Scaling Mountains

Last week Sarah became an official 46’er. That means she has hiked up all 46 high peaks (4,000+ feet) in New York’s Adirondack Park. It’s a big accomplishment for anyone, but I think it’s an especially big accomplishment for Sarah, who has been determined that Emma’s death would not derail her. She had an almost instant resolve about that. It seems like it was less than a week after Emma’s death that Sarah was telling us, “We can’t let this destroy us.”  And, of course, she is right. That wouldn’t be right for us, and it would not be the way to honor Emma’s memory. One thing Peter, Sarah and I have all felt certain of was that Emma did not want to hurt us. The only thing more tragic than losing Emma, would be losing ourselves, too.

But there’s a difference between thinking, even knowing, that something is the right thing to do and doing it.  And that’s why I am particularly proud of what Sarah has accomplished. I’m not sure anyone who hasn’t traveled this trail can completely appreciate the emotional energy it takes to negotiate just an ordinary day after a profound loss. And what’s particularly ironic is that people are most likely not to appreciate how hard you’re working when you are working the absolute hardest. When you’re putting on a brave face, so as not spoil a party; when you’re screwing up all the concentration you can muster so that you honor your responsibilities at work or at school; those are the times when friends and family are most likely to observe, “See, they’re doing better.” But the truth is it’s not a straight path to better. It’s a long, rocky trail with lots of ups and downs and more than its fair share of switchbacks. Looking back at this time many years from now, I suspect Sarah will feel that climbing the grief mountain was more difficult and exhausting than all 46 Adirondack high peaks put together.

And Sarah’s 46’er is a bit of an accomplishment for me, too. Letting Sarah head off to camp last July, just 2 weeks after Emma died, might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, next to speaking at Emma’s memorial service. The five weeks that she was gone last summer were excruciating, but we knew it was where she should be. She climbed 20 mountains last summer – many that were not high peaks, and several repeats, but that summer put her at a total of 37 high peaks – just 9 left to scale this summer. And  when she got home from camp she had traveled over some important healing territory, too – territory she needed to travel on her own. Unfortunately, grief is a solitary journey.  Each person has to find his or her own trail and the ascents and descents are different for every person.

And frankly, letting Sarah go back to camp this year wasn’t easy either – because letting go and trusting that everything will be all right just aren’t in my repertoire anymore. Now, letting go and trusting are acts of will - invisible to the casual observer, I’m sure, but acts of will nonetheless. But that’s what I did. I let go, and I tried really hard to trust.

So Sarah’s 46’er is an acknowledgment that life does go on – not without struggle, not without heartache, but on. And every now and again, we get to look out at a really spectacular view and appreciate the journey. 

Notes Home

This past Sunday, Peter and I decided to take a hike up Rooster Comb Mountain before heading home from the Adirondacks after visiting Sarah at camp. Hiking in the Adirondacks is an experience our family has shared, although many of our hikes were done with other companions through our years at camp, and not with each other.


Emma would choose a canoe paddle over hiking boots, any time. Her favorite places in the Adirondacks were its rivers and lakes, not the mountains. She was a strong paddler and even stronger at shouldering a canoe over a portage. Nonetheless, she did her fair share of hiking and we took some hikes together that I will never forget.

The one that particularly comes to mind is a hike we took in the fall of 2006. Peter and the girls had a long weekend off from school because of a Jewish holiday, so we decided to head to Lake Placid for a couple of days. We left home after school on a Friday afternoon and arrived at our hotel well after night fall. When we awoke in the morning and pulled back the drapes of our hotel  window, we were stunned by the picture before us. We had left a Connecticut that was barely touched by fall, but had arrived in an area of northern New York where the trees were already fully bathed in the beautiful oranges, reds and yellow of fall.


Our friends, Sarah K. and Marian, were also in Lake Placid and we had made a plan to meet them and hike Whiteface and Esther, two of the 46 high peaks(4,000+ feet) in the Adirondack Park. We got an early, but still civilized 9 am start from our hotel and were starting our ascent up the mountain by 9:30 am. It was a beautiful, sunny fall day. The sky was the blue that everyone there describes as Adirondack blue and the air was cool and crisp, but not yet cold.  I couldn't imagine a better day for a hike.


Emma loved being in nature, so in some ways, hiking was a natural activity for her, but she hated the feeling of getting out of breath. She could easily psych herself out when she started getting that feeling. She would focus on her breathing, working harder at it in an effort to make herself breathe more easily. Of course, just the opposite would happen.  As she focused on her breathing it would become even more labored and uncomfortable and she would become very unhappy.


At some point in her camp career, a wise trip leader had proposed a solution to her breathing problems that Emma had found effective. The counselor had suggested that if she gripped a stick between her teeth it would keep her mind off her breathing and keep her mouth open in a way that would help regulate her breathing. I was skeptical at first, but I had to admit, it seemed to work for her.


As a result,  as we started up the mountain Emma immediately began scouring the trail for the stick that would get her through the steep parts of the hike. Once she found it, she tucked it away until she needed it, chatting happily as we made our way up the beginning part of the trail that was not terribly steep or challenging.

At some point we picked up our pace a bit and parted from Sarah K. and Marian who wanted to take a more leisurely pace and climb just one of the two mountains. By the time our hike was getting more challenging it was, fortunately, also becoming quite rewarding. As the grade increased there were multiple time when you came out to clearings that featured incredible views. At one point we left behind the zone of deciduous trees and entered a zone of mostly evergreens. It was not long after that that we began to feel the temperature drop, and a short time later we emerged on a ridge where we were surrounded by sparkling snowcapped shrubs and trees and were treated to a perfect view of the beautiful paint splattered valley below us. It was truly breathtaking. At that point, I needed a stick in my mouth, not to mention gloves on my hands and a hat on my head.


We arrived at the peak of Whiteface in time to celebrate with lunch. We had packed some sandwiches and fruit in our backpacks that we pulled out and began eating. Whiteface is an unusual peak to climb because it is accessible by car. As we ate our lunch, we noted fellow hikers who had been met with grand spreads by friends who had traveled by car. That was for wimps, we decided. We all liked our way better, even if the sandwiches were a little bit smushed and the fruit a bit bruised from tumbling around in our backpacks.


We only spent about a half hour at the top because we still wanted to make it up Esther before the end of the day. As we descended to the junction of the trail to Esther, we came to a hill of large rocks that we had encountered on the way up. Peter carefully picked his way down the rocks first, showing the rest of us a reliable path. Sarah went next and had not gone far when she tripped and started to roll, head first, down the hill of rocks. There was not much I could do but catch my breath and head towards her. Peter and I got to her at about the same time. She was shaken, but otherwise fine. In fact, I think she composed herself and was ready to keep going before either Peter or I was. In a few minutes, we were back on our way and, despite the scare we had all just had,  Sarah and Emma were still fully committed to making it up Esther before the end of the day.

Shortly after we reached the junction of the trail to Esther, we decided to take a small break to re-fuel. Peter whipped out some power bars he had packed for us, which led to one of the day's most memorable pictures: Emma sitting eating her bar with a big smile and a thumbs up, Sarah making the goofiest face she could muster, and me with a complete look of disgust on my face after just biting into a power bar for the first time. I think its safe to say that I will never be hungry enough to eat one of those again.

By the time we made it back down to the parking lot, we were tired, hungry, and at least one of us (me) was already sore. But we were also very satisfied. It had been a memorable day: a great accomplishment - 2 high peaks, great company, and great views.


Emma had also amassed her own little collection of souvenirs from the trip, which I was reminded of as we hiked up Rooster Comb this past Sunday. There was the mouth stick, of course, which helped her through the hike, but she also had a couple of beautiful leaf specimens, and several samples of birch bark that she had found along the way. Emma could not resist those pieces of birch bark that litter the trails on Adirondack hikes. Even though she knew it was best to leave these natural remnants where they were, she always had to steal away with one or two of the best pieces she could find. She would take these home and then, weeks or months later, one of us would get a sweet card or note written on birch bark stationery. She seemed to know that the words and the extraordinary medium on which they were written made these notes not just special, but eternal.


Emma liked to communicate through notes. As articulate as she was, it was through notes that she was often able to express her deepest emotions. I suppose many of us are that way. When Sarah was at camp in the weeks following Emma's death, she would often write notes to Emma, and each Sunday at the weekly Council Fire gathering, she would toss her notes into the fire, letting the smoke carry her messages to Emma, wherever she was. She found this act of communion and communication healing and wrote us during that summer to tell us that we should give it a try. We did, sharing our tear-stained letters with each other before tossing them in the fire for Emma, and watching them go up in smoke - all our questions, all the things we wish we had had a chance to say, all the convictions about who we knew her to be, and who we knew ourselves to be - up in smoke. And, amazingly, with that came a tiny glimmer of acceptance and healing, the kind that comes from being heard and understood.


So maybe that's why on Sunday when I climbed Rooster Comb, I felt compelled to look for the most perfect specimen of birch bark I could find.  I will write a note to Emma on it and then I will toss it in the fire, letting the smoke carry my eternal message of love to her. And I know that she will hear me and understand.

4th of July

I've talked a lot about how much Emma liked holidays - any holiday. But if there was one holiday that Emma had mixed feelings about, it would have been the 4th of July. And there is one word that sums up the reason for Emma's ambivalence - fireworks.


From the time Emma was a baby until she was 11, 4th of July was spent at Gram & Gramps' house - so far, so good. There were always lots of cousins around. Gram and Gramps had a great big pool and even when Emma was tiny, she loved being in that water. She could outlast just about any cousin. Fortunately, there were enough cousins, aunts and uncles, that she could always persuade someone to go swimming with her.

When the water got boring, there were lots of games to fill the day. We had family softball games and wiffle ball games. We had badminton and volleyball and croquet matches from time to time, and at some point bocce and washers got thrown into the mix. Still all good with the Emster.

You couldn't argue with the food. Sometimes we had the standard hot dogs and hamburgers, but those were usually supplemented with brats, or grilled chicken or some other great picnic food. Those would be supplemented by potato salad, coleslaw, banana salad, corn - ofetn more food than the table could hold. Dessert was no different. There would be ice cream and cake and pie and, of course, Emma's favorite, s'mores. Up through the picnic dinner, Emma was still a-okay with the 4th of July.

But sometime after dinner was cleaned up, dusk would begin to fall and it would be time to start thinking about the dreaded fireworks.


For the first few years of Emma's life, the family fireworks display required a venue shift. Sometime after dinner we would all head down to my brother Bob's house which was just a short distance down the road from my parents. Bob and one or two assistants would usually get a head start and would get the fireworks set up by the time we arrived.  The family-made would show as soon as everyone had arrived and it was fully dark. 


The first year we went, when Emma was just 1, we quickly learned that fireworks weren't for her.  Emma and I spent most of our time in my brother's family room looking at books and doing whatever we could to drown out the sound of the fireworks. I think we tried again the next year, thinking maybe she would have outgrown her fear, but no dice. After that, for several years we would just head home in the early evening and avoid the fireworks altogether.


Knowing what we came to know about our Emma, it wasn't all that surprising that she hated fireworks. She wasn't a fan of any loud noises.  In fact, she spent her kindergarten year putting her fingers in her ears when the school bus rounded the corner toward the bus stop because she thought it was so loud. She also didn't like things that were unpredictable. So how could she possibly have liked our home-grown fireworks displays? They were the embodiment of the words loud and unpredictable.My brothers specialized in the squealers and the boomers and every firework that made an obnoxious noise. And while, there was always a game plan for how the fireworks went off, the show rarely went off according to plan. There was always one firework that shot off in the wrong direction, sometimes toward the spectators, or one that only exploded as someone walked toward it to re-light it. Thinking back on these shows, Emma had quite good sense. They really were kind of scary.


At some point when Emma was early elementary age, the family fireworks displays were shifted to Gram and Gramps' house and Emma found a tolerable way to participate. She and I would discreetly find our way into the family room of the house just as the show was about to begin. From the family room, you could look out the window, over the heads of the spectators gathered on the patio, and see the show from a safe and relatively quiet distance. This was fireworks Emma-style.

When Emma was 11 our family started spending our summers at camp and our 4th of July was spent there. There were pioneer meets, and the Paul Revere riders would charge through camp in the early morning hours to warn that the British were coming. There was good food, good company, friendly competition and - no fireworks!


Emma's last 4th of July was spent in Mann, West Virginia. Peter, Emma and I had traveled down there with a large group of adults and teens from our community with Appalachian Service Project. On the 4th of July we took a brief break from the week of hard work on local houses and trailers to celebrate a national holiday.  And I believe Emma 2.0, now a mature 16, fully enjoyed sitting on the street with her friends watching the town fireworks display. I was a comfortable distance away, but as far as I know, she didn't even have her fingers in ears.

Sarah's Birthday Present

Yesterday was Sarah's birthday and it made me think about a present that Emma made for Sarah for her third birthday. Emma had just turned seven. She cooked the birthday present plan up with Pat, our neighbor, expert craftswoman, and honorary grandmother. 


I'm guessing that it was Emma who thought of the idea of making a quilt for Sarah's baby dolls. She would have known that Sarah would love that. When Emma played, she liked to be the chef, waitress, actress or dancer. Her make-believe games always involved exotic costumes and/or realistic props. We had a well-equipped play kitchen and that was supplemented with a dining table, cash register, and even order pad so that Emma could transform her home kitchen to a restaurant kitchen. A shopping cart and scanning register transformed the basement into a supermarket in no time. And Emma never had a problem pushing that stuff to the side and transforming the basement again, this time into a dance studio or stage. That was how Emma liked to play pretend.


But Sarah, as Emma knew well, liked to be the mommy or the teacher. Her games involved baby dolls, diapers, baby bottles, strollers, and cribs. Sometimes the scene would be school and there would be multiple baby dolls and a book or felt board. Sarah even had a little wicker cradle in her bedroom so that her baby doll could sleep right near her mommy. That was why Emma would have known that Sarah would love to have a special quilt for her baby.


I imagine she had to sell Pat on the doll quilt. Pat was a good sport, but she was also practical. She must have wondered whether it was really possible for a seven year old to participate in crafting a quilt, especially a seven year old with notably pudgy little fingers. But Emma would have been confident and Pat would not have wanted to dissuade her.


The front of the quilt that they made together is a classic patchwork. Pat let Emma pick out the fabric from which they carefully measured and cut squares. Then Pat sewed the squares together on her sewing machine, sometimes letting Emma guide the fabric or press on the foot pedal. "Gently, Emma. Gently," Pat would have to remind her, when she would press the pedal too enthusiastically. 

The back of the quilt is a solid fabric and is stitched to the patchwork front with many, many imperfect stitches that are all Emma's. She stopped by Pat's house daily in the 2 weeks leading up to Sarah's birthday to work on all those stitches that lovingly hold the two sides of the quilt together. It is really amazing to think of Emma's puffy little seven year old hands, patiently stitching all around the outside of that quilt; or of Pat, patiently watching, encouraging her, and keeping her on task when she got absorbed in telling a great story. I'm sure there were many great stories that went into the making of that quilt; stories that Pat told Emma, and stories that Emma told Pat. They are an important part of the patchwork product. You can almost trace the stories in the stitches as they make their way around the quilt. "Ah, see here they were sitting quietly, the stitches are small and precise. But here is where they were enjoying a tall tale that was much more interesting and important than the stitches they were adding to the quilt."

But the most precious part of the quilt is a square found on the back, carefully hand-stitched onto the quilt by Emma and bearing a birthday inscription in her very own seven year old handwriting.  It reads, "To My Sweet Sister. May she always be kind and generous. Made by Emma von Euler. July 10, 1999."


Those words are completely Emma's. I can practically hear her speak them. Even then, Pat would have realized how important it was to the finished product to include that one special square. But she could never have known what a treasure that quilt would become, capturing and preserving two of our great loves.

The Divine Sense of Sameness

Emma's friend J lives a couple blocks up the road from us. I'm not sure when they became friends, but we first became aware of J.'s presence in Emma's life when Peter was driving Emma to high school in the morning during her freshman year. J. would be standing on the corner of his street as Emma and Peter drove by and he would raise his hand to his hat and salute them as they drove by. "Who's that?" Peter asked the first time they received the salute. "Oh, that's my friend J," Emma answered. "He's in band with me." One time Peter pulled over to offer him a ride, but he politely declined, choosing to continue to salute people he knew while waiting for the school bus to arrive. 

Later, Emma also began to ride the bus in the morning and we gather that they became frequent seatmates. J was a year older than Emma and when he got his license, he would drive Emma to school whenever he could snag the family car for the day and regularly drove her to their evening jazz band rehearsals. Every so often, however, Emma would head off to the bus in the morning and 20 minutes later the doorbell would ring. J would be standing at our door, often loaded down with a large quantity of bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches he'd picked up to sell at school and a sob story about how the deli didn't have his order ready on time. The punchline was always the same, "You think you could give me a ride?" he'd say. "Sure," I'd answer. "I'll grab my keys. Meet me at the car." During the short ride to school he would thoroughly entertain me with tales of his exploits and interests. I usually missed about half of his references, but his gusto kept me interested and amused. I was almost sorry when we arrived at the door of the school and he had to hop out.


The thing about losing a child is that it changes every aspect of your life. So much of your time is devoted to doing things with that child and for that child. When they disappear from your life, they leave not just a big hole in your heart, but a hole in your day. Your daily routines and rhythms change: the way you set the table; how much dinner you cook; what you cook; what you do in the morning, the evening and all the hours in between. Everything changes. And at some point you realize it's never going back to normal. Grief counselors urge you to embrace the "new normal."  It's sound, but frankly, unwelcome advice because I liked the old normal. I wasn't in the market for a new normal. 


That's why when something happens that makes me feel like I've retained some small piece of that old normal, I genuinely feel like celebrating. 


A couple of weeks ago, I was hanging around the house in the afternoon with Sarah when the phone rang. It was J who had recently returned home from college. "Hey," he said. "Could you do me a small favor?" "Sure," I said. "What do you need?" "Could you give me a ride home?" I picked him up about a block from our house. He was loaded down with some groceries he had purchased at a nearby store without thinking about how heavy they would get during the walk home. On the short ride to his house he regaled me with stories about the WWF and the WWE. I'm woefully uninformed on these matters, but that didn't discourage him. He was happy to carry the conversation and I was happy to listen. More than happy, actually, because it was a little piece of that old normal and I had captured it.  Ahhh, the divine sense of sameness.