It began with a broken hand. Or, it began the day in 2009 when my dad drove me to the doctor’s office to have my cast removed. I had been in a sledding accident that winter and fractured two bones in my right hand, rendering me unable to use a pencil in class. I chose neon green plaster so nobody could ignore my condition; I always loved attention.
When my time as the recipient of mercy came to an end, I had gotten my fill. Not an inch of my cast was left unsigned and I planned to keep it as a memento. But in the car that day, my dad lost peripheral vision in his left eye and side-swiped another driver. Soon I’d learn what it felt like to be the subject of pity all the time.
A small fender-bender couldn’t stop me from liberating my hand from its itchy bandaging, but soon after my doctor’s appointment, my dad had one of his own. Scans showed a tumor in his brain that had already begun to impact his ability to see. Tests confirmed that it was glioblastoma multiforme, a cancer so vicious that most patients only live 12 to 18 months past their diagnoses.
I was 11 years old, my sibling was 9, and our hourglass had flipped: We were running out of time to grow up with two parents. At such a young age, I’d mostly known excitement for the future rather than dread. Wading knee deep through confusion and fear, I grasped for something to hold on to. Camp was a constant I could rely on.
From my first summer at Camp Louise, it became a year-round fixation: corresponding with camp friends, planning what I would pack and practicing for the starring role I hoped to get in the next year’s play. I loved my counselors, the activities, grilled cheeses in the dining hall, pretzels and icing in the bunks. Growing up in North Carolina, I longed for my four weeks up along The Mason-Dixon Line surrounded by other Jewish girls. Not just the few I’d known my whole life in Raleigh, but new and exciting ones from places like Baltimore and Washington, D.C., with keratin treatments and Sugar Lips tank tops and collections of bar mitzvah hoodies and drawstring backpacks.
It was a sacred place where reality felt as far away as the 350 miles it took to get there. So when my dad’s diagnosis came before my second year at camp, I wanted to keep the real world at bay however possible. Although I felt supported by my community there, I didn’t talk about the things that were happening at home. I no longer wanted to draw any extra attention to myself, had no desire for any extra sympathy. Unlike when I had my neon green cast, basking in the attention it afforded me, now I worked to conceal my pain from my peers — and myself.
I floated through summers two and three as an ordinary camper, making memories with the friends I waited all year to see. I even dodged the 2009 swine flu outbreak, stepping from dutiful understudy into the role of Sleeping Beauty while most of the cast lay feverish in the infirmary. Meanwhile, I received daily letters and weekly care packages bursting with treats from my parents, but life back home looked different for them.
Money had been tight since 2008, when my dad’s homebuilding business went bust and our family had to declare bankruptcy. We had already been taken out of gymnastics due to mounting expenses, and my mom couldn’t bear to take camp away from us, too. She did everything in her power to keep life normal for us, which meant asking the directors for financial assistance before we registered for the upcoming year; medical bills had claimed most of the money she was now earning alone.
My mom managed to make the finances work to send us to camp for another year, but in spring of 2011, we received the prognosis that we knew would inevitably come: My dad likely had just three months left. Circumstances were uniquely bad. My maternal grandmother, who usually helped care for me and my sibling, was recovering from surgery herself, so my mom would have to take care of everyone on her own. Stretched thin as she was, there would be no trips to the pool or visits with friends if we stayed home in June. My parents and grandparents debated endlessly among themselves about whether my sibling and I should go to camp that year; they ultimately decided that a month without children lifted a massive weight off my parents. For my mom, who was caring for both my father and her mother while raising two girls and working full-time as a nurse, those four weeks acted as her only respite. I was pleased with the decision. It would be my fourth summer at Louise, and the idea of a skipped year spelled social and emotional ruin. So I packed up to go.
Before we left, my mom — terrified that something might happen to my dad while we were away — brought me and my sibling to Build-A-Bear Workshop. We made animals dressed in our dad’s construction site clothes. He recorded a message for each of us so that when we pressed our bears’ hands, we could hear his voice telling us, “I love you.” With our bears stuffed into our massive duffel bags, we headed to camp.
That year, I couldn’t sever my ties to reality. I had special privileges that made it impossible to hide my situation, like being able to call home whenever I wanted to talk to my parents. But even when my emotions caught up to me and I longed to disappear, I was glad to be at camp. Over time, it became clear that my secret was no secret at all. The staff all knew what I was going through, but rather than treat me with pity, they handled me with kindness. They continued to help make me feel like an ordinary camper.
That summer, my mom sat by my dad’s side watching his decline while she kept the warmth in her voice through every phone call. At the end of four weeks, we came home to see what could no longer be denied. My family was preparing my father for hospice care, where we would visit him every day over his final weeks, my mom watching as we held his hand and planted kisses on his fluttering eyelids. My dad died on August 14, two months into my 13th year.
Eighth grade ended, and I packed up just like I had every summer before. So much had changed, but shoving a rainbow of clothing and friendship bracelet string into those duffle bags felt like muscle memory.
Everything was perfectly, beautifully the same when I arrived at Camp Louise that year. My camp friends knew what had happened in our time apart, and they all made it clear they were ready to be by my side. I felt grateful for their support, but I couldn’t help worrying about one thing: The first Shabbat of the summer, where I would stand in front of everyone during the Mourner’s Kaddish. I still didn’t want to call attention to what had happened.
But on that Saturday morning, wearing all white, I stood and let myself — my grief — be seen. By the end of the first verse I could feel the tears on my cheeks, though not entirely out of sadness. There was a rush of relief in letting out what I had held in for so long. When I sat down and held the hands of my friends to my left and right, feeling unconditional support in their squeezes, I realized that opening myself up to support wasn’t the same as seeking attention. My camp friends were my community. We had chosen each other year after year, and they wanted to be there for me when I needed them most. There would always be hands outstretched. All I had to do was reach out and grab them.
Welcome to Hey Alma’s 2024 Camp Week! We’re celebrating the unique experience that is Jewish summer camp. Check back in all week long for personal essays, pop culture moments and great memes that encapsulate Jewish summer camp.
