GLEN SPEY, NY – In the Catskills, down an unassuming road shaded with ash trees, stands a 125-acre campus with all the makings of a traditional summer camp: a lake flanked by kayaks and paddle boards, a climbing wall, a field house for sing-alongs and talent shows and an Olympic-size pool.
But instead of a bonfire circle or a decorated flagpole, the beating heart of Camp Simcha is a hospital. On a damp morning in July, the building is abuzz with activity.
“Yitty, Yitty, Yitty!” counselors chant, cheering on a camper, rhinestone sparkles dotting her face, as she downs her medicine with grape juice. Around them, campers duck in and out for medications beneath murals of smiling farm animals, eager to get back to the day’s activities.
“We’re a hospital disguised as a camp,” says licensed clinical social worker Rivkah Reichmann, an associate director at the donor-funded medically supervised overnight camp. “This infirmary has to feel like home.”
For most of the year, campers’ schedules revolve around doctors’ appointments, surgeries and medical precautions. Some attend specialized schools or rely on full-time aides. Others have spent months in isolation because weakened immune systems make typical childhood activities dangerous.
But at camp, the word “no” is seldom heard. Paraplegic campers fly down ziplines. Children who use wheelchairs scale rock walls. For parents accustomed to constant caution, experiences like these once seemed impossible.
Each summer, roughly 450 campers attend one of four sessions at Camp Simcha. The camp runs separate programs for children with chronic illnesses and those with cancer, which host kids from ages 7 to 17 and 5 to 25, respectively. A two-week session at camp, including around-the-clock medical care, costs about $15,000 per child, but families attend free through funding from Chai Lifeline, a Jewish nonprofit assisting families impacted by medical crises.
Camp Simcha was founded in 1987 for Jewish children with serious illnesses, but enrollment is open to children of all backgrounds. The camp routinely hosts campers from Christian and non-religious homes.
“I pray every day that we go out of business,” says Rabbi Simcha Scholar, the founder and chief executive officer of Chai Lifeline. That, he says, would mean there are no more sick children to serve.
But with campers coming from Australia and England and a waiting list each summer, demand isn’t slowing.
‘I wish there was a camp I could go to’
It was February of 2017, and Maya Popliger was the odd one out.
“I wish there was a camp I could go to,” Popliger, then 7, lamented to her mom, Jana, as her friends registered for sleepaway camps in Canada.
“Maya… first of all, I can’t even afford it, but second of all, I don’t even see how it’s possible,” Jana said.
A traditional summer camp wasn’t built for a child like Popliger.
At 6-months-old, she was diagnosed with Axenfeld-Rieger syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that gradually took away her vision, stunted her growth and caused joint and muscle pain. And her selective mutism anxiety disorder sometimes rendered her speechless, making it hard to interact with other kids.
But Jana, recalling that a friend had sent their daughter to Camp Simcha, wondered if it could be a fit for Popliger, too.
Staff explained to her that medical needs were built into the experience. Every building has ramps and wheelchair buttons. Bunks and bathrooms, each painted with different themes, have accessible toilets and showers. Popliger would have a designated counselor – each child has one, and some who require constant care have three, including an overnight counselor.
That summer, Popliger tried a ropes course for the first time via an adaptive harness, she made new friends and discovered she was stronger than she imagined.
When she returned home, something shifted in her confidence. For the first time in years, she wanted to invite classmates to celebrate her birthday.
“She still struggles, don’t get me wrong, but it was different after she started going to camp,” Popliger says.
Seven summers later, that safe space became all the more important as Popliger’s condition deteriorated rapidly, causing her to become legally blind. She uses a detection cane and occasionally a wheelchair to accommodate her muscle pain.
“A big part of being physically disabled is the mental aspect,” says Popliger, now 16, adding that people don’t understand that blindness is a spectrum. “People don’t get how hard it is to process such hard news, how hard it is to live with a disability that I know I’m going to have for the rest of my life.”
But here, no explanation is needed.
About a quarter of campers at Popliger’s June 30 to July 13 session have seizure disorders or use ventilators. Others are blind or paraplegic, using wheelchairs, walkers or canes, like her. Over the years, camp has cared for children with more than 80 diagnoses.
“No one’s judging you,” Popliger says. “There’s a mutual understanding that everyone here has their issues.”
How camp functions as a hospital
At breakfast, campers line up for eggs, cereal, yogurt and pancakes. Nurses from each division sit at a table of morning medications, flanked by chocolate syrup, apple juice and sticker books.
“Camp Simcha special, who had a great night last night?” a counselor shouts to the crowd.
At first glance, it’s an ordinary breakfast. But each tray reflects a different set of medical needs.
Some campers follow ketogenic diets. Others require gluten-free or dairy-free meals, or fructose-free foods. Meal times are carefully planned for children with metabolic disorders like glycogen storage disease, for whom missing a meal time by 15 minutes can become life-threatening, according to camp nutritionist Adina Yachnes.
That individualized attention to detail extends to every aspect of camp.
Days before 16-year-old camper Navah Shtern packed her bags for camp this summer, her doctors changed the frequency of the subcutaneous infusions she receives to manage the inflammation and nerve pain caused by her specific antibody deficiency.
“No other camp wants to take responsibility necessarily, for my condition,” Shtern says, explaining that staff immediately adjusted her treatment plan from two infusions to four while she was at camp. “Here it’s just like, ‘Oh, this is no problem.’”
The idea is to provide a continuation of care instead of an interruption, says Reichmann. Campers submit detailed medical applications in December, but treatment might change a dozen times before opening day.
Camp Simcha’s team includes 12 nurses, three doctors, two paramedics, and a respiratory and physical therapist. Rows of amber colored pill bottles fill the wall behind a pharmacist who prepares 1,200 medications a day – more than some New York City children’s hospitals. During the camp’s cancer sessions, pediatric oncologists administer chemotherapy.
Where typical hospital walls would be, there are rooms painted with teddy bears and dalmatians. Staff might have recently transformed a hospital room into a Curious George-themed oasis for a boy who struggles with his weekly IV infusion, and another room into a dance party, complete with a disco ball and speaker.
“All of a sudden, instead of being terrified of the treatment, there’s this moment of awe,” Reichmann says.
The camp is equipped for emergencies with a monitoring system, resuscitation room, and ambulance and helipad for transport to hospitals.
“You don’t have a very big window if something goes wrong,” says Reichmann. “We really are equipped to provide whatever a hospital would do in an emergency right here in camp.”
By the afternoon, kids spread across camp following a post-lunch dance party. Some strap into adaptive harnesses that hoist up them up the climbing wall. Others ease into the pool using a ramp and submersible wheelchair. Nearby, pottery wheels spin and campers record songs in the recording studio.
As soon as one summer ends, planning begins for the next. Staff review medical needs, match campers with counselors and arrange meet ups before opening day so that by the time campers arrive, little is left to chance.
Before the Popligers finished the six-hour drive from Montreal to camp that first summer, nurses were waiting ahead of the entrance to collect and refrigerate Popliger’s medication before she unpacked her bags.
“I have never felt so at home in my entire life,” Popliger says. “I could breathe for the first time in a month.”
For parents, these two weeks provide a rare break from being full-time caregivers.
“There’s decision making here that I just think most parents don’t relate to unless you have a kid with a chronic illness,” says Navah’s mother, Dassi Shtern. “I have two full weeks where my brain does not have to do that.”
What happens when camp ends
In the weeks leading up to camp this year, Popliger’s doctor told her the vision in her right eye has declined to only light perception. She could no longer make out the outlines of letters, even from centimeters away.
It would be a lot for anyone to process. And after this summer, Popliger will face another loss as she ages out of Camp Simcha.
As campers get older, the conversations become more about the reality of living with these conditions, according to Shay Schachter, one of the camp’s rabbis.
During evening discussions, campers ask questions they often can’t ask anywhere else: What do I do when I go to school and kids make fun of me? How can I believe in a God that makes me suffer so much? It feels like I’ve tried everything medically. At what point do I say I’ve done enough?
Schachter rarely has a perfect answer, and the questions don’t end when campers age out. But camp offers a community that extends far beyond its campus.
Shtern, who once had such an intense fear of needles that she turned to hypnotherapy, worked with nurses at camp to become more independent with her treatments once she returned home. Another camper introduced her family to a pain clinic at the Cleveland Clinic that was life-changing.
The first week of August, Popliger traveled to Los Angeles to visit two camp friends, one with Gaucher disease and another with nemaline myopathy. Shtern’s best friend from camp, who has dwarfism, surprised her in Cleveland last year.
It’s a community no family wants to be a part of, but one they’re glad they found.
One night at camp this year, campers and counselors screamed the lyrics to Noah Kahan’s “Stick Season” as Popliger walked into the infirmary for the nightly injection that’s part of her treatment plan.
It’s a time of day she usually dreads, but here, surrounded by friends waiting by the infirmary door and a night sky full of stars, it’s part of belonging.
“You can’t get that anywhere else,” Popliger says.
Rachel Hale’s role covering Youth Mental Health at USA TODAY is supported by a partnership with Pivotal and Journalism Funding Partners. Funders do not provide editorial input.
Reach her at rhale@usatoday.com and @rachelleighhale on X.