At first Megan refused to so much as to hold a Popsicle. Not even a sugary, Siamese-twin, leave-your-mouth-red-for-days one.  I stared enviously at the other counselors and their pool-shy campers as they sat complacently munching on the frozen treat, vaguely aware that Megan's refusal was a portent of things to come.   She is Deaf and has been all her life. To make a difficult situation worse, she is autistic, possessing the mental capabilities of a six-year-old. Megan often becomes frustrated due to the communication barrier between her and the outside world, and this frustration is articulated by repeated physical abuse on herself or others.  At least she would get in the water without a fight.

Usually Megan and I enjoyed quality time during swimming activity period, but today was inescapably, incomprehensibly cold. Hoping to abate the torpid air, I threw myself into the water. Realizing my failure, I continued swimming, teeth chattering, trailing the eleven-year-old girl who appeared undaunted in the face of impending hypothermia . I checked the pool clock for the millionth time. Meanwhile Megan had managed to tear a beach ball out of the hands of a blind camper, who was less-than-thrilled with his invisible adversary.  A responsibility, burden, and joy --Megan had become my life for the week, as I served my third summer as a counselor at Camp Barnabas , a camp uniquely designed for special needs campers.  

 When I began working with Megan, I feared my previous year's efforts to master American Sign Language were wasted, largely because her attention span fell disappointingly short of even the worst case of ADD, but I discovered it was a prodigious asset.  I calmly signed to Megan, asking that she please return the ball, but was yet again met with her adamant refusal, as she was now throwing her 45-pound body over the ball in an attempt to submerge it under water. Her fear and frustration had evaporated, only joy remained.