Cairns Along The Camino
Twenty five years ago, my five-year-old son was wheeled away from me at Emmanuel Hospital in Portland. Surgeons were waiting to remove his right kidney and fit him with a central line for chemotherapy, after discovering the leg pain he was experiencing was actually a massive tumor. His seven year old brother and three year-old sister snuggled together in Sam‘s bed that night, with the goal to “keep it warm for Sam until he comes home.” Sydney was just eight weeks old, so the events of that day meant little to her. I wonder now though, how the following year of chemo and radiation appointments, the evening ritual of flushing Sam’s central line, the days when he was so sick he’d lay motionless on his sheepskin rug while Sullivan practiced times tables and Shelby learned to read - how did it shape her? How did it shape all of us?
Twenty five minutes ago, my 30 year old son and I discussed if we were doing the Ruta Verde on our upcoming Camino Primitivo, or if we’d stick with the traditional path on our way out of Lugo. Do I recommend trail runners or boots? Can we take that fun cooking class you spoke of when we’re in Barcelona? Do you want to do the rooftop tour of the Cathedral? Why in the world would I need hiking poles? Gonna tutor you in Spanish all across the country, mom. And, and, and…
This will be my ninth Camino and Sam’s first. The irony doesn’t escape me - the child I was afraid I’d lose is the one walking with me in September. I’ve thought about that long-ago day often as I’ve walked myself across Spain. I’ve thought of other things as well - dogs I’ve had, s’more parties around the fire pit with Shelby’s cheerleading team, the theatre kids I made pancakes for after their traditional opening show sleepover, the loss of a marriage, the decision to get out of bed and face a day I’m not sure I was ready for. These things are all stones of remembrance I bring, piling them up until they resemble a life lived - sharp edges, smooth and rounded ones, pictures, notes, promises and memories. A Cruz de Ferro in my head, of sorts. But as I walk, the sharp things fall away and I’m left with a monument of the good memories and reasons to keep walking forward. It’s difficult to walk a Camino and remain bitter.
There isn’t a monument on the Primitivo that inspires the same ritual as Cruz de Ferro, but I’ll ask Sam to bring a stone with him from home anyway. Maybe he’ll set it on a stone fence along the Hospitales Route. Perhaps he’ll skip it across the water at Grandas de Salime. It’s his Camino, so he can place it wherever it means the most to him. Me? I’ll be picking up a stone and bringing it home. This is the talisman I’ll add to my memory box, marking the time I walked a Camino with the son I thought I’d lose.