I distinctly remember St. Patrick's Day the year Emma was in kindergarten. The week before St. Patrick's Day, Emma's kindergarten teacher began telling her students stories about the mischievous leprechaun that visited her classroom each year. Each year, she told them, the leprechaun visited the night before St. Patrick's Day and overturned desks, mixed up books on the bookshelves, and scattered supplies around the room - a very naughty leprechaun! I gathered that most of her kindergarteners loved these stories and looked forward to seeing the havoc wreaked in their classroom by the naughty leprechaun. They admired the leprechaun's chutzpah (can leprechauns have chutzpah?), and looked forward to living vicariously through the leprechaun's naughtiness. Emma was less sure. Emma liked things to be predictable, orderly, and well-behaved. She came home telling stories about the naughty leprechaun with a mixture of excitement and dread. She liked the fantasy part of the story, but did the leprechaun have to make a mess? More importantly, she wanted to know if the leprechaun was going to come make a mess of her house. No, we reassured her, certainly not. She did not find us totally convincing.
When Emma woke up for school the morning of St. Patrick's Day, magic was afoot. Outside her bedroom door was a giant shamrock with some gold foil wrapped candy on top of it. Emma excitedly followed a trail of shamrocks and candy that led down the hallway and into the kitchen. On the kitchen table were more shamrocks and a little gift at Emma's and Sarah's places. "We have a leprechaun!" Emma squealed with delight.
Emma was excited to head off to school that morning. She couldn't wait to tell her teacher that she had a leprechaun, too, and that her leprechaun was nice, not naughty.
From that time on, Emma always looked forward to the leprechaun's visits. In fact, every year, even when she was 16 years old, a few days before St. Patrick's Day she would ask me, "Mom, do you think the leprechaun will come again this year?" It was a gentle reminder that even when life got busy, there was always room for a little St. Patrick's Day magic.
A happy St. Pat's to you, Emmie Lou. And for the record, the leprechaun still visits.
This past Thursday started out just like any other day, but by noon things were steadily going down hill. I drove to Stamford for a lunchtime meeting and found a parking spot on the street, behind another car. When I got out of the car I noticed a sign on the street that made me question whether I was parked legally. There was a parking lot right in front of the building where I was headed, so I hopped backed in my car to move it, just to be on the safe side. I turned the key in the ignition, and...nothing. I tried again - nothing. My meeting was starting, so I left the car and headed into the building. I'd deal with the car after the meeting.
The meeting was scheduled to run two hours, but I left after an hour and a half so that I could deal with my car. On my way out of the building, I phoned Triple A. We agreed it was likely a dead battery. They would get to me within 45 minutes and give me a jump start. If I was lucky, I'd still make it back to work in time for my 3 pm meeting.
I got into my car while I waited for Triple A and decided to give the engine one more try. I turned the key in the ignition and, reluctantly, the car started. Yahoo! I called back Triple A and canceled the service call, phoned my office to cancel my 3 pm meeting, and then drove directly to a garage around the corner from my house.
The garage didn't have the size battery I needed in stock, but they called to have one delivered and assured me that delivery time was usually under 15 minutes. An hour and half later the battery finally arrived and a few minutes after that I was on my way. By now, it was nearly time to pick Sarah up at school after field hockey practice, so I dashed home, let the dogs out quickly, checked my email, put the dogs back in their crates and then headed out again.
On my way to the car, I saw the mailman pulling away from our mailbox, so I quickly collected our mail, and then hopped into the car. There were only two pieces of what I call "real mail" - mail that is not a bill or a catalog. I could tell from the return address that one was from friends of ours and was probably a birth announcement. The other piece was more mysterious. It was addressed solely to me in what I would describe as youthful handwriting and there was no return address. I wondered if it could be from a friend of Emma's. I have really enjoyed seeing and hearing from her friends over these past three years, so with some happy anticipation, I tore open the envelope before starting the car.
When I looked inside the envelope, I saw a newspaper clipping which I immediately recognized as the CT Post article that I had been interviewed for three months ago. Tucked inside that clipping was a note that said, "Maybe if you spent more time with your kids instead of running PTAs your family would not have suffered this unspeakable tragedy. Family first!" The exclamation point had a little heart where the period should be.
I shoved the note back into the envelope and threw the envelope onto the floor of the car. I'm not sure I was breathing. I was completely in shock. I had to get Sarah, so I turned on the car and headed for Milford, but before I had gotten very far I burst into tears. I knew I shouldn't make the drive in that condition, so I frantically began calling Peter. I reached him within a few minutes and he packed up quickly and headed for Milford, urging me to call a friend when I got back home. He was angry and worried and clearly felt helpless.
Consciously and subconsciously I have dreaded a moment like that for most of the last three years. I know that families are often blamed for suicide deaths and there was no reason to believe we would be immune to that. When the CT Post reporter left a message for me saying that she wanted to interview me for an article about teen suicide, I hesitated before calling her back. Maybe I didn't need to open myself up to criticism and backlash. There's a saying, though: 'Be the change you want to see." If I wanted to see a world in which the myths that surround suicide are shattered, and where those who suffer and survivors of suicide loss feel free to seek help and support without shame or stigma, I had to help build that world. Telling my story is the first step.
Over the last few days, as a result of receiving that hateful note, I have struggled with two competing emotions:
wanting to vociferously defend my track record as a parent, on the one
hand; and wanting to curl up under a rock and hide, on the other. The first is not an option. The author of that note didn't have the
courage to sign his/her message. I don't have the option of facing my
accuser. Curling up under a rock is not an option either. I have another
child and that child needs her mother. A few days after Emma died, my
very wise and very strong, Sarah, looked me and Peter in the eyes and
said, "We are not going to let this destroy us." For the last three years we have worked really hard to carry on, remember Emma, use our gifts, and stay strong - together; because that is what families do.
If you would like to help us prevent suicide, please join us for the Out of the Darkness Walk on Saturday, October 27th at Sherwood Island. You can join or contribute to Team Emma by clicking here.
