My credit card bill came today, threatening me with all sorts of fees should I fail to pay for the four hundred dollars worth of text books that I purchased on Amazon last week.  I guess that means that I can no longer pretend that summer is here to stay or ignore the increasingly cooler temperatures that once satisfied my desire to be a Floridian resident all season.  Fall semester is soon to begin, and the Camp Sunrise sun has set.  However, having uploaded the nearly two hundred snapshots I managed to capture from camp onto my computer, I am reminded for the eighth summer in a row that my children are unforgettable and will be remembered not only by the mosaic of pictures I have prepared for my dorm room wall but also by the inspiration they have left me with.

I am known to be a sap when it comes to anything emotional.  You can expect me to turn into a living waterfall at weddings, graduations, and the like.  The Camp Sunrise End of the Year Banquet is no different.  However, for the past seven summers I have managed to hold myself together through my speech and camper awards, reserving my tears for those last few goodbyes.  This year I was not as successful as I had been in the past.  I took one look at my campers smiling faces and was instantly flooded with memories of how far they had come in such a short time.

Take, for example, Lily, a six year old girl affected by severe autism.  My first day with Lily was rough; she would not eat, she would not sit for openings, and she would not swim.  In fact, every attempt to engage her a camp activity was met with a whining "noooooo" and a surprisingly strong pull away from whatever had been presented to her.  "No" was just about the only word I was able to understand that first day, as Lily's speech was slurred and difficult to understand.  Her inability to effectively communicate with me was frustrated by the fact that, according to Lily's mother and teachers, she could understand everything and speak clearly.  If Lily's mother and teachers could understand her, why couldn't I?  I was convinced that those who knew Lily best were mistaken or idealistic at best, and in my own frustration forgot to listen.  Consequently, I failed to pick up on the simple word "pee" and ended up having to ask Lily's mother to send in extra clothes for her fully potty trained daughter.  Faced with utter embarrassment, I struggled for weeks to come up with a new solution, a way to talk to Lily and help her to enjoy camp as much as I did.

Although it took seven weeks to perfect my plan, I finally succeeded.  I gathered Boardmaker visual depictions of our camp activities, including a pool, bus, and lunch.  Then, prior to a transition which had proved to be challenging for Lily, I would present her with a pictoral representation of whatever activity was to come next.  While this facilitated Lily's understanding of her daily schedule, it served a dual purpose of familiarizing me with her speech.  When shown a picture, Lily would point to it and say the word outloud.  Thus, I began to understand the little girl who had been speaking to me all along and recognized that the problem was not hers to fix.  I was the one not comprehending and the one who needed practice, not Lily.  

My newfound ability to communicate with this beautiful little girl opened a world of opportunities to us.  I learned that it was difficult for her to sit still during lunch, but if I allowed her to push a stroller while eating she would eat a whole thermos of mac n'cheese, two cheese sticks, and a pack of mini muffins.  I also discovered her love for merry-go-rounds, or in Lily's terms "round-wee-rounds", and spent a full two hours holding her tight on the carousel at Lake Compounce, the brightest smile lighting up her face as we went.  And, Miss Lily was a huge fan of Dora the Explorer, the Chicken Dance, and bus wheels.  I fell absolutely in love with this wonderful child.  On last day of camp, she yelled back out the bus door to me "Bye Meghan!"  The busdriver pushed her onwards, unaware of her attempts to say farewell; he could not understand.  But, Lily words were loud and clear to me.  I blew her a kiss goodbye and watched her leave for the last time, pursed lips pressed against the window, her kiss back.  

At the camp banquet, instead of presenting myself as the composed group leader I had hoped to be, I sobbed to the sixty something parents about how truly inspiring their children had been, eventually burying my face into my assistant group leader's shoulder to pull myself together.  There was Lily sitting in the front row, clapping her hands as loud as she could.  Truly inspiring does not even begin to describe it.