Marlon

A case study of a remarkable 7th grader.

[Disclaimer: Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals]

On a wistful winter Wednesday in 2008, I received a phone call from my dentist. Well, he was more than my dentist. My mom had tutored his elder son back in the 90s, who I later prepped for the SATs when I first started tutoring. Then, I began working with little Marlon, the dentist’s younger child, who as a precocious preteen was invited to participate in the prestigious John Hopkins 7th grade SAT program. He was a great kid, from a grand family, and we established an exceptional rapport during our six months of working together.

I answered the phone, and his dad explained to me that he had something to share, and though it had a happy ending, it was heavy. Marlon’s sinus infection from a week ago had turned into an eye infection, which turned into a brain infection. Doctors had to perform emergency brain surgery, and he had almost died during the procedure. He emerged from the surgery with no brain damage, but his left leg was paralyzed, and his emotional capacity and personality were greatly hindered. Days passed and, as he began to regain feeling in his leg, he still was physically incapable of experiencing joy or pleasure. Slowly but surely, Marlon’s personality began to come back around, and by the time his dad was explaining this to me he was almost back to being himself. But he was obviously still very much so a wreck, and was still very much so in the hospital.

His dad requested that we hold today’s tutoring session at the hospital, and asked how I would feel about that. I replied that I’d be more than happy to do anything I could to help. He requested that I come up to the hospital, sit with Marlon and just do some light math work with him for about a half hour, see what kind of condition his mind and spirit were in, see if he was still himself, and call it a day. No biggie. (YES BIGGIE).

This was a kid who was as sharp as any student I had ever tutored, and I suddenly found myself on a train headed uptown to see if his brain and personality may have become incapable of functioning because of a sinus infection. Clearly, this was new territory for me. I walked into the hospital room not knowing what to expect at all. The kid’s twelve. He just got out of brain surgery. He almost died, was temporarily paralyzed, and had lost the physical ability to experience joy. And now here comes his 26-year-old tutor with the backwards hat and baggy jeans, assigned with the task of casually assessing whether or not his burgeoning sense of self had managed to survive emergency brain surgery and immense emotional trauma.

I entered the hospital room and there was Marlon, looking like an infant in an incubator. Any evidence of cool or machismo that used to radiate from his eyes, of which there was normally a surplus, had been replaced with…well, lots of stuff. But he didn’t appear to be down, which was uplifting for me to observe. He just looked little. Meek. Fragile. We talked about the hospital and his room and stuff for a bit, just trying to ease our way into the experience.

It was a lot for me to handle. During the first fifteen minutes or so I fought back flourishes of emotions. I cared about this kid, and here he was with staples holding his head together. Half of his head was shaved, and his wrists looked like candlesticks. I fought back tears, and hugs, and questions, and escape routes, and just spoke with him, attempting to establish an atmosphere of comfort.

I was also avoiding doing math with him. I couldn’t cope with the impending moment when I was expected to ask him a basic question, or even a complicated one, and he might stare back at me, blankly. Although I realized that he could easily be rusty, or shaky, or nervous, or temporarily incapable of doing math, it was still a scenario I was dreading. So we started with a light game that we had played many times before, one that was invented by a third grade student of mine, called “Attack of the Possum”. The game ended in a tie, and we went to a final tiebreaker round. I could tell that he was enjoying the experience, and was excited by the competition and challenge. I, ridiculously, was trying as hard as I could to win, because I can’t lose on purpose to kids at anything. He ended up losing by one point.

We moved on to another game, one that was more challenging, and would be the real test to see where his skills had traveled throughout all of this. A game called “Buzz”, which I have played literally thousands of times with hundreds of students, and which I have only lost twice – once to Marlon. He did quite well, didn’t miss a step, and ended up, again, losing at the very last moment. It didn’t seem to faze him at all that he lost – and I couldn’t bear to put him through a sympathy victory.

Throughout the games, we spoke a bit about his experience in the hospital and interactions with other patients and such, and it was clear that he was lucid and, well, himself. Slowly my feelings of grief and concern changed to sheer exuberance, as I realized that he was fine! Dead? Brain dead? Paralyzed? Altered? Nope! Marlon was Marlon, and it seemed that he was going to continue to be Marlon. This was an inspiring conclusion to come to, especially while sitting there in front of him, leading him through these exercises that were helping to prove not only to me, but to his father and himself, that he was, seemingly, okay.

Eventually, 30 minutes were up and I, awkwardly, had to leave (I had another student on the other side of the world in 45 minutes). We made a plan for me to come back to visit (not tutor) him again, and I told him how proud I was of him and his courage. As I exited his room, and the blitz of feelings reemerged, his dad approached me, explaining how helpful he thought my visit was, repeatedly asking, “Did you see his face?!?! Did you see his face?!?”

It was touching. I could tell he wanted to hug me goodbye, and I wanted to as well, but societybusinessamericabullshit was in my head, so we shook hands and I left. I navigated my way out of the hospital, power walked from York Ave towards Lexington, boarded the train, and made my way to my next student. When I got home later that night, an email was waiting for me from Marlon’s dad.

“You done good today, Jesse. Marlon and I both needed to see you. Thank you.” I replied, “No biggie.”