Anatomy of a Kidnapping: A Doctor’s Story

4. The Thin Line

57• I n my career and in my personal life, I have seen death in all its forms: anticipated, sudden, violent, peaceful, sad, and inspiring . I have seen people confront death in every possible manner, and I can recall their expressions of peaceful anticipation , noble courage and defiance, fear, resolve, relief, and even joy. I can picture the faces of men and women who died without warning and others who clearly saw death coming, but survived. I have witnessed tragedy and miraculous recovery, and I am keenly aware of the fine line between life and death. With the barrel of a gun pressed into my temple, I consider the truth of this cliché with vivid and terrifying clarity. I am on that thin wavering line, hanging by that figurative thread, walking that figurative tightrope, with a dark unknown abyss below. I close my eyes and think about death. In 1971, I was a counselor at a summer camp in northeast New Jersey. Camp Merry Heart had all the features of a typical sum4 The Thin Line AN AT OMY OF A K ID NAP P ING •58 mer camp: six rustic cabins arranged around a football-sized field, with an American flag flying in the center. There was a mess hall, a nature cabin, an arts and crafts center, a pool, and a small man-made lake. The only difference between Camp Merry Heart and any other summer camp was that all of the nature trails at Merry Heart were wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair . The entire campus was specially designed for its handicapped and disabled campers. The children and young adults who attended Camp Merry Heart had a range of afflictions. There were many cases of muscular dystrophy and cerebral palsy, but also other more unusual neurological disorders and several severe cases of autism. But the children did not come to be pitied. They were there to have a good time and—as much as possible—do what other children do at camp. There was swimming, color war, a carnival-themed field day, and even under-control panty raids and food fights. But as typical as we tried to make the experience for our campers, being a counselor at Camp Merry Heart had its unique challenges. Each cabin held twenty campers and was kept spotlessly clean. As counselors, we mopped the wooden floors, scrubbed the bathrooms , folded up pajamas and tucked them neatly under pillows. The cabins smelled of ammonia in the morning, but an odor of urine or worse might prevail by evening. The mess hall accommodated all one hundred or so handicapped children at the same time. Mealtime was loud, crowded, and chaotic, with counselors running back and forth between the food line and the tables, serving seconds and clearing trays. Some counselors were assigned to work one-on-one with the children who were too handicapped to feed themselves. A “feeder” would sit next to his or her charge throughout dinner, patiently spoon-feeding macaroni and cheese or rice pudding to the camper’s mouth. Kept constantly The Thin Line 59• busy, most counselors did not get a chance to eat at dinnertime, but there was always food available for us after the campers had gone to sleep. That summer of 1971 was my seventh and final summer at Camp Merry Heart. (I was starting medical school at Boston University in the fall.) As the oldest and most experienced counselor, I was assigned the most physically challenged campers, a role I took great pride in. That summer I was charged to help two close friends of mine, Pat Goldy and Kevin Spark, who, like me, had been coming to camp for years. Pat and Kevin both suffered from Duchenne-type muscular dystrophy, a genetic disorder that causes rapid muscle degeneration , the loss of ambulation, and ultimately, death. Most patients do not live past the age of twenty. At the age of seventeen, Pat and Kevin were both confined to wheelchairs, having lost the ability to walk years before and now barely able to move their arms and legs at all. Pat had blond hair and sat tall in his long-backed wheelchair. Kevin was smaller, with brown hair and freckles. He sat hunched over slightly, a result of the osteoporosis that had developed secondary to his muscular dystrophy. My campers were quiet, intelligent, and reflective, and I...