“Miss…you’re, you’re… ALIVE!”

Harry was visibly shaken by the sight of me. The last time we had seen each other was the previous summer term, when I attempted to teach English to his class mid-heatwave, while privately fearing a biopsy result.

Six months on, I appeared beside him at our school’s reception desk, completely bald due to chemotherapy for breast cancer.

It was the first time I’d been at school when pupils were present since my diagnosis. Clearly, I had become deinstitutionalised in the interim because I didn’t remember that 2.10pm was going to be *busy* in the corridors.

I don’t like wearing anything on my head because it gets so hot and itchy – but had I thought about it, I might have considered students’ potential reactions and covered up.

Trying to calm him down, I told Harry it was OK to feel shocked at my lack of hair, and, after some considerable reassurance, he started to relax.

How would pupils react to my cancer diagnosis?

“At least you have still got your lovely clothes!” he chirped, before promising me he was going off to “TELL EVERYONE!” that I was alright.

Harry could have asked any teacher about me at any point since I disappeared from his life last July to find out how I was doing. But, as is so often the case with teenagers, out of sight is out of mind. They have, quite rightly, got more important things to be getting on with that are in front of their noses, not least GCSEs.

Adults sometimes blame children for their lack of empathy or caring but, actually, research shows that their brains are still developing and sometimes they can’t do what we think they “should”.

When I tell people I am a teacher at a secondary school, they usually stare in horror and loudly proclaim that “they couldn’t possibly do it”.

Harry proved how underestimated teenagers often are, and reminded me of one of the many reasons why I love my job: the young people we are privileged work with.

Later that day, a meeting with a couple of students in my Year 11 form revealed more anxiety on their part as to how to deal with a teacher who has been diagnosed with a serious illness. Telling me how much they loved their cover form teacher, I noticed shadows of worry crossing their faces as soon as the words were out.

“She’s not better than you though!” they qualified, worrying that I might be hurt by this. I explained that their happiness was paramount, and they seemed placated. Would all those people who couldn’t imagine working with teenagers believe they could exhibit such kindness?

The kindness of students

Fast-forward a few weeks and I was due to meet the entire of Year 11 in the sports hall for school photos. Despite my fond feelings towards them, I was worried that it would be like ripping a plaster off a vulnerable wound.

I would see students I had taught for the past five years all at once, crammed into a room, with ample time on their hands to get noisy and mischievous. Conscious of the earlier trauma I had inflicted, I didn't know whether to wear a head covering or be bald. I was worried about drawing undue attention to myself in “their” photo, or making anyone else feel upset or uncomfortable.

Did I really want the nascent hair growing on my shiny pate scrutinised by the pupils standing on rows behind me? Was I ready for this?

And, actually, the experience revealed that there is almost as much variation in students’ reactions as there are students themselves.

Some were very solicitous of my feelings; some just wanted to share their news; some were unusually shy; and some acted as if we were just carrying on from the last time I saw them.

Many were understandably rather too preoccupied with their own pre-photo appearance to take much notice of a teacher they hadn’t seen for a while, cancer or no cancer.  

I'm officially back at school now, and am gradually meeting and teaching more and more students. Thinking carefully about how I present myself to students who have their own fears and experiences to consider is crucial.

I am still receiving ongoing treatment, and, as many of our students have first-hand knowledge of serious illness in their lives, I am trying to make sure that I am sensitive to their feelings when explaining why I look the way I do and why I am visiting hospitals periodically.

It will be a balance, but it’s one I am so thankful to have the chance to strike.

And after all that fretting, did I cover my head for the photos? Those pesky teenagers were at it again: “No miss, you shouldn’t. This is you now. You look beautiful.”

Emma Sola is a secondary school teacher at Dorothy Stringer School in Brighton