There was a single "public" phone at the camp back then. It was just inside the door of the screened-in porch jutting off of the camp directors' primitive offices. It had an overstretched spiral cord to twist in nervous fingers while you made your telephone calls. I picked up the receiver and dialed.
"Hi, Mom. How are things?"
"Oh, hi, Kathleen! I'm so glad you called. Listen, we've got some attendants here at the house -- they're just coming in the door now. Hang on...." I overheard her speaking brightly to her newly-arrived guests. She returned to the phone. "They've got some oxygen tanks with them. Stephen's just needing a little help. Can you call me back?"
"Is everything okay?"
"Yeah. We're doing okay here... but I have to go for right now, alright? Call me back. Please? Will you call me back?" I heard muffled voices and rustling in the background. She sounded a little rushed, a little urgent, but understandably so. I'd called exactly when her help had arrived, and she was distracted.
"Sure. I'll call in a while. I'm just headed out to take the kids on a hike, but I'll call later. Okay?"
"Okay. I love you, and I'll talk to you soon. Buh-bye."
"I love you, bye." We hung up. I was troubled as I rejoined my cabin as they were filing past to go to lunch. Her voice had sounded calm, even cheerful. Maybe too cheerful. I didn't understand why Stephen would need oxygen tanks. I was anxious to hear the whole story when I spoke to her again that evening.
Fed and readied, the hundred-or-so campers and staff started off on our hike.
Camp Iroquois is on the shores of Keuka Lake in upstate NY, a region of tiny townships, open fields, and vineyards typical to the Finger Lakes. Our hike followed a dusty, unpaved, steep seasonal use road that wound its way along and then above the clean, blue water to an overlook aptly called "The Bluff."
Three miles. Uphill. The whole way. And then three back down again.
This was an exhausting hike for so many little - and in many cases, underused - campers' legs. Some of the more athletic and ambitious counselors led the older campers in a flat-out run to the top, but I chose to herd the slower and weaker ones. We stopped to rest frequently in the tall dry grasses along the way; passed out water bottles (which we, the counselors, carried), slapped band-aids on some blisters, and offered encouragement. It was hot. They were tired. We heard excuses and pleas to turn around. But there wasn't an option of stopping. We had to get to the top. It was an undisputable camp rule.
We made it. We always made it. And then, the campers were so proud of themselves.
The destination, The Bluff, had an additional attraction of its own. The beautiful Garrett Memorial Chapel. The chapel was built in a 6th century Gothic style, and almost entirely of stone imported from around the world. It was ornamented with symbols of motherhood, growth, and familial love. Words cannot sufficiently describe this incredible feat of architecture, especially when tucked so carefully into its peaceful, serene setting. If you have a moment, watch the linked slideshow for just a tiny glimpse of its beauty.
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| This photo is entirely inadequate. |
This is where I was.
I'd just led my group along an arched pathway, and up a few smooth slate-like stone steps to the entrance gates when I saw the camp pick-up, churning up dust as it powered up the road toward us. It pulled over and stopped an excessive distance away, some ten yards, and the entire camp turned expectantly and watched as its occupant trudged toward us, blond mullet still wind-blown behind him.
He was the camp's maintenance man, left behind to putter about the grounds, replacing screens or patching canoes. That single phone outside the office had rung that afternoon. And kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing, and ringing... until he'd finally come close enough to hear and answer.
He stood before me now, arms hanging dumbly at his sides. I held my breath.
"You have to go home," he said, winded. "Right now."
What do I do? WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo? My mind raced as I spun around to walk away from this news. Behind me, another counselor was fast approaching -- familiar, a friend, a friend that I'd had since preschool. Good old Jimmy.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as I fell into his embrace.
Back at camp, I sat on my rolled up sleeping bag and stared over the water, a hastily thrown-together duffel beside me. An aunt and uncle had left Elmira to collect me long ago, before the phone call had been answered, and were expected to arrive in just a few more minutes. They arrived.
I sank low into the backseat of their two-door sports car. I silently watched the tiny piece of sky I could see through the rear window on our race to my home. An hour and a half drive was far too long. And far too short.
We pulled up in front of my house.
I gripped both handrails and watched the wheelchair ramp blur beneath my feet as I dragged myself to the front door. I stepped over the threshold, and registered seeing my mother. My father. Someone else -- another aunt? I couldn't look at her. She was sitting close, too close to the hospital bed in the middle of the living room, too close to... him. I couldn't stop.
I walked right past his bulk and his absolute silence, out of the room, through the kitchen, through the laundry room, just as far as I could walk without escaping right out again through the back door. That's when I finally broke down.
Stephen was there. But Stephen was gone.
Click here to read other installments of Stephen's Story:
Stephen's Story, Part 1: A Flashback
Stephen's Story, Part 2: Wait, what?
Stephen's Story, Part 3: Chemo for Christmas
Stephen's Story, Part 4: There goes the hair
Stephen's Story, Part 5: Radiation and Ronald
Stephen's Story, Part 6: A Happy Birthday
Stephen's Story, Part 7: Great Danes and Paper Cranes
Stephen's Story, Part 8: Promises
Stephen's Story, Part 10: Requiem
To donate to St. Baldrick's in honor of Stephen, click HERE!
See the blog post on "Binary Voting" for details on how to vote for or against my head shave!
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