THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, September 5, 1994 TAG: 9409050033
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: B5 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY RAJIV CHANDRASEKARAN, THE WASHINGTON POST
DATELINE: LACEY SPRING LENGTH: Long : 115 lines
For 15-year-old Carey Lee Grant Jr., it happened while he was making a cup of hot chocolate on a cold winter evening last year.
He had just plunked a few marshmallows into a simmering pot of milk on the gas stove when he turned around to get a mug. At that moment, the gas surged and ignited his baggy flannel shirt. By the time the Baltimore youth realized what was happening, he was in shock, unable to smother the flames.
After three excruciating months at the Baltimore Regional Burn Center and numerous operations, Grant was pronounced a burn survivor. Then the hard part began.
``All the kids in school started saying `ooh, you're ugly' and things like that,'' said Grant, who suffered second- and third-degree burns on his hands, chest and face.
Enter the Mid-Atlantic Burn Camp. Located at Camp Horizons, an idyllic 240-acre plot bordering the George Washington National Forest near Harrisonburg, the week-long camp brings together 60 burn survivors from New York to Virginia for hiking, horseback riding, swimming and canoeing.
For children such as Grant, who face taunts from schoolmates and know few burn survivors back home, the camp also provides a respite.
The camp, which was started six years ago by two physical therapists, functions as a sort of giant support group, where burned children can meet each other, trade ``war stories'' and just be themselves. Nobody whispers, points or teases.
``Here, kids aren't saying they don't want to be with you because you're burned,'' Grant said. ``Everyone's like you, and that's special.''
At the camp's small pool one recent morning a group of 10- and 11-year-old campers frolicked in their swim trunks, which revealed the sometimes severe extent of their injuries.
Many had large sections of scarred skin in varying hues. Some had lost fingers, ears and hair.
At home, many of them wear T-shirts at the beach or at public pools to avoid gawkers, said fellow burn survivor and camp counselor Andy Kraft, 29, a medical technician from Howard County, Md. At camp, though, most children strip down to their trunks without hesitation.
``During the camp's first year, most of the kids wouldn't take off their shirts,'' said Kraft, who was burned in a 1988 chemical accident. ``Now they say, `He's burned. He's a person just like I am.' And they take off their shirts.''
That couldn't please Linda French and Tonas Kalil more. French, 33, and Kalil, 39, who both worked until recently with burn victims at the Johns Hopkins Medical Center in Baltimore, founded the camp to create an environment where scars will be ignored.
About 20,000 children are burned seriously enough each year to require hospitalization, but most survivors never have a chance to interact with people who have had similar experiences, French said.
When the camp started in 1989, it was one of only four such programs in the country.
Activities such as camps for burn survivors, medical specialists say, play a valuable role in the psychological healing process because of the rarity and intensity of burn injuries.
``It's their chance not to be different,'' said Cindy Hocking, who directs burn recovery programs at the University of Michigan Burn Center. ``After all they've gone through, the camps help the survivors discover a sense of self in the world.''
Attendees, who are recruited from burn centers throughout the mid-Atlantic region, come to the camp free of charge.
Firefighters from the Washington and Baltimore areas raise thousands of dollars annually to fund the program, French said.
In addition to giving children a chance to spend a week free from the pressures of everyday life, counselors try to increase self-esteem through typical camp activities such as arts and crafts.
For older children, counselors and outside specialists discuss such dicey adolescent issues as dating and cosmetic ways to cover up facial scars.
Soon after her arms, legs and chest were burned in a house fire, Nicole Wilson, 15, of Baltimore feared that she'd never have a boyfriend or go out on a date.
Since her injury five years ago, she has been coming to the camp and slowly learning how to deal with her anxieties.
Now she proudly talks about her boyfriend of two months. He's not the first, she's quick to point out. She went to his junior prom last year and is eagerly awaiting hers this year.
``It's nice to have your life get back to normal,'' said Wilson, who received her injuries after a dry Christmas tree caught fire in her house. ``But I still like to keep coming here. It's like I get to see old friends.''
For the children, there's little interest in each other's burns and no hierarchy among injuries.
Some have small burns on their arms and legs while three of the campers have suffered second- and third-degree burns over 90 percent of their bodies.
``Nobody talks about burns,'' said 11-year-old Nicholas Cirillo, who was injured in a house fire. Cirillo said the campers query each other about their injuries on the bus ride from Washington, just as they would ask their seatmate what school they attend.
When the children arrive at camp, the topic is dropped.
Weeks after camp is over, French and Kalil said they get calls from parents who notice significant changes in their child's attitude toward their injuries.
``It's like a light bulb came on in their head,'' Kalil said.
``We can't fix them or make everything go away here,'' French said. ``But we try to give them some understanding and resources to deal with their burns for the rest of their life.'' ILLUSTRATION: ASSOCIATED PRESS
Jasper Warren, 12, of LaPlata, strums counselor Kip French's guitar
at the Mid-Atlantic Burn Camp near Harrisonburg. He and other
severely burned children use the opportunity to meet each other,
trade ``war stories'' and just be normal youngsters for a week. The
camp has been operating for 6 years. The kids attend free thanks to
the efforts of firefighters, who raise thousands of dollars each
year for the program.
by CNB