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.  

Guest Commentator

Peter gave me permission to share these remarks that he prepared for the Worcester, MA Out of the Darkness walk that will take place this Saturday:

Suicide’s been in the news a lot this fall, and that means it’s been part of a lot of conversations.  Teenagers, professional athletes, executives, parents.  Suicide enters all sectors of society.  Nowadays, whenever events become news, they also become hot topics on the Internet.  In some ways this is good.  Conversations on the Internet reach more people.  Suicide used to be hushed up.  Heightened awareness is good.  In conversations I’ve read and heard,  much of the thinking goes this way:  “Bullying is bad.  It needs to stop.” Or, “Being bullied is bad, but it’s not a reason to kill yourself.”  Or, “I guess these people can’t take all the pressure.”  Another one says, “Suicide is such an implusive act,”  Or, “Suicide is such a selfish act,” or this one that I overheard in a restaurant last week, “Suicide is just the easy way out.”  Then there’s always this truism:  “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

The consensus seems to be that with a little more thought, with a little stronger will or character, “these people” could find a better solution.  If only they were better problem solvers.  If only they could reflect and find the proper perspective.

I certainly walked along that line of thinking – a million times in the 15 months since my daughter, Emma took her life.

But what if we’re wrong?  What if it’s not so simple?  What if we’re  the ones who need to be more reflective?  What if we, the survivors and the Internet commenters are the ones who oversimplify this problem?  What if it’s not a character flaw?  What if it’s more than just a poor,  impulsive choice?  What if it’s not dysfunctional families?  What if it’s not drugs?  What if it’s not bullying?  What if it’s much more complicated.

I’m trying to reflect, now.  After all, that’s what we expected of those people who ended their lives.  But reflection means looking beyond the superficial response.

How is our will?  After all, that’s what we wished for those people who ended their own lives?  Are we willing to face a complicated problem instead of looking for an easy explanation?

How about our character?  Do we have the strength of character to look beneath a shallow truism, and say, “I want to find a real solution to this “temporary problem”?

What if it’s not just an individual’s problem, or a family’s problem, or a school’s or community’s problem?  What if it’s more deeply rooted, more systemic?  What if it connects to our national attitude toward mental illness, a view that uses words like crazy, freak, or head case, a view that disparages “shrinks.”   What if it involves our national tolerance for intolerance?   What if it connects to brain chemistry, the way certain brains are wired?

The more I’ve read and  the more I’ve reflected this past year, the more I realize that we don’t know very much, the more I believe that there isn’t a quick and ready explanation for suicide, even in the cases where the cause seems clear.  It’s always more complex than it seems, and that’s a message we need to communicate.

My daughter, Emma, like many suicide victims, doesn’t fit neatly into categories.  She was complex.  She felt that she inhabited the margins at her school, but she was also involved in lots of school groups and organizations;  she may have felt bullied at times, but she also had close friends who she could count on;  in her daily life she had many adults to whom she could turn, but she didn’t seek their help in her crisis.  Emma was confident to the point of cocky, but she was also insecure.  She loved being on stage, but she was afraid to reveal her true self.  She had her own sense of style, but she wanted to fit in.  She loved life, but she ended her own.  She wouldn’t hurt a flea, but she ended up hurting so many people.

Here’s what I think I know now:  suicide is not just a tragedy for an individual or a family or a community.  It’s a national tragedy, and it’s one we don’t understand…yet.  Suicide is not a simple problem of character, courage, or problem solving skills.  No, it’s a social crisis and a health crisis, and it needs the kind of attention that those kinds of crises receive.  It needs the kind of attention that we’ve devoted to other health crises like cancer and HIV/AIDS.  It will take funds, and it will take resolve.  We will have to convince the public, which likes a quick explanation, that this is complicated. 

Everyone here has been touched by suicide.  We’ve had to fight through pain and shame and perhaps despair to be here and to talk about this issue, but we’re here.  Now we need to do whatever we can to help our neighbors and the world at large see both the complexity of the problem and the determination that it will take to tackle it.

AFSP does a lot of good for the survivors, for the strugglers, for those who provide support, and for the people doing the badly needed research.  I believe they can do much more, but it will take resources, will, and national reflection.

Out of the Darkness

Tomorrow is the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention's annual Out of the Darkness walk. Our family will be participating for the second year on Team Emma, a team formed by one of Emma's friends last year soon after her death. It was one of those remarkable acts of strength, resilience and purpose that has moved and inspired us. Many of Emma's friends are returning from college to participate in the walk again this year, and the team has been bolstered by family, friends, neighbors and colleagues. We are so grateful to all those people who are taking this walk beside us, either by coming to the walk or by contributing to a cause that means so much to us. So far, we have more than 35 registered team members and have raised over $5,900. 


There are a lot of touching stories related to the walk this year. Actually I have a story in my heart about each person on the team, each person who gave a gift, and each person who couldn't be with us in Westport, but has joined a team in their town or on their campus. But, for now,  I'd like to share just 3. 


The first started with a call to my cell phone about 5 weeks ago. It was Emma's friend Chelsea calling from college. She talked a bit about how school was going, her classes, roommate, etc. Then she told me that she had been assigned a group project for her management class and that she and her group had decided to organize an Out of the Darkness walk in her college's town, Worcester, MA. I have to admit, I was a little concerned by her ambition at first. "Wow, Chelsea, that seems like a lot of work, are you sure you can handle that with everything else you have on your plate?" "Well," she said, "I haven't completely researched what it would entail, but I think we'll be able to pull it off. We want to do it on October 23rd, the week after the Westport walk. Can you come?" I told her if she was able to make it happen, we would be there, and sure enough, the first Out of the Darkness walk ever to be held in the Worcester area will be held on October 23rd. She did it. Chelsea will be at the walk on October 16th in Westport to honor Emma and support us, but I think the walk on the 23rd is bigger than that. That walk is about the Emma's she doesn't know, but knows are out there. The people for whom she can still make a difference. Her courage and determination are inspiring.


The second story started with an email to Peter from the wife of a colleague of Peter's. She wanted Peter to know that she and her husband would be at the walk. She also wanted him to know that he might be getting some walk donations from some people whose names he wouldn't recognize. She said they were having a celebration for their baby's first birthday and had asked their guests to make a contribution to AFSP in lieu of gifts. When Peter told me this story I was literally moved to tears. For one thing, this family doesn't know us well and had never met Emma. And I don't think you could send a stronger message that we need to break down the stigma and fear surrounding suicide than to ask for donations for suicide prevention in connection with your child's first birthday. These folks are not just walking the walk, they're talking the talk, and by doing so they are taking suicide out of the darkness.


And the last story happened last weekend. I guess it had been about two weeks since my last post when I wrote, in part, about how it had been clear that a few people were choosing to keep their distance. I was in the grocery store, the place that has seemed to inspire the greatest number of awkward encounters since Emma's death. A couple of weeks ago I was there and a person I know more than casually tried to out-run me through the store so that she wouldn't have to talk to me. It actually got a little comical to see her start down an aisle and then quickly turn back when she saw my cart turn the corner. I think it probably took her twice as long to complete her shopping mission and we still ended up in the last aisle, face to face, much to her discomfort and chagrin.


But last weekend was different. Last weekend I was buzzing through the grocery store at a break neck speed when I heard someone call my name from the opposite end of the store aisle. It was someone I hadn't seen in several years. I knew her casually because our kids had attended the same elementary school. She and her family had moved away and had just returned in the last year. Since her kids were younger and in different schools, I had not seen her since she returned to town. She jogged up to me and gave me a hug. "I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your daughter," she said. "I heard about the walk." she went on, "and I want you to know that I'll be there with my daughter. I think it so important to talk about this."


Alleluia!


I've often heard it said that the journey of loss is about learning to accept death. But sometimes I think we are called upon to challenge death. All of our great advances in medicine have come because we challenged ourselves, as a society, to find causes and develop cures for the illnesses and conditions that robbed us of our loved ones prematurely. Scientists and doctors did the work, but the public demanded it and backed it up with the financial support to make it happen. But for some reason, it seems that we have not had the public will to challenge suicide. We've accepted the monumental loss of life and the devastating toll on the families left behind. We've shaken our heads, shrugged our shoulders, waved a white flag in defeat.  That's got to change.


Tomorrow's walk is about raising awareness and supporting survivors, but it is also about looking a formidable foe squarely in the eyes and issuing a challenge. To all of you who have joined us in issuing this challenge by walking, raising funds, or contributing funds, we are so grateful to have you on our side. If you haven't participated, but would like to, click here. You can register online to walk through midnight tonight and at the walk tomorrow. Team and walker donations will be accepted through December 31st.


Suicide, you're going down!

Crossing the Threshold

If you've followed this blog regularly, you've undoubtedly noticed that I'm not writing much. I can't. It's not that I'm too busy. I wouldn't describe it as writer's block. I guess I'd call it griever's block.


A year ago, when we met and talked with some fellow survivors, they warned us that the second year was worse than the first. I didn't accept that at the time. I couldn't accept it. It was unimaginable that anything could be worse than what I was experiencing right then. That the hole could get even deeper and even darker was incomprehensible.


But now, a year after the warning was issued, I understand what they meant. I don't know if I'd call it worse, but it's every bit as bad. It's just a different bad.


For one thing, you don't feel better, but you feel a sense of obligation to be better - to be less needy, less fragile, less isolated. You're not where you'd like to be emotionally. You're reluctant to continue to lean on friends and family who have supported you. And you can't help but feel that they must be  tiring of the lopsided friend/family equation.


Even if you are lucky, as we have been, to have many wonderful people step in to support you, in the second year you come to terms with the fact that there are people who have permanently left your life because of what has happened. In the beginning you think maybe they just don't know what to say and it will get easier. But as time goes on you realize it's something else. They are afraid to be near you. It's as if you are surrounded by a puddle of grief and if they get too close, they risk being soaked with your hurt, sorrow and anger. It's safer for them just to avoid you.  In the second year, it becomes painfully clear that some people are choosing to keep their distance.


All through the first year you feel exhausted; like you've been running a marathon, but the finish line remains elusive. And then sometime at the start of the second year there is the horrible realization - there is no finish line. You'll be running for your life for the rest of your life. If the first year was marked by the shock and pain of sudden loss, it seems the second year will be marked by an acceptance of the unrelenting nature of grief.


I think I crossed the threshold into this new grief at the beginning of the school year without even realizing it.  The beginning of the school year was always an uplifting time in our family. It was exciting,  if a little a bittersweet,  to watch the girls start off  another year of growth and possibility. I was active at their schools, so the pace of my life would pick up in a way I found fun and rewarding. And Peter would meet a new class that he would bond with and mold. I viewed it as our unofficial new year and would look forward to everything the year would bring.


After Emma died the start of the school year lost that sense of renewal and possibility for me. 

I guess it was a desire to recover that old feeling of a fresh start that made Peter and I want to attend church for the service that celebrated the start of the church school year. We've not made it to church much in the last year. It has been too full of painful reminders. Emma was active in the church, singing with the Junior Choir, performing in the church musicals and pageants, serving as a Junior Deacon, and accompanying the choir on flute. I am so keenly aware of her absence when I am there. And the things I always liked best about our church are now what make it most difficult to be there. The sermons and celebrations we used to love now inevitably strike a painful chord.


Nonetheless, we ventured back to church on the second Sunday in September hoping for a fresh start and a renewed sense of peace and comfort from a place that had always provided that to us. As we left the house, I thought about grabbing some tissues. I had not made it through a church service without tears since Emma died, and since the start of September I hadn't even made it through a day without tears. But I stubbornly chose not to grab the tissues. I wanted this day to be different, new, and somehow I thought having tissues was setting myself up for failure.


The service started with two baptisms (POW!). The sermon was incredibly relevant, talking about crossing life's thresholds and finding possibility in life. It was what we wanted. It was what had brought us there that Sunday. But that message couldn't compete with the realization that becomes clearer to me every day - that I was pushed over a threshold a year ago into a life that I didn't choose, that I would never choose, and that there's no going back (SLAM!).


By the time the adorable church school kids paraded into the church at the end of the service, I was pretty much sobbing. Tears were streaming down my face and my nose was running like a faucet.  I couldn't imagine why I thought it was a good idea to deliberately not bring tissues. I was trapped in the middle of a pew, so there was no getting out to go to the bathroom. I picked up my purse and rifled through it, hoping for the miracle of tissues. We were in church, after all. Alas, there was no miracle and all I could find was a pair of socks that Sarah had thrown in my purse after trying on shoes the day before. By this time I was desperate, and much to Peter's horror and puzzlement, I took out a sock, wiped my tears, and blew my nose in it.


And just to prove that hope does spring eternal, I am recording this story with the hope that sometime in the future the veil of darkness will have lifted enough that the part of this story I most remember is blowing my nose in that stinky old sock.

Rocky Horror Connection - Finale

I realized after I published my last post that I didn't tell the ending to the story. After the show, my friend was backstage talking with some of the performers and she related the encounter she had had with Emma's friends, and they all remembered Emma, too. They remembered that she had come to their show the year before; that she had dressed up as Frankenfurter and posed for photos with them after the show; and they knew that she had died. When they saw her obituary in the newspaper, they knew that she was that girl that from the audience who, for some reason, they always remembered.