'I wasn't ready to go yet' | How a teacher says his 'band family' saved his life

It’s the last day of school for seniors at Edgewood High School. In the band room, a student walks up to Jon Arnold and gives him a hug.

“I’m going to cry,” she says.

For Mr. Arnold — and his students — the last day of school is different this year.

Because Arnold wasn’t here last year. And he wasn’t here much the year before.

Arnold passed out at the hospital in 2022. He was eventually diagnosed with Leukemia, forcing him to miss almost two years of school.

“I went through pure hell,” Arnold said. “It's really a miracle that I'm still here.”

His first round of chemotherapy didn’t work, and Arnold spent about 100 days in the hospital. He couldn't eat solid food. Hooked up to a machine all the time, his wife cut holes in his shirts so he could walk around easier.

Provided/Jessica Arnold

For much of his hospital stay, he wasn’t even allowed outside. But in his room, he got so many cards from band kids and former students, his wife ran out of room for all of them on the wall.

“I was isolated because of my immune system,” he said. “But I could feel the love and support.”

Jessica Arnold is holding hands with her husband on their back deck.

“You didn't feel so alone,” she said.

Arnold returned to school this year. He said his health started improving as soon as his doctors said it might be possible.

"I wasn't ready to go yet,” Arnold said. "I wasn't ready to go."

He made a recovery that he said wouldn't have happened without his students. Students he said inspired him as much as he inspired them.

“I would describe him as the best teacher you could ask for,” said Gracieann Ruskaup, a graduating drum major for the marching band. “If I can just get through the day, I will get to the band room with Mr. Arnold and everything is going to be fine.”

Keith BieryGolick

That's the kind of statement Arnold didn’t hear — or didn’t fully appreciate — until he got sick. On a recent Friday, Arnold leads the jazz band through a Trombone Shorty song. He taps his foot. He dances.

He’s living.

Because he says it all means more to him now. At home, his wife pauses while talking about how her husband’s journey has changed her. Before saying anything else, Jessica Arnold cries.

“Small things matter the most now,” she says.

Small things like holdings hands, sitting on the deck — and for her husband, playing trumpet with his students.

Keith BieryGolick

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