Haley Randall
Mrs. Roarty was one in a million. Truly, honestly, without a doubt. She had the ability to allow someone like me feel unconditionally loved and valued. I met her for the first time in 2011 when I was taking summer school gym before my freshman year at James River High School. I was always pretty pessimistic and skeptical growing up, but I remember thinking of her, “how can someone be so positive all the time? I want to be like that.” She was also very pregnant with her second kid at the time, but that never kept her from riding bikes with us or being actively engaged in everything she was teaching. Very impressive. She would always ask me to join the field hockey team, and if I wasn’t playing travel soccer I would have without a doubt—I had absolutely no idea how to play field hockey, but Mrs. Roarty was the kind of person you wanted to be around all the time.
As the next couple years passed at James River, I would see her in the hallways or the locker room and she would always greet me, by name, with a smile you couldn’t help but return. In the start of second semester of my sophomore year, a friend of mine came into our Communications class and told us about a growth she had found on her neck that she had gone to the doctor for. Naturally, all of us listening reached to our necks just to make sure some lump hadn’t suddenly appeared there. Everyone was smiling, wide-eyed, and continued to ask my friend questions, but I turned back around in my seat. I didn’t know how to say I had felt something on my neck, too. I told my mom about it that night, and she told me we definitely needed to make a doctor appointment. After a few weeks of poking and prodding and doctor appointments at various locations, the doctor called my mom and I back in.
When you’re 16 years old, being diagnosed with cancer isn’t something you really think about. Here I was, though, with Stage 2 papillary thyroid cancer. Treatable, but scary. Confusing.
Treatment involved lots of shots, lots of blood work, and a really strange low iodine diet. I had a full thyroidectomy, followed by a dose of radioactive iodine and a week of isolation. It was weird times. During this whole process, my fear of blood and needles intensified— I would pass out any time I had blood drawn and had a seizure when they were trying to put in my IV for surgery. I have a scar along my neck that becomes visible in the summertime, and every day now for the rest of my life, I will have to take a pill that does the work of what my thyroid would be doing. During this time, I withdrew from everyone. To me, admitting I was going through this meant admitting that I was weak.
Before I met Mrs. Roarty, she had already been diagnosed with—and beaten—two rounds of cancer. And even when she was battling with a third round, she kept us updated on how it was going but I never heard her complain once. So positive. I wanted to be like that. She had so much else to worry about, so when she and another teacher of mine came to visit me in the hospital after surgery, I was so confused. Why would she choose to visit me? There were so many other things she could have been doing. She had her own treatment, her own family, her own work responsibilities. She had to be tired. And yet here she was. For some reason, out of anything she could have chosen to do that day, she chose to visit me. Even if she didn’t feel strong.
After all this and throughout my Junior year, I had to continue getting tested to make sure my treatment was successful. Each time I saw Mrs. Roarty in the hallway between classes or after school, she would ask me how I was doing, always with a smile. All the while, though, she was deteriorating. What started out as breast cancer soon spread through her body, attaching to muscles, organs, and bone.
On January 25, 2014, Carrie Roarty passed away from brain cancer. I remember coming to school that next day, and my first period teacher stood in front of the class, unable to speak. It was like time had stopped. Someone so good was gone for no reason at all. During her visitation, the funeral home could barely fit all of the students, friends, and family that came. When I walked up to her husband and told him my name, he told me “Carrie has told me so much about you!” Holding back tears, I couldn’t understand how Mrs. Roarty had the capacity to care for so many people, even in her times of deepest pain and struggle. She is one of the strongest individuals I have or ever will meet.
James River High School was profoundly affected by the life of Carrie Roarty. She was loved by everyone at the school, and when you talked with her, you walked away always feeling like you had a little more life in you. She supported me in a time in my life where I desperately needed it. I want to live life better because of Mrs. Roarty and the impact she had on me in the few years I knew her, and I know I’m not the only one. Ask anyone she taught, any teacher she worked with, and they would all say the same things.
Being sick is not weakness. Letting others know your pain is not weakness. In fact, your story of “weakness” can make the strongest impact on the life of someone else. I learned that from Mrs. Roarty, and I am so honored to share her impact on my life and the lives of everyone at James River High School. We love you, Mama Roar.