Buzz for Bubbers: Stephen's Story, Part 8: Promises

April and May passed, too quickly.

June came creeping in, and with it, the summer's humidity. Stephen was indoors all of the time now -- the heat was just too much for him. He had become too heavy and unable to support himself to lift safely, and our family cars weren't wheelchair accessible. Stephen was homebound.

There was one exception. He had a last appointment to keep, an important event to attend: His 6th grade graduation ceremony.

His classmates were glad to see him. Everyone made a point of saying hello when he arrived, or as he was wheeled past. He waited in the wings with all the others as all of the students' names were called alphabetically.

Finally, "Stephen... Haslett." The crowd cheered and whistled as the band instructor wheeled him front and center to accept his certificate.

Again, Stephen received a standing ovation. But this one was very long. And slow. And it had gone silent. There were no more cheers, no murmured conversations within the audience. Just the rhythmic thunder of hands clapping, echoing off the gymnasium walls. The applause had changed somehow. It had become a send off, and not a celebration.

The following week, I went off to the American Legion Auxiliary's Girls State. Earlier in the year I'd applied, in the hopes of bolstering my college applications or maybe even receiving a scholarship. Only one girl from each school district was chosen. To my surprise, I was that year's selection. Now the time had come around for it to happen, and I was feeling ambivalent. I'd be gone for a week, almost four hours away, and things at home could change quickly.

Stephen said, "They picked you. You should go."

"But I'd like to stay here with you. In case.... To keep you company," I said.

"I'll be here when you get back," he countered.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

So off I went. It was a week I very much needed. For that short time, my mind was occupied with meeting new faces, political discussions, conferences and debates, and late nights with the other girls in the dorms. I worried a bit, but the week ended without incident, and I went home.

Stephen and I resumed our quest to beat Donkey Kong Country. Again. He'd tell me where to go, and what to do, and I'd push the buttons on the controller until my fingers ached. One afternoon, he nonchalantly said, "I'd like you have this - the Super Nintendo - when I'm gone." It was the first time he'd ever indicated, to me, that he even knew he was dying.

The following week, I was offered a summer job. All of the hours I'd put in at the pool had culminated in Lifeguarding, CPR, and First Responder certifications, and my instructor at the high school was the director of a summer camp. Camp Iroquois was run by the New York State Sheriffs' Association, and served disadvantaged kids from all across the state. The director needed a new junior counselor. I'd teach swimming, snorkeling, and canoeing, and spend some peaceful time on the water, around the campfire, and in a cabin in the woods. I wouldn't be required to work every week. I could be scheduled a week on, and a week off. Keuka Lake was only a little over an hour from home. I decided to go. But first --

"Stephen, promise me you'll be here when I get back."

"Okay."

"You promise?"

"I promise!"

When I returned again, we tried to resume our video game, but I noticed that Stephen wasn't really paying attention. He would just kind of gaze off, across the room, or out the window. It turned out he couldn't really see the screen anymore. He was listless and bored. I decided to spend the week reading to him instead.

I chose a book that I remembered loving when I was in the sixth grade. Where the Red Fern Grows, by Wilson Rawls. I had a clear recollection that it was about a boy, one who seemed to have few rules and restrictions, who spent his time in the forests of the Ozark mountains with his dogs. I thought that his freedom would appeal to Stephen, as well as the descriptions of uninterrupted natural spaces, and his relative solitude in only the company of his beloved coon hounds. I'd remembered the pride with which he trained his dogs, his becoming a respected hunter, and the excitement of winning competitions and trophies.

I hadn't considered the ending. The male dog was killed in an epic battle with an unbeatable mountain lion. The female, his sister, died of grief.

A day later, I returned to Camp Iroquois. But I'd forgotten to take along something important this time. My promise.

Buzz for Bubbers

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Stephen's Story, Part 8: Promises

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