Cancer Camp: Round Two

Let's clear the air: I'm no Angelina Jolie. At best, I strive for daily Good Samaritan status but that's as easily attained these days as holding the door for an old woman or helping an owner chase their dog that has slipped the leash.

That charitable imperative that some people seem to have hardwired into them every time they see a commercial for abandoned and abused pets or starving children in Indonesia – well that, more or less, skipped me over. Its not apathy, however, just a feeling that the problem is too big for my meager contributions to matter in the grand scheme of the universe. And, as a stalwart pessimist, you can believe that – right up until someone presents you with an opportunity to be hands-on, to be there to see the difference you make. And all those elaborate excuses just shatter at your feet.

This past August, I returned for my second year as a volunteer counselor at the Ronald McDonald Camp, a one-week sleep-away camp in Greeley, Pennsylvania, for children with cancer and their siblings. A non-profit organization, the camp, sponsored by Philadelphia's Ronald McDonald House, is funded entirely by charitable donations raised throughout the year to provide patients from age 8 to 17 with outdoor activities and festivals, allowing them to be – if only for one week – just like any other kid.

When first approached by my girlfriend about volunteering at the camp, I remember putting up the usual excuses: * I don't know if I can take off a week from work. * I'm not the best authority figure – sometimes just a big kid myself. * I won't know anyone there. * I've never had cancer – how can I relate to these kids?

The list went on, but the excuses just became more and more transparent, and I began to sound like a 6-year old on the first day of school. I was just scared – of the time commitment, of being a bad role model, of being stuck in awkward social situations, of simply embarrassing myself. It was just a matter of getting over myself and the little boy scared of not belonging. I don't think I've ever made a better decision.

You go in with these preconceived notions that there will be some kind of divide between yourself and the campers – that the subject of cancer will be the elephant in the room – but that simply wasn't the case. These kids already know everything there is to know about IVs, hospitals, and physical rehabilitation, have already been through more than I could imagine. Yet at camp, these topics, if not taboo, are taken in stride. Kids mention their childhood cancers as if it was a past broken bone, talk about ongoing chemo treatments like follow-up doctor visits, and it never ceases to amaze me how much they just want to be kids for a week. Not an icon, not a survivor – just kids.

The counselors too, a completely volunteer base, also take the weeklong packed schedule in stride. No one complains when kids who have spent months housebound or undergoing treatment inside a cancer ward want to spend every waking moment outdoors (with counselors in tow), paddleboating, canoeing, climbing the ropes course, fishing, horseback riding, swimming, or even spending an hour straight of just tossing a baseball back and forth. I saw more muscle bruises, cramps, and shoulder strain than I've seen in years, and not once would I have traded any of them back.

Possibly the most rewarding part of returning to camp is seeing the campers from the previous year, who were undergoing bouts of chemo treatments, and have now come back strong and healthy. One of my shining moments was seeing a camper I had in my cabin last year – Ethan, a bald, spindly-limbed eleven year old, who never seemed to stop smiling at his own wry humor. Upon seeing me this year, Ethan immediately pulled off his familiar Mario Bros. baseball hat (the only way I could have recognized him) to reveal a thick mop of dark wavy hair, and with that familiar grin, said, "Hey Bob, look! I've got hair!"

Its an endurance gauntlet, suddenly playing Mama Bear to seven rambunctious 12 year olds, but at the end of the week, its more than worth it to watch them exchange e-mail addresses with one another, hug me goodbye, and confirm for the seventeenth time that I have their parents' e-mail addresses so I can send them the photos I've taken of them catching a monster fish, flying through the trees on a zip line, or sitting proudly on a horse for the first time.

With any luck, I'll be back to share it all with them again next year.