Remembering

I have had a tough time over these last few months - that's my excuse for not writing. It has been an exhausting 6 months. Losing my mom in November added a new layer of grief. With her loss, came tasks and decisions that just compounded grief with stress, anxiety, and more sadness. We needed to think through what we would do with the treasured homestead where my mom had lived for 60 years and where we all grew up. We've only just begun to wrestle with how we will sort through, distribute and dispose of the sixty years of belongings that has accumulated in that home; some of it junk, but all of it chock full of memories. And for the couple of months when we thought we might make a move into my mom's home in order to keep it in the family, there was the almost unbearable need to think through how we would find the strength and resolve to disassemble Emma's bedroom which has remained virtually untouched since she died.


Adding to the weight of all that grief and loss was the realization I had in early December 2010, not long after my mother's death, that despite our gentle, but persistent urging, the school district had no intention of reflecting on Emma's death by reviewing and evaluating their suicide prevention and response policies. But that's another story.


The point is, I was overwhelmed and exhausted. Writing did not come easily.  In the last several months, every time I even thought about sitting down to the computer to type an entry I would be overcome with emotion. Just like now, the tears would well, my throat would get tight. I would have to stop. But this time I'm going to try to keep going, because I need to say thank you.


When I started my blog my purpose was to restore and preserve the memory of my beautiful oldest daughter; to focus on the person who lived and not the way she died.  While it might not be apparent to readers, it was, in fact, an act of desperation. After Emma died I was struck by the overwhelming fear that her death by suicide would not just remove her bodily presence, but would also rip her from the hearts and minds and memory of everyone around us.  It was not a completely irrational fear. There were people close to us who would not utter her name. There were adults who discouraged kids who knew her from talking about her. There was even a comment made to me directly by someone purporting to be a friend that the school should not have a scholarship named for her because of how she died. 


There was no doubt that I started my blog in large part for me, because it allowed me to push away the sadness and reconnect with the joyful memories I had of my beloved daughter. But I know I was also doing it for Emma; to defend her memory from the ignorance, fear, and complacency that made it easier to pretend she had never existed. That is why it was so tough on me to not be able to write. Part of me felt that I was letting Emma down.


Thankfully, there have been others to pick up the slack, and for that I am eternally grateful. Over the last almost two years there have been so many thoughtful gestures of remembrance, but I am particularly grateful for those that happened in the last six months, when I was tired and needed help carrying the load. 


The gestures came in all shapes and sizes. Whether it was the purple candle lit at family gatherings, or the gifts left at the Memorial Garden, or the messages on Emma's FaceBook page, these gestures let me know that Emma was remembered. Each gesture, big or small, lifted some weight from my heart. One of Emma's friends handed a little glass flower bouquet to me at the Out of the Darkness walk this fall. "I wanted you to have this to keep in your pocket, because I know Emma always liked to give you flowers," she said. She remembers. Another friend messaged me in early spring to ask if we would be doing something in June again to honor Emma. She remembers. On my birthday (my 50th!), a group of Emma's friends showed up at my door with two birthday cakes, a homemade card, and a set of beautiful magnetic butterflies to remind me of Emma. I know they did it to lift my spirits, but I also know they did it because they remember. It was also very thoughtful of them to bring candles that said "21". They seemed to understand that the occasion called for humor, or denial, or perhaps a powerful combination of both.


About a month ago my neighbor sent me a card with pictures of a hallway in the hospital where she works that is paved with memorial bricks. In the card she said she wanted to know if it would be okay if she purchased a brick in memory of Emma that said "Play on". The card came after my blog had been virtually silent for a couple of months and the relief and gratitude I felt when I read that card is hard to express. This neighbor didn't get a chance to really know Emma, but she still thinks about the beautiful strains that came from her flute every day when she practiced after school. She remembers.


And then there was the most recent gesture - Team RMAO's decision to dedicate their relay race to Emma. The race is an incredible physical feat. The team will take turns running legs of a race that starts in New Haven, CT and ends in Boston, MA. They'll be up for more than 24 hours straight while they complete the race. As they've prepared for this exhausting trial, they have enthusiastically raised more than $5,000 for Emma's scholarship fund, shared stories about Emma, and raised awareness about suicide prevention; but most of all, they remember.


This last gesture provides a fitting metaphor. I have many times referred to this journey with grief as a marathon without a finish line. This winter I think all three of us hit the proverbial wall that marathon runners talk about - feeling like we might just be too exhausted to go on. We have been so fortunate to have people to whom we could pass the baton. Thank you to all the members of our relay team, too numerous to mention, who have run a leg of the race for us while we caught our breath and nursed our wounds.