A clipboard-carrying heavyset woman is working the clusters of parents waiting at the camp’s check-in like a politician at a 4th of July picnic. As I sit in the midday sun watching her pat backs and throw bear hugs, I pray she doesn’t come my way.
When the babysitter complained that the people at Savannah’s church camp “are really into that whole God-thing,” and then scrunched her face in disgust, I had to fight to keep my sarcasm in check.
“Quelle horror!” I wanted to say.
The church camp is in the heart of Manhattan’s Financial District, right off Wall Street and a stone’s throw from the New York Stock Exchange, so I found it ironic this was her concern.
For years I made light of Savannah’s condition by telling her the angels gave her a medical alert bracelet so they would always know where to find her. It would satisfy her little girl curiosity and she would go back to coloring or watching cartoons. Now, confused by a father’s ignorant comment that “you’re missing a piece in your head” she will press back with “No, seriously, tell me!” And, for once, the mom who makes her living as a spin doctor for big pharma, who has never been hesitant to take on a Wall Street Journal or New York Times reporter for writing negatively about one of her clients, is lost for words.
It’s a drizzly, gray Monday morning and I just shoved a bottle of pills and a syringe into a 20-something black kid’s hand.