never finished.

On the third floor of her small house in Tan Dinh ward, Ho Chi Minh City, are cardboard boxes labeled "Classroom Keepsakes." Inside are thousands of student notebooks, their pages left unfinished.

Occasionally, Ms. Phan would flip through the pages of the notebooks, as if turning over pieces of her students' memories.

Ms. Phan also carefully preserves the children's drawings. (Photo: Provided by the interviewee)

"Each notebook is a tiny living being that has met me. Some stopped midway through a math problem. Some stopped at a writing exercise. The pages that follow are completely blank. Not because of laziness, but because the writer no longer has time," Ms. Phan recounted.

Ms. Phan kept them, and one day returned them when the family's grief had subsided. She brought the notebooks and drawings back, as if to say: Their child had once had a different life outside of the hospital bed, a life of being a student.

Ms. Phan during a visit to return commemorative books to the families of her students. (Photo: Provided by the interviewee)

For Ms. Phan, returning an item was more than just giving it back. It was a way to close a chapter, to prevent memories from getting stuck between those who stayed and those who left. Each time she returned from such a trip, she would sit for a long time in front of the remaining boxes of notebooks, as if telling herself that she still had work to do.

Among those notebooks was the one belonging to Khanh Hong, a little girl who left a deep impression. Hong had leukemia since she was 4 years old and had almost never been to school. At the end of 2021, Ms. Phan taught her online three times a week.

Little Khanh Hong, a student who left a deep impression on teacher Phan. Photo: Provided by the interviewee.

Hong learns very quickly, has beautiful handwriting, is strong in math, and writes with rich emotion. She also has a talent for drawing. Nearly 70 paintings were created during her treatment. Ms. Phan took the paintings to introduce and sell them to help her family cover hospital expenses.

In her notebook, Hong wrote: "I really enjoy learning… I hope to draw more beautiful pictures so that everyone can live positively." A child who grew up in a hospital wrote words of encouragement for healthy people. There are notebooks she hasn't dared to open again for years. But she still keeps them. Because if no one remembers, those pages of her life will fade away as if they never existed.

A child who grew up in a hospital wrote words of encouragement for healthy people — something that still leaves Ms. Phan speechless for a long time every time she reads it.

These heartfelt words from little Khánh Hồng about Ms. Phấn and her art teacher. Photo: Provided by the interviewee.

At 70 years old, Ms. Phan doesn't talk about sacrifice. She simply says, "As long as there are students who can learn, I will continue to teach them." A simple statement, but enough to explain why, for nearly two decades, amidst a series of farewells, one person has chosen to stay.

And thanks to those who stayed behind, those notebooks, though never fully filled, were never forgotten.

Source: https://phunuvietnam.vn/nguoi-giu-nhung-trang-doi-dang-do-cua-cac-em-be-ung-thu-238260130154900104.htm