Celebration of Life

I've been lucky enough to have lived for 46 years without ever knowing anyone who lost a child. I certainly knew of such families, but there were always two or more degrees of separation between us. But not anymore.

I met Dave when I first went away to camp in 1973. He was a year or two younger than me, but everyone knew each other in those days—and his dad was the director of the whole camp, so everyone really knew him. We were friendly over the years, although just during the summertime—we were never the kind of friends who stayed in touch during the winter. Then, when we all finally grew up and stopped going to camp (for me, that was in 1982), we pretty much lost touch, although I do remember meeting him for drinks one night in Harvard Square many years ago, and I think we were both at one or two of the many camp reunion parties.

Two years ago at one of these parties, I learned from one of his cousins that Dave's younger daughter, Sammy (then 7), had been diagnosed with bone cancer and was going to lose a leg. It was shocking news, as you can imagine. The next thing I heard, maybe a year or so later, was that Sammy was doing well and had even been invited by Heather Mills to go to Hollywood to see "Dancing with the Stars."

This past summer, when Andy and I took Steph up to camp, someone behind me said, "Karen?" and there was Dave! We chatted for a minute, and then I got to meet his wife and both daughters, who were also going to be coming to camp! Sammy came tearing around the corner on her crutches, and I also met her best friend, who'd come to see her off. What I didn't know was that Sammy was sick again, and that this was really going to be something of a "last chance" for her to go to camp—something she'd always wanted. Her big sister was in Steph's group.

In her weakening state, and with all the going back and forth to the hospital for radiation and chemo, Sammy got to stay at camp only 2 weeks, but she made the most of those 2 weeks (despite all the rain!). Around that time I discovered that her mom had been keeping a blog ever since the initial diagnosis in 2006, as a way to keep far-flung friends and family members apprised of her condition.

There were only a few more blog posts in September before Sammy finally lost her battle with osteosarcoma. A private funeral was held, but yesterday I went up to Concord, NH, for a Celebration of Life event that was unlike anything I've ever been privileged enough to be a part of. It was held at the Capitol Center for the Arts, which is a concert venue, and Sammy's name was on the marquee in lights. By all accounts, she was a truly starstruck little girl and wanted nothing more than to be a diva strutting down the red carpet. In fact, she had requested before she died that if there was ever going to be such a celebration in her honor, she wanted everyone to get all decked out—and they did! All the little girls were wearing fancy-shmancy dresses and high heels and tons of bling, all for their dear friend Sammy.

The auditorium was huge, and we nearly filled it. I was told that the capacity was 1300, and it was well more than halfway filled. I would estimate that there were something like 800 people there.

The program started off with a performance by her friends from dance class, followed by a positively heart-rending video of Sammy performing while wearing her prosthetic leg—grinning from ear to ear the whole time. Then came the speeches, each of which was more moving than the last. We heard from the family's rabbi; the school principal; New Hampshire Governor John Lynch and his wife, who had a special relationship with Sammy; Sammy's grandfather; and finally, from Dave himself. I will never cease to wonder at how people can find the strength to give a eulogy for a loved one, and these were much more than eulogies. Dave got up there and gave the most remarkable tribute to his daughter. He had us laughing—loudly—at stories of Sammy's antics (aparently she was quite a prankster) and also dabbing our eyes at some of the more sentimental memories. (For instance: Upon waking up after her amputation surgery, Sammy looked down at where her leg had been and said simply, "I can deal with this." She was 7.) He really made us feel that we were indeed celebrating her life together. All of the speakers, in fact, managed to achieve what I would have thought was impossible: To help us put aside the unimaginable horror of losing such a young life and instead to focus on the gift of that young life. They all agreed that Sammy was the most joyous, fun-loving, in-the-moment person they'd ever met—even before she got sick. She lived every minute to the fullest; several of the speakers assured us that she had lived a full life, just compressed into 9 years. They all suggested that we could learn a thing or two about life from this little girl.

Sammy's sister and best friend also gave readings, which was more moving than I can even describe. All in all, although I wept pretty much nonstop for the entire couple of hours that we were there—and the slideshow at the end nearly did me in—I did come away from it with a feeling that somehow Sammy was the one comforting us and wanting us to move on with our lives, keeping her irrepressible spirit alive within us all.

Rest in peace, Sammy.

Comments

[Kathy]

Life is so precious. I have goosebumps and a lump in my throat after reading this touching tribute. She sounds like quite a girl! It sounds like you were very lucky to know her.

[Lis]

Wow - that is an amazing way to honor their daughter - I can't see having their strength. And right at Rosh Hashana? Wow.

[Kelly]

The toughest funeral I have ever attended was that for a three-year-old. I was amazed at the parent's ability to give an eulogy.

It sounds like Sammy indeed had a celebration of her short life.

[Margaret]

Nothing harder than I can imagine than losing a child--but it sounds like they sent her off with style and grace. And love.

[Conor]

Karen, that is a truly beautiful story and you describe it so perfectly.

When I heard Paul Newman had passed away, I was deeply saddened. He founded the Barretstown Gang Camp in Ireland, a retreat for seriously ill children and their families to visit for a few days and have some fun. I volunteered there regularly in college and had some wonderful times.

By far the most magical of those times was the bereavement camp I helped with. It was essentially a weekend with about a dozen families coming together to celebrate the lives of their loved ones through art, drama, sports and music. On the last day you could see a visible change in the families - silent, brooding teens started smiling; broken-hearted mothers found comfort in each other; macho dads wept openly. It was an incredibly intimate experience for me, especially since I was little more than a child myself, and I am truly grateful to them for letting me join in their grieving and celebrations. It made me appreciate my parents and realise how much they love me. It also left me in awe of Paul Newman for using his wealth and celebrity to touch so many needy families.

Maybe Dave and his family would like to look into some of the programmes the US camps have - I'm not sure if they also do bereavement camps.

Here's the American website [http://www5.holeinthewallgang.org/] and the Irish one [http://www.barretstown.org/content.asp?ContentId=899].

Thanks for a great blog.

[TwoBusy]

My eyes are watering like crazy... it's probably pollen in the air.

Stupid pollen.

[Wendy]

Oh, golly. Such a loss. It puts a lot of other things into better perspective. I had better get home and hug my fellas.

[debbie]

I am speechless. What a remarkable story and family you have introduced us to. Thank you for writing this and for linking to it today.

[Jannie]

I almost don't know what to say. This is one of the most moving things I have ever read. So sad yet filled with a spirit of hope and inspiration to be happy for what we do have. Thank you for sharing this and reminding me to love the ones I have with all my might.