Worcester Out of the Darkness Walk

I've already shared the remarks Peter made at the October 23rd Out of the Darkness Walk. Here's what I said at that event:

I want to tell you a story about something that happened to me just last week. I was attending my second meeting of a new American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP)-sponsored support group. I arrived very early for the meeting, so I decided to sit in my car and catch up on email until some others arrived. I could see a gentleman milling about near the house where the meeting was held – another early arrival, I presumed. After a couple of minutes, he headed down the hill towards the parking lot. As he approached my car I thought quickly about whether I should open my window and talk to this stranger. But since I felt certain that he was there for the support group, maybe for the first and most difficult time, I put my window down to speak to him.

“You here for the meeting, too?’ he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “Well all those houses up there are dark, so I couldn’t really tell where I should be going,” he said. “I think we’re still early, but I’ve been here before, so I can show you where to go,” I reassured him. I hopped out of my car and we walked up the hill towards the house together.

“So, are you on the board?” he asked. “The board?” Now I was the one who was confused. “Yeah, you’re here for the board meeting, right?”  “Oh, no,” I said. “I guess we’re here for different meetings after all.” 

I was hoping he’d let it go at that, but he didn’t.  “What meeting are you here for?” he asked. “I’m here for a support group,” I answered, once again hoping he’d drop the subject. “What kind of support group?” he persisted. “Oh..it’s a – a church-sponsored support group.” Not exactly an accurate response, but I hoped it would be enough information for us to leave this uncomfortable topic. “What’s it a support group for?” he pressed on.

Clearly, he wasn’t going to drop the subject, so I felt I had no choice – “It’s a survivors of suicide group.” I expected the usual stunned expression followed by the awkward silence. “Did you lose someone to suicide?” he asked without missing a beat. He went on to extract details about my loss: who it was, how old she was at the time, and how long ago it had happened.

When he was done quizzing me, he paused briefly and then said, “I lost my 20 year-old son to suicide. It’s been almost 20 years now. I can tell you the pain never goes away, but it does get better. You’ll find a way to be happy again.”

I don’t know about you, but I was amazed by this encounter – that a random stranger, approaching me in a parking lot, looking for a different meeting than I was attending, ended up having experienced the same horrific loss of a loved one to suicide.

But when you consider the statistics, I really shouldn’t have been so amazed. After all, suicide claims 33,000 lives each year in the US; that’s nearly as many lives as breast cancer and more than twice as many as HIV/AIDS. Suicide is the third leading cause of death for people ages 15-24, the second leading cause of death for college students, and claims the lives of high school students at an alarming rate of more than ten per day.

As powerful as those numbers are, however, losing someone you know to suicide makes you understand the devastation of suicide in a way that numbers just don’t. For us, that was amplified by the stream of people, some of whom we had known for many years, who came forward after Emma’s death to tell us that they, too, had lost a loved one this way. There were so many that I devoted a page in my journal to recording them, and the list grew quite long: 4 different neighbors who lost brothers to suicide; a friend of Emma’s who lost a sister to suicide and another who lost two aunts; a community member who lost his father to suicide, another who lost her mother, another who lost his daughter, two who lost brothers, and yet another whose sister attempted suicide, but survived; two work associates who lost their fathers, another who lost her nephew, another an aunt, and a another who lost her sister; and a family at our church that lost a husband and father just a year before Emma died. This was added to the list of people we had already lost to this scourge – for me, 2 friends from elementary school and a college classmate; and for Peter, an aunt he never got the chance to know.

I share this list and my opening story for two reasons: first, to let you know that you are not alone. As isolated as you may feel at times, there are people all around you who have shared this experience and know what you are going through. And if you have the courage to share your story, they will share theirs.

And second, to thank you and congratulate you for being here today to take suicide out of the darkness. I believe that it’s time to take a sledgehammer to the wall of silence that surrounds suicide and mental illness. Dialog will promote action, and action, in the form of education, awareness, treatment and research, will save lives. By being here today and raising vital funds to support AFSP you are doing just that.

I just want to end by thanking some incredible people. First, I want to thank the team of Clark University students who organized this first ever Out of the Darkness walk in Worcester: Maya Allen, Heather Choronzy, Tom Lynch, Chelsea Kryspin and Nick Flemister. You’ve done an amazing job and I know everyone here joins me in thanking you for your hard work and dedication. I want to especially thank Chelsea Kryspin, who is a very good friend of Emma’s. Since Emma’s death Chelsea has been tirelessly working to educate people, raise awareness, and raise funds for AFSP. Chelsea you have been an incredible source of inspiration and support and we love and admire you.

I also want to thank Lainie Oshlag, another very dear friend of Emma’s who organized a team for today’s walk and, just like Chelsea, has been the best friend anyone could hope for.   We’re so proud of you and so grateful for what you’ve done for Emma and for us.

For my Mom

This post is dedicated to my mom who passed away on November 17, 2010. She will be sorely missed by many, many people who loved and admired her. It's hard to imagine life without her, but I know my life is much, much better because of her. Here's what I said at her memorial service yesterday:

Anyone who spent anytime at all with my mom knows that she was an avid storyteller. She loved to tell stories about her childhood, about her children and about her grandchildren. And she loved to tell those stories over and over and over again. A classic Jane Mack story always began with a healthy dose of hyperbole and grew more and more fantastic with every telling. This was especially true when she told stories about her family. She found it impossible to harness the pride she felt in her seven children, 14 grandchildren and two great grandchildren, so if she exaggerated details of their accomplishments a tiny bit, that was just a reflection of her love – who could fault a loving mom and grandma. It could be a little embarrassing, though. I remember my sister-in-law congratulating me on being elected student body president of my high school. “Thanks,” I said, “only, I wasn’t elected student body president, I was elected drama club president.”  Mom was close, I guess. In drama club we liked to act like we were in charge of the school.

Anyway, the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree, and it seems that all of us have inherited our mom’s love of the tale. I’ll apologize now if you’ve had to politely listen as one of us told a favorite story for the hundredth time. We can’t help it. It’s genetic. This past week, especially, we have been mentally sorting through our stories, each of us searching for the one or two that might capture the amazing mother, grandmother, sister, friend, neighbor and doctor that we all knew and loved. But there are so many. How can you possibly choose?

My brother Peter’s favorite story illustrates that classic Jane MD energy, drive and determination, especially when it came to the holidays. No one got more wrapped up in holiday celebrations than my mom. She made Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny look like slackers. On this particular occasion, a big group of us, grown children, small grandchildren and my mom and dad, went to pick out the family Xmas tree at a cut-your-own farm. There was a man greeting guests, giving them instructions and a saw before they proceeded with their hunt for the perfect tree. When we arrived at the farm, my mom was the first out of the car. She made a beeline up the hill towards the trees and streaked past the poor greeter before he could even part his lips to say hello. When we got to him he was still stunned by the little tornado that had just blown past him.  He looked at us and said, “Now that lady is going to find herself a tree!”

I think my mom’s favorite story about herself was the time she went through a drive-thru car wash with her window open. By the time she realized that the window was open she had already been sprayed by the soap foam. She didn’t immediately share this story with anyone. The next day she was at the hairdresser, though, and the stylist washing her hair was having an unusually hard time washing the shampoo out of mom’s hair. “Wow, I just can’t seem to get these suds to rinse out.” She rinsed again, and again, still , “I just don’t get it, where are all these suds coming from?.” That’s when my mom broke down in laughter and told her the story. My favorite part of this story was the fact that my mom could not get through it without dissolving into laughter. Her eyes would water, her shoulders would shake, and everyone around her would be convulsed with laughter by the end.

I think every one of her children has a story about my mom helping with our newborn babies. One of our baby stories ends with a burned up pot of baby bottle nipples and a visit by the fire department. But while she didn’t always know how to handle our kitchen equipment, she did always know how to handle the babies. She had “the touch”. These days we’d refer to her as a baby whisperer. It was really something to see how quickly our babies would quiet and relax when she held them. She dropped everything else in her life to help us all with our babies when they were born. And her immediate devotion to them was returned in the devotion they have always felt for her, as you have just heard.

Woven into all of our stories are those indelible images that bring the stories to life for us: rolling out cookies at her kitchen table, wearing her favorite navy blue cardigan that was perpetually dusted in flour; or hanging out her curtains with a plastic bag on her head to protect her hair from the liquid starch; or dancing the jig in John and Joyce’s living room on St. Patrick’s Day; or drilling us for every detail about what we ate on a night out and then memorizing it so she could repeat it back to you later; or jumping up and down in front of the chimp cage imitating the chimps when she took her grandchildren to the zoo; or what she looked like from the back as she raced a cart through the grocery store while we struggled to keep up.

And then there are the stories being held by others, like the story one of my mom’s caretakers at Carolton recently told us. She said that she had first started going to my mom’s clinic when her family fell on hard times and she found herself alone trying to raise several small children and a new baby.  She said for the next 15 years, my mom made sure that nothing stood in the way of her being able to get the medicines and medical care that her children needed. She told us my mom didn’t just take care of the kids; she took care of the mothers, too. Another caretaker told a similar story of her daughter making an emergency visit to the clinic with her baby, a second-generation Dr. Mack patient. My mom knew she was really worried, so she took her into her examining room right away, despite glares from the others who were waiting. As she headed into the room, the young mother turned to everybody and said, “It’s okay. We’re family.”

I think that’s a big part of what made my mom so special. She had a way of connecting with people on a deeply personal level. She welcomed you into her life. To know her was to feel cared for and appreciated, like part of her family.

And I realize that one of the ways she did that was through her stories. The stories she shared about herself, about the people and places she loved, illuminated who she was. They helped you know the person and the spirit.

I think that’s our job now. We need to keep telling the stories, using those stories to connect with each other and to new people and to inspire us to live a life as full and as rich and as meaningful as Jane’s.  I would venture to guess that each of us here holds one or two, perhaps even a hundred, stories of Jane in our hearts. Each of those stories is a beautiful little strand of remembrance, but it’s not until we weave all those stories together that we begin to reflect the vibrant spirit that God created in Jane.

So that’s what we hope you will do: spin your tales, weave your stories with the stories of others, find comfort and give comfort with the rich fabric of memories that will never fade if we continue to care for it.

I do have one last story for you. My mother loved planning family gatherings, so it is not surprising that she would have wanted to have a hand in planning this gathering. She picked the venue, the celebrant, the music, and the people who would perform the music. She also specifically requested that someone who spoke say that whatever good she did while she was here was a divine gift. That is certainly true, because you, mom, were a divine gift – a gift for which we are eternally grateful.

 

Click here to read her obituary from the CT Post.

Halloween 1998

Last might, when our neighbors' daughters turned up at our door dressed as Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion, I was reminded of a Halloween long ago. In 1998, when Emma was six and Sarah was two, Emma dressed up as Dorothy and Sarah dressed up as the Cowardly Lion, or as she said at the time, the Curious Lion.


As we did every year when they were younger, we took the girls up to my parents to participate in the Halloween parade and costume contest that the my parents' neighborhood association held each year. My brothers and sister and I had participated in these parades back when we were kids and my mother and father got a huge kick out of watching their grandchildren participate. Emma liked the parade for lots of reasons; it was another excuse to dress up, for one thing, and they always had great treats on hand for another. But it didn't hurt that she almost always won a prize for her costumes. Most of the time she was dressed as a fairy, or a butterfly, or a princess. Her costumes were glitzy and the personality she showed when the judges spoke to her was equally sparkly, so it wasn't surprising that she frequently walked off with the prize for the prettiest costume.

Emma is pretty tickled to be standing next to Glinda the Good Witch!

I was a little worried that her winning streak was going to end with the Dorothy costume and that she would be very disappointed. She had kind of come to expect that she would win. I could imagine what she told her friends about the event, "We march in a parade behind a firetruck, we show off our costumes one by one, we get some treats, and then they give me my prize." After all, that's what seemed to happen every year. But this year she was dressed in a simple gingham pinafore with pigtails. Except for the shoes and her personality, there was no sparkle. And I don't know what Disney movie or book was the inspiration, but there was a bumper crop of princesses at the parade that year.

Emma was thrilled with herself as Dorothy, though. She was beaming and skipping along during the parade, swinging her basket carrying her stuffed Toto along beside her. She chatted up the judges and the princesses and steered clear of anyone wearing a scary or gory costume. Her faithful sidekick, the Curious Lion, was not so enthusiastic. She insisted on being carried for most of the parade and wore the biggest (and cutest) pout on her face the whole time. When the judges asked her what she was, she refused to speak to them. Peter, who was holding her,  answered for her. "She's the Grumpy Lion," he said. The judges should have been impressed by how well she was playing the part.

"On my way home. Now I'm happy!"

When the time came for the costume contest winners to be announced, Emma was excited and confident. I braced myself for the flood of disappointment I expected to face if she didn't win something. And then...they announced her number! Once again, she had taken the prettiest category. For my mother, this cemented her theory. "It's not the costume," she said' "It's the girl. She could wear a paper bag and she'd still be the prettiest."


That year turned out to be the year of Dorothy for Emma. By the end of the school year we owned three Dorothy dresses and three pairs of ruby slippers. In the spring, Emma played Dorothy in her Music for Children production of The Wizard of Oz. She had outgrown her Halloween pinafore and shoes and we had to buy her a new dress and shoes. Then her ballet class danced to Somewhere Over the Rainbow for the annual recital and they insisted that we purchase yet another Dorothy costume and spray paint a pair of  ballet slippers red.

Sarah also took a spin as Dorothy for at least one Halloween and was equally charming in her costume.  So, I suppose it's not surprising that I have a special fondness for little girls dressed as Dorothy and sneak a little extra candy into their bags when they come to my door.