Coast.
The evening before we were going to go fishing, my family and I were watching a movie when the phone rang. It was Robert’s
father. Robert had died earlier that day. I hung up the phone, silently and sadly, and sat for a moment, praying for his family
and saying good-bye to my companion. I thanked him for the contribution his short and fragile life had made to mine and my
family’s. In that moment I realized how close we had become.
The next day, I caught a huge striped bass. I knew Robert was with me. And even today the picture of that bass hangs in our
summer retreat and reminds me of Robert and what a wonderful friend he was and continues to be. His happy spirit and the determination
he showed in fighting a deadly disease still sustains me when I feel down.
His death stung me, but while I was thinking about Robert, it occurred to me that physical death is not the end of a person.
Robert continues to live in my heart and in the hearts of all the people he touched.
In my work with challenged children in hospital wards I have felt life’s joys and sorrows. I have learned that we are all
companions learning to be courageous, learning to transcend and overcome life’s obstacles in order to live out our unique
story. I am grateful to all the children who touched my life. They are truly my Companions in Courage and the inspiring co-authors
of this book.
4
The Dreams of Youth
P . J. Osika and I were good friends. We were twelve years old and we loved competing against each other. But when we both signed
up to run in a summer track meet, I would learn about more than sprinting. Even though P. J. was a runner I figured I could
give him a race or maybe even beat him. When we got to the starting blocks for the 220-yard dash, my heart was doing its normal
racing before a competition, but I couldn’t believe how much I was struggling to catch my breath. The starter’s gun cracked
and we took off.
For the first hundred yards I was out in front, then I started to gasp for air. P. J. won. I barely made it across the finish
line before collapsing on the track. P. J., the other competitors, and the coach ran over and saw that I couldn’t breathe.
It didn’t take long for the ambulance to get there and rush me to the hospital.
About halfway there I started to feel better. They gave me a shot of adrenaline and told me that my mom would meet me in the
emergency room. The doctor examined me thoroughly and then delivered the news to me and my mom: I had exercise-induced asthma.
I’ll never forget his words: “Well, Pat, you might as well hit the books. Your athletic days are over.”
I loved sports, particularly hockey. Now this doctor was telling me that I’d never participate in competitive sports again.
I remember saying over and over again, “Oh no! No! No! This can’t be.” And I remember my parents talking to me and telling
me, “Things happen for a reason.” But right then I could not see the reason, nor did I want to.
I spent that whole summer watching my friends compete in track, baseball, and basketball. I was depressed and lethargic. Every
time I exerted myself I started to wheeze, so I watched and hung around the rink and the summer parks. It damn near killed
me. I was living a nightmare for a twelve-year-old kid.
My dad and mom began talking to me about courage and perseverance, so I tried my best to suck it up, but I couldn’t imagine
not playing sports, particularly skating and hockey. Learn to love books and reading more than I loved sports? No way! I couldn’t
imagine how I would be accepted. I knew that my friendships would have to change because they were based on the acceptance
an athlete gets.
The summer was about over when someone suggested to my parents that I see an allergist. Before school started I went to the
doctor, took a battery of tests, and found out that I was allergic to just about everything—grass, pollen, mold, ragweed,
The evening before we were going to go fishing, my family and I were watching a movie when the phone rang. It was Robert’s
father. Robert had died earlier that day. I hung up the phone, silently and sadly, and sat for a moment, praying for his family
and saying good-bye to my companion. I thanked him for the contribution his short and fragile life had made to mine and my
family’s. In that moment I realized how close we had become.
The next day, I caught a huge striped bass. I knew Robert was with me. And even today the picture of that bass hangs in our
summer retreat and reminds me of Robert and what a wonderful friend he was and continues to be. His happy spirit and the determination
he showed in fighting a deadly disease still sustains me when I feel down.
His death stung me, but while I was thinking about Robert, it occurred to me that physical death is not the end of a person.
Robert continues to live in my heart and in the hearts of all the people he touched.
In my work with challenged children in hospital wards I have felt life’s joys and sorrows. I have learned that we are all
companions learning to be courageous, learning to transcend and overcome life’s obstacles in order to live out our unique
story. I am grateful to all the children who touched my life. They are truly my Companions in Courage and the inspiring co-authors
of this book.
4
The Dreams of Youth
P . J. Osika and I were good friends. We were twelve years old and we loved competing against each other. But when we both signed
up to run in a summer track meet, I would learn about more than sprinting. Even though P. J. was a runner I figured I could
give him a race or maybe even beat him. When we got to the starting blocks for the 220-yard dash, my heart was doing its normal
racing before a competition, but I couldn’t believe how much I was struggling to catch my breath. The starter’s gun cracked
and we took off.
For the first hundred yards I was out in front, then I started to gasp for air. P. J. won. I barely made it across the finish
line before collapsing on the track. P. J., the other competitors, and the coach ran over and saw that I couldn’t breathe.
It didn’t take long for the ambulance to get there and rush me to the hospital.
About halfway there I started to feel better. They gave me a shot of adrenaline and told me that my mom would meet me in the
emergency room. The doctor examined me thoroughly and then delivered the news to me and my mom: I had exercise-induced asthma.
I’ll never forget his words: “Well, Pat, you might as well hit the books. Your athletic days are over.”
I loved sports, particularly hockey. Now this doctor was telling me that I’d never participate in competitive sports again.
I remember saying over and over again, “Oh no! No! No! This can’t be.” And I remember my parents talking to me and telling
me, “Things happen for a reason.” But right then I could not see the reason, nor did I want to.
I spent that whole summer watching my friends compete in track, baseball, and basketball. I was depressed and lethargic. Every
time I exerted myself I started to wheeze, so I watched and hung around the rink and the summer parks. It damn near killed
me. I was living a nightmare for a twelve-year-old kid.
My dad and mom began talking to me about courage and perseverance, so I tried my best to suck it up, but I couldn’t imagine
not playing sports, particularly skating and hockey. Learn to love books and reading more than I loved sports? No way! I couldn’t
imagine how I would be accepted. I knew that my friendships would have to change because they were based on the acceptance
an athlete gets.
The summer was about over when someone suggested to my parents that I see an allergist. Before school started I went to the
doctor, took a battery of tests, and found out that I was allergic to just about everything—grass, pollen, mold, ragweed,
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