I think there are two lessons from the story I shared in my last post. The first is that one person can make a difference. In this case, I'm referring to my champion, the staff liaison to the Curriculum and Policy subcommittee. She made a conscious, I would describe it as moral, decision to take action. She was surrounded by people who endorsed taking the easy road; change a sentence and be done with it; but she knew that wasn't right. At some point she realized if she didn't pick up the flag and lead the troops forward, the battle would be lost, and the stakes were too high to let that happen.
The second lesson is that sometimes we have to be loud to be heard. Peter and I pursued our conversations with the district quietly, but that meant we were easy to ignore. I think it's safe to say that we would have made progress much more quickly if others were joining us on the chorus.
If you live in Fairfield, I encourage you to do that now. The Board will vote on the new suicide prevention, intervention and response policy and regulations at their meeting on Tuesday, May 24th. Let them know that you care about this issue and you are glad they are taking action to protect vulnerable youth and save lives. You can email them at: boemembers@fairfield.k12.ct.us.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Small Victory
In my last post I mentioned another story I had to tell about events that weighed me down in the last 6 months. It's a very long story and I've struggled with where to begin and with whether anything is gained in the sharing. But there is a, well, not really a happy, but a positive ending, so here it is. Brace yourself. This is going to take a while.
Chapter1 - In the year after Emma died, Peter and I have numerous conversations and email exchanges with school district administrators. The gist is usually the same. We share some observations and thoughts. We share some of what we have learned from reading about suicide, suicide prevention and suicide response; things that, from our own experience, we feel could be very valuable. We urge them to review their policies and procedures. We've not reviewed these ourselves, but we're pretty sure one of two things is true: if the policies and procedures are good, they didn't follow them; if they followed them, they're not very good. Mostly, we urge them to reflect. A child has lost her life. It's imperative that we all learn from it. We assure them that we are not asking them to do anything that we don't do ourselves. We tell them that every single day we reflect on what we could have done differently and better, and that we will continue to do so for the rest of our lives. For their part, they listen politely, nod their heads, take notes.
Chapter 2 - Right around the anniversary of Emma's death we get a letter in the mail. It tells us that the 2 high schools in town have purchased AFSP's "More Than Sad" staff and student training program. They plan to implement it at both high schools and hope that we agree that it is a fitting way to honor Emma's memory. We most certainly do.
Chapter 3 - In the summer, we meet with the new district Superintendent and new Headmaster of Emma's high school. We've invested a lot of time and energy in conversations and correspondence over the last year and we don't want those messages to get lost with the transition in leadership. They listen politely, nod their heads, take notes. They assure us there will be a review of policy and procedures and the new Headmaster pledges to become familiar with the "More Than Sad" program. We ask them to keep us in the loop, and we leave feeling optimistic.
Chapter 4 - It is early December, just a couple of weeks after my mother died, and something compels me to check in with the district on what has happened since our conversation in the summer. Specifically, I ask about whether and how the "More Than Sad" program is being implemented and whether a policy and procedure review has been undertaken. I learn that the other high school has begun implementation of the "More Than Sad" program, but at Emma's high school it's been relegated to the faculty resource lending library. On the policy front, I learn that they are, in fact, considering some proposed revisions to the district's suicide regulations. I ask for a copy, and I am encouraged to put my feedback into writing to the Board of Education, as the policy has already been referred out of committee.
Chapter 5 - I read the district's suicide policy and regulations for the first time, and I am stunned. I expected it to need improvement, but...CT school districts have been required by state statute to have suicide prevention policies and procedures in place for more than ten years. Fairfield's policy never even uses the word prevention. Furthermore, the proposed revisions do nothing to correct this. The revisions propose no changes to the policy and only a few minor changes to the regulations. I come to the realization that despite all the head nodding and note taking, there is no intention to engage in a comprehensive review and revision of the policy and regulations related to suicide. I realize that if I want it to happen, I will have to be more proactive and more vocal. I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Chapter 6 - I spend much of my Christmas holiday combing through the state law regarding youth suicide prevention, CT State Department Education guidelines regarding the development of suicide prevention policies and procedures, and state and national resources regarding prevention and response. In an effort to understand how they arrived at the currently proposed minor revisions to Fairfield's regulations, I look back through the minutes of the Board of Ed's Curriculum and Policy subcommittee meetings. It is then that I learn that the regulation review was not undertaken in response to Emma's death, or as a result of the many conversations we had with administrators. I decide not to get hung up on this. A door has been opened and I'm going to step through it. I also learn, after devoting a lot of time putting my recommendations into writing, that the subcommittee will be having another meeting before the regulations are referred to the full Board. If I attend that meeting, I still have an opportunity to influence the content of the regulations before they are moved forward.
Chapter 7 - I attend the subcommittee meeting which takes place the first week of January. Board members don't have a lot of questions, and it appears that the policy will move forward as is. I wait patiently for my turn to speak. When I am finally given the floor, I urge a thorough review of both the policy and the regulations. I urge them to engage outside experts, community members, and parents in this process and take advantage of the many state and national resources available. I tell them that I have done a review of the state law and state Department of Education guidelines and feel that the current policy and regulations fall far short. They ask me if I have specific recommendations and when I respond that, in fact, I have written recommendations that I prepared to send to the full Board, they agree to table the policy in order to review my recommendations.
Chapter 8 - The next monthly meeting of the subcommittee is canceled due to inclement weather, so it's two months before I am attending another meeting to discuss my recommendations. The meeting is called to order, and the first motion on the table is to move the regulations forward to the full Board "as is." I'm practicing deep breathing techniques: in - out - in - out. Another Board member asks a couple of questions. It does not seem like they were inspired by a reading of my recommendations but, hey, they're questions! His questions lead to this important acknowledgment by the committee's staff liaison: "What you are asking about deals more with prevention and/or intervention. Our current regulations really only deal with how to respond to a crisis." They agree to table the regulations again so some language can be added that would help a staff person understand who they should talk to if they were concerned about a student.
It's finally my turn to speak. I once again urge a comprehensive review of policy and regulations and reiterate that I feel that both are very deficient. I reference the written recommendations I sent them which it does not appear any of them have read. I remind them that the state law requires youth suicide prevention policy and regulations, and by the district's own admission the current policy doesn't satisfactorily deal with prevention. The title of the policy alone tells the story. It's called "Suicide Policy." I end with this thought: if all the recent headline stories about teen suicides around our nation and our metro area, amplified by the death of one of their own students by suicide, doesn't inspire them to take a good hard look at their policies, procedures and practices, what would? Then I walk out the door.
Chapter 9 - I am thoroughly frustrated and at a loss for what to do next. I send an email to the Superintendent, copying the staff liaison and the 3 Board members who serve on the committee, but I don't expect much. I get a cursory response from the Superintendent, but that's about it. About a week or so later I am sitting in a hearing room in Hartford, waiting to testify on legislation that would strengthen the state's bullying prevention law, when I receive an email on my phone from the subcommittee's staff liaison. She wants to meet to discuss a process for re-drafting the policy and regulations - the suicide prevention, intervention and response policy and regulations. It would appear that we are making progress.
Chapter 10 - About a week later I meet with her. There is nodding and note taking, but there is also a genuine exchange of ideas and opinions. She has clearly read my recommendations, and better yet, I can tell that she has read some of the research and explored many of the resources herself. She has made a conscious decision to take this work on, even if no one was going to ask her to do it. A friend had told me I was going to need to find someone willing to champion this issue if I was ever going to get anywhere, and it looks like I finally have found my champion. As I walk to my car I find myself humming the Alleluia Chorus.
Chapter 11 - My champion has pulled together a virtual committee of internal and external experts and interested parties to act as a sounding board for policy and procedure development. Heretofore, all the feedback and input has been via email, but today she pulls us together for an in-person meeting before she presents her completely re-drafted policy and procedures to the subcommittee. I am the only non-staff person attending and I arrive first. The first two people, guidance counselors, arrive close together and we exchange names, but nothing more. There is no hint of recognition when I say my name. A third guidance counselor arrives and recognizes his colleagues. He is in a jovial mood and jokes from the instant he enters the room. "Is this the esteemed Suicide committee?" he banters. "I'll tell you, I was so busy today I should probably kill myself!" Ba-da-bum. When the rest of the committee assembles, my champion suggests introductions. I clench my teeth. I hate introductions, and this time I know it's important to reveal my connection to the issue. My name is Nancy von Euler, and I am the 800 pound gorilla in the room. I can't see the comedian's face as I explain who I am.
There are no major changes to the much improved policy and regulations my champion has drafted. As we're leaving, the comedian approaches me. " Mrs. von Euler, I didn't know your daughter, but I was called to the school as part of the crisis response team the morning after she died, and from all the wonderful stories people told about her, I can tell she was an amazing kid."
Yes, she certainly was.
Two thoughts about this exchange plagued me afterward. First, why didn't anyone step forward to share those wonderful stories with us? In the days and weeks after Emma's death we faced a deafening silence from the school. How welcome it would have been to hear those fond remembrances.
The second thought was - seriously? You were at the school when people learned that Emma had died? You witnessed the devastation and trauma and yet, less than two years later, you can parade into a room and joke about protecting kids from suicide? Wow! Of all the evidence I had gathered that the district did not learn and grow from the tragedy of Emma's death, this was, perhaps, the most disturbing.
Chapter 12 - But, you know what? The newly drafted, much improved, policy and regulations have now been forwarded to the Board by the subcommittee and will be voted on by the Board at their next meeting (May 24th). I didn't get everything I wanted, but I am very satisfied with the product. The greatest strength of the new policy and regulations is that they put in place a structure and process for continuous improvement of practice related to supporting vulnerable students. If the Board of Ed approves them on Tuesday, I think we can call this a story with a positive ending.
Chapter1 - In the year after Emma died, Peter and I have numerous conversations and email exchanges with school district administrators. The gist is usually the same. We share some observations and thoughts. We share some of what we have learned from reading about suicide, suicide prevention and suicide response; things that, from our own experience, we feel could be very valuable. We urge them to review their policies and procedures. We've not reviewed these ourselves, but we're pretty sure one of two things is true: if the policies and procedures are good, they didn't follow them; if they followed them, they're not very good. Mostly, we urge them to reflect. A child has lost her life. It's imperative that we all learn from it. We assure them that we are not asking them to do anything that we don't do ourselves. We tell them that every single day we reflect on what we could have done differently and better, and that we will continue to do so for the rest of our lives. For their part, they listen politely, nod their heads, take notes.
Chapter 2 - Right around the anniversary of Emma's death we get a letter in the mail. It tells us that the 2 high schools in town have purchased AFSP's "More Than Sad" staff and student training program. They plan to implement it at both high schools and hope that we agree that it is a fitting way to honor Emma's memory. We most certainly do.
Chapter 3 - In the summer, we meet with the new district Superintendent and new Headmaster of Emma's high school. We've invested a lot of time and energy in conversations and correspondence over the last year and we don't want those messages to get lost with the transition in leadership. They listen politely, nod their heads, take notes. They assure us there will be a review of policy and procedures and the new Headmaster pledges to become familiar with the "More Than Sad" program. We ask them to keep us in the loop, and we leave feeling optimistic.
Chapter 4 - It is early December, just a couple of weeks after my mother died, and something compels me to check in with the district on what has happened since our conversation in the summer. Specifically, I ask about whether and how the "More Than Sad" program is being implemented and whether a policy and procedure review has been undertaken. I learn that the other high school has begun implementation of the "More Than Sad" program, but at Emma's high school it's been relegated to the faculty resource lending library. On the policy front, I learn that they are, in fact, considering some proposed revisions to the district's suicide regulations. I ask for a copy, and I am encouraged to put my feedback into writing to the Board of Education, as the policy has already been referred out of committee.
Chapter 5 - I read the district's suicide policy and regulations for the first time, and I am stunned. I expected it to need improvement, but...CT school districts have been required by state statute to have suicide prevention policies and procedures in place for more than ten years. Fairfield's policy never even uses the word prevention. Furthermore, the proposed revisions do nothing to correct this. The revisions propose no changes to the policy and only a few minor changes to the regulations. I come to the realization that despite all the head nodding and note taking, there is no intention to engage in a comprehensive review and revision of the policy and regulations related to suicide. I realize that if I want it to happen, I will have to be more proactive and more vocal. I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Chapter 6 - I spend much of my Christmas holiday combing through the state law regarding youth suicide prevention, CT State Department Education guidelines regarding the development of suicide prevention policies and procedures, and state and national resources regarding prevention and response. In an effort to understand how they arrived at the currently proposed minor revisions to Fairfield's regulations, I look back through the minutes of the Board of Ed's Curriculum and Policy subcommittee meetings. It is then that I learn that the regulation review was not undertaken in response to Emma's death, or as a result of the many conversations we had with administrators. I decide not to get hung up on this. A door has been opened and I'm going to step through it. I also learn, after devoting a lot of time putting my recommendations into writing, that the subcommittee will be having another meeting before the regulations are referred to the full Board. If I attend that meeting, I still have an opportunity to influence the content of the regulations before they are moved forward.
Chapter 7 - I attend the subcommittee meeting which takes place the first week of January. Board members don't have a lot of questions, and it appears that the policy will move forward as is. I wait patiently for my turn to speak. When I am finally given the floor, I urge a thorough review of both the policy and the regulations. I urge them to engage outside experts, community members, and parents in this process and take advantage of the many state and national resources available. I tell them that I have done a review of the state law and state Department of Education guidelines and feel that the current policy and regulations fall far short. They ask me if I have specific recommendations and when I respond that, in fact, I have written recommendations that I prepared to send to the full Board, they agree to table the policy in order to review my recommendations.
Chapter 8 - The next monthly meeting of the subcommittee is canceled due to inclement weather, so it's two months before I am attending another meeting to discuss my recommendations. The meeting is called to order, and the first motion on the table is to move the regulations forward to the full Board "as is." I'm practicing deep breathing techniques: in - out - in - out. Another Board member asks a couple of questions. It does not seem like they were inspired by a reading of my recommendations but, hey, they're questions! His questions lead to this important acknowledgment by the committee's staff liaison: "What you are asking about deals more with prevention and/or intervention. Our current regulations really only deal with how to respond to a crisis." They agree to table the regulations again so some language can be added that would help a staff person understand who they should talk to if they were concerned about a student.
It's finally my turn to speak. I once again urge a comprehensive review of policy and regulations and reiterate that I feel that both are very deficient. I reference the written recommendations I sent them which it does not appear any of them have read. I remind them that the state law requires youth suicide prevention policy and regulations, and by the district's own admission the current policy doesn't satisfactorily deal with prevention. The title of the policy alone tells the story. It's called "Suicide Policy." I end with this thought: if all the recent headline stories about teen suicides around our nation and our metro area, amplified by the death of one of their own students by suicide, doesn't inspire them to take a good hard look at their policies, procedures and practices, what would? Then I walk out the door.
Chapter 9 - I am thoroughly frustrated and at a loss for what to do next. I send an email to the Superintendent, copying the staff liaison and the 3 Board members who serve on the committee, but I don't expect much. I get a cursory response from the Superintendent, but that's about it. About a week or so later I am sitting in a hearing room in Hartford, waiting to testify on legislation that would strengthen the state's bullying prevention law, when I receive an email on my phone from the subcommittee's staff liaison. She wants to meet to discuss a process for re-drafting the policy and regulations - the suicide prevention, intervention and response policy and regulations. It would appear that we are making progress.
Chapter 10 - About a week later I meet with her. There is nodding and note taking, but there is also a genuine exchange of ideas and opinions. She has clearly read my recommendations, and better yet, I can tell that she has read some of the research and explored many of the resources herself. She has made a conscious decision to take this work on, even if no one was going to ask her to do it. A friend had told me I was going to need to find someone willing to champion this issue if I was ever going to get anywhere, and it looks like I finally have found my champion. As I walk to my car I find myself humming the Alleluia Chorus.
Chapter 11 - My champion has pulled together a virtual committee of internal and external experts and interested parties to act as a sounding board for policy and procedure development. Heretofore, all the feedback and input has been via email, but today she pulls us together for an in-person meeting before she presents her completely re-drafted policy and procedures to the subcommittee. I am the only non-staff person attending and I arrive first. The first two people, guidance counselors, arrive close together and we exchange names, but nothing more. There is no hint of recognition when I say my name. A third guidance counselor arrives and recognizes his colleagues. He is in a jovial mood and jokes from the instant he enters the room. "Is this the esteemed Suicide committee?" he banters. "I'll tell you, I was so busy today I should probably kill myself!" Ba-da-bum. When the rest of the committee assembles, my champion suggests introductions. I clench my teeth. I hate introductions, and this time I know it's important to reveal my connection to the issue. My name is Nancy von Euler, and I am the 800 pound gorilla in the room. I can't see the comedian's face as I explain who I am.
There are no major changes to the much improved policy and regulations my champion has drafted. As we're leaving, the comedian approaches me. " Mrs. von Euler, I didn't know your daughter, but I was called to the school as part of the crisis response team the morning after she died, and from all the wonderful stories people told about her, I can tell she was an amazing kid."
Yes, she certainly was.
Two thoughts about this exchange plagued me afterward. First, why didn't anyone step forward to share those wonderful stories with us? In the days and weeks after Emma's death we faced a deafening silence from the school. How welcome it would have been to hear those fond remembrances.
The second thought was - seriously? You were at the school when people learned that Emma had died? You witnessed the devastation and trauma and yet, less than two years later, you can parade into a room and joke about protecting kids from suicide? Wow! Of all the evidence I had gathered that the district did not learn and grow from the tragedy of Emma's death, this was, perhaps, the most disturbing.
Chapter 12 - But, you know what? The newly drafted, much improved, policy and regulations have now been forwarded to the Board by the subcommittee and will be voted on by the Board at their next meeting (May 24th). I didn't get everything I wanted, but I am very satisfied with the product. The greatest strength of the new policy and regulations is that they put in place a structure and process for continuous improvement of practice related to supporting vulnerable students. If the Board of Ed approves them on Tuesday, I think we can call this a story with a positive ending.
Monday, May 16, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Support Team RMAO
Check out what some amazing friends are doing to honor Emma, raise money for the scholarship fund, and build awareness about suicide prevention. Click here for more...
Monday, May 9, 2011
Coconut Dreams
We went to my favorite restaurant, Liana's Trattoria, for Mother's Day dinner. Liana sent me home with an extra piece of my favorite coconut cake so, in gratitude, I thought I'd share this essay I wrote about her cake. Happy Mother's Day, Liana!
Coconut Dreams
Okay, I’ll admit it. I dream about food. Not any food, mind you. But on occasion I have eaten something so unique, so ethereal, so perfect, it has lingered in my subconscious for days or even weeks, making delicious appearances on my dream menu.
The first food I ever dreamed about was the coconut cake at Liana’s Trattoria off of Tunxis Hill Road. I am a fan of coconut cake anyway, but Liana’s version is in a league of its own. The coconut is baked right into the golden cake batter, making it dense and moist, so moist that it needs no frosting. Liana simply dusts it with a little powdered sugar and drizzles it with a rich dark chocolate sauce. It is perfection.
The first time I had Liana’s coconut cake I dreamed about it for a week straight. For months, I told everyone I knew about it and I was repeatedly disappointed that people weren’t as excited about my discovery as I was. “Oh, that sounds good,” they would say rather unenthusiastically. “No, no, not just good. It’s amazing. It’s the best dessert I’ve ever had. I dream about this cake!”
“You dream about it?” they would say. “Wow.” And it was always clear that they did not mean, “Wow. That must be great cake,” but rather, “Wow. You’re kind of weird.”
Fortunately, my family was very tolerant about my new coconut cake obsession, and they were happy to go to Liana’s as frequently as I had cravings. My husband tried a couple of years in a row to make a reservation for my birthday before he finally caught on to the fact that the restaurant is always closed in January. I took this news badly. It was hard to accept that I would never have my favorite coconut cake on the one occasion each year that demanded that I eat cake.
It is representative of my husband’s devotion that he tried to find a way to right this wrong. He set out to find a recipe, aided by my sister-in-law, who thought she remembered Liana’s coconut cake being featured in a cooking magazine some years ago. Thanks to the miracle of the Internet they managed to find a recipe that was indeed attributed to Liana from the time that she was serving as the pastry chef at Paci in Southport. From all appearances it was the same cake. They had found the Holy Grail.
He kept his discovery a secret, intent on surprising me for my birthday. The night of my birthday dinner I was banned from the kitchen for what seemed like hours. Finally, I was escorted to the dining room, where I was treated to a lovely Thai dinner brought in from a nearby restaurant. I took this to mean that my exile and the banging around in the kitchen had just been an elaborate ruse. But after the meal, Peter and the girls went back into the kitchen and banged around some more before reappearing with their ultimate surprise – Liana’s coconut cake that they had made from scratch.
They put the cake down in front of me, sat down, and stared intently as I took my first bite. I was feeling a lot of pressure as I bit into the cake. I knew they were waiting to see that ecstatic expression that I got when I ate the cake made by Liana. I didn’t think it was an expression I could fake.
Their cake was good, very good. But, honestly, it was not like Liana’s. My husband realized this himself when he took his first taste. His look of disappointment was heartbreaking. He went back through the recipe in his mind. Did he do something wrong? Too much flour? Not enough coconut? Baked it too long? Not long enough? He couldn’t put his finger on where he had gone wrong, but this was not the coconut perfection he was shooting for. There would be no coconut dreams tonight.
You have to admire his perseverance. He tried two more years in a row to make the coconut cake for my birthday. Each time he was crestfallen to find that his cake did not live up to the Liana ideal. After the third failure, he finally gave up, but his failure continued to haunt him.
A couple of years ago, Liana came to greet us at our table midway through another delicious meal. She asked if we had room for dessert, which elicited a chuckle. “I always have room for dessert,” I assured her. “ Would you like to see a dessert menu?” she asked. “ She won’t need a menu,” Peter replied. “She’ll have the coconut cake. That’s what she’s been waiting for since she walked through your door. The entrée was just a formality.”
Liana came back after dessert to see if I had enjoyed my cake. “It was divine,” I told her with complete honesty. She smiled with satisfaction. That’s when Peter spoke up.
“Liana, I just have to ask you about something. A couple of years ago I found a coconut cake recipe in Gourmet that was attributed to you, but when I tried to make it, it was not the same. Don’t get me wrong, it was good - but it wasn’t this good. Is that your recipe or isn’t it?”
“Well, that’s a funny story,” Liana replied. “When the magazine called me and asked me for the recipe, I knew I had to give them something. But the recipe I use in the restaurant is my sister’s. She’d kill me if I gave it away. So that recipe you found in the magazine – that’s my recipe, it’s just not this recipe.”
For Peter, her revelation was vindication. He had not failed at making the cake. He was, in fact, extremely successful at making an inferior cake. And even though I can’t have Liana’s coconut cake for my birthday, it seems right and just to me that my perfect, one of a kind, dream cake is a carefully guarded family secret. Cake worth dreaming about is cake worth protecting.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap.
Coconut Dreams
Okay, I’ll admit it. I dream about food. Not any food, mind you. But on occasion I have eaten something so unique, so ethereal, so perfect, it has lingered in my subconscious for days or even weeks, making delicious appearances on my dream menu.
The first food I ever dreamed about was the coconut cake at Liana’s Trattoria off of Tunxis Hill Road. I am a fan of coconut cake anyway, but Liana’s version is in a league of its own. The coconut is baked right into the golden cake batter, making it dense and moist, so moist that it needs no frosting. Liana simply dusts it with a little powdered sugar and drizzles it with a rich dark chocolate sauce. It is perfection.
The first time I had Liana’s coconut cake I dreamed about it for a week straight. For months, I told everyone I knew about it and I was repeatedly disappointed that people weren’t as excited about my discovery as I was. “Oh, that sounds good,” they would say rather unenthusiastically. “No, no, not just good. It’s amazing. It’s the best dessert I’ve ever had. I dream about this cake!”
“You dream about it?” they would say. “Wow.” And it was always clear that they did not mean, “Wow. That must be great cake,” but rather, “Wow. You’re kind of weird.”
Fortunately, my family was very tolerant about my new coconut cake obsession, and they were happy to go to Liana’s as frequently as I had cravings. My husband tried a couple of years in a row to make a reservation for my birthday before he finally caught on to the fact that the restaurant is always closed in January. I took this news badly. It was hard to accept that I would never have my favorite coconut cake on the one occasion each year that demanded that I eat cake.
It is representative of my husband’s devotion that he tried to find a way to right this wrong. He set out to find a recipe, aided by my sister-in-law, who thought she remembered Liana’s coconut cake being featured in a cooking magazine some years ago. Thanks to the miracle of the Internet they managed to find a recipe that was indeed attributed to Liana from the time that she was serving as the pastry chef at Paci in Southport. From all appearances it was the same cake. They had found the Holy Grail.
He kept his discovery a secret, intent on surprising me for my birthday. The night of my birthday dinner I was banned from the kitchen for what seemed like hours. Finally, I was escorted to the dining room, where I was treated to a lovely Thai dinner brought in from a nearby restaurant. I took this to mean that my exile and the banging around in the kitchen had just been an elaborate ruse. But after the meal, Peter and the girls went back into the kitchen and banged around some more before reappearing with their ultimate surprise – Liana’s coconut cake that they had made from scratch.
They put the cake down in front of me, sat down, and stared intently as I took my first bite. I was feeling a lot of pressure as I bit into the cake. I knew they were waiting to see that ecstatic expression that I got when I ate the cake made by Liana. I didn’t think it was an expression I could fake.
Their cake was good, very good. But, honestly, it was not like Liana’s. My husband realized this himself when he took his first taste. His look of disappointment was heartbreaking. He went back through the recipe in his mind. Did he do something wrong? Too much flour? Not enough coconut? Baked it too long? Not long enough? He couldn’t put his finger on where he had gone wrong, but this was not the coconut perfection he was shooting for. There would be no coconut dreams tonight.
You have to admire his perseverance. He tried two more years in a row to make the coconut cake for my birthday. Each time he was crestfallen to find that his cake did not live up to the Liana ideal. After the third failure, he finally gave up, but his failure continued to haunt him.
A couple of years ago, Liana came to greet us at our table midway through another delicious meal. She asked if we had room for dessert, which elicited a chuckle. “I always have room for dessert,” I assured her. “ Would you like to see a dessert menu?” she asked. “ She won’t need a menu,” Peter replied. “She’ll have the coconut cake. That’s what she’s been waiting for since she walked through your door. The entrée was just a formality.”
Liana came back after dessert to see if I had enjoyed my cake. “It was divine,” I told her with complete honesty. She smiled with satisfaction. That’s when Peter spoke up.
“Liana, I just have to ask you about something. A couple of years ago I found a coconut cake recipe in Gourmet that was attributed to you, but when I tried to make it, it was not the same. Don’t get me wrong, it was good - but it wasn’t this good. Is that your recipe or isn’t it?”
“Well, that’s a funny story,” Liana replied. “When the magazine called me and asked me for the recipe, I knew I had to give them something. But the recipe I use in the restaurant is my sister’s. She’d kill me if I gave it away. So that recipe you found in the magazine – that’s my recipe, it’s just not this recipe.”
For Peter, her revelation was vindication. He had not failed at making the cake. He was, in fact, extremely successful at making an inferior cake. And even though I can’t have Liana’s coconut cake for my birthday, it seems right and just to me that my perfect, one of a kind, dream cake is a carefully guarded family secret. Cake worth dreaming about is cake worth protecting.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap.
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