Finding a Knife

Ever have new flooring put in?  It is one of those things that no one looks forward to, but generally results in a happy outcome.   We put new floors in two rooms last week – one was my office.  And one was Molly’s bedroom.

After Molly’s death, I never had a huge need to clean out her room, but Frances did.  So, Frances cleaned out a lot of Molly’s things; but many of Molly’s treasured belongings are still in her room closet waiting for the day when Frances and I are both strong enough at the same time to go through them.   I have put some art supplies in her room now and we half jokingly call the room my studio, but an easel doesn’t really change anything.   That room will always be Molly’s room to us.

To clear out the space for the new floors, we had to take everything out of the closet.   There were doll clothes my mother made for Molly, a sleeping bag that Molly received one year for Christmas, left over school supplies, old clothes, a field hockey stick.

And there was a briefcase.  Frances used it back when she was a manager in retail, but she had given it to Molly. I opened it, thinking that it it was in good enough shape, maybe we should give it away.

I noticed the dollar bill first.   And the knife second.

After Molly was released from the hospital I insisted on talking to a doctor – which was not part of the typical protocol for releasing an adolescent to her family. UNBELIEVABLE.  We had more access to her dentist than her psychiatrists.

Anyway, I asked the doctor point blank.  Should we lock our knives up?  And he said, unequivocally, “No.  Everything should be normal.”  It was what I wanted to hear.  And I was happy to comply.  But it was bad advice.

Molly had been cutting herself, and she obviously had secured a knife from our kitchen and was hiding it.  Looking at the knife in that briefcase put me right back in those moments when Molly was alive and I would get hints that something was very wrong.  I would read a text or sense something in her voice or find a journal entry.  And I would be terrified until she seemed fine again or a doctor told me not to worry.

There are pieces of my daughter that I will never know.  The happy child that laughs with me from the photo on my desk – the capable teenager she let me see – were real.  But there was another girl as well who was troubled and lonely and unreachable. 

Our house is full of memories of the happy Molly.  But Molly would tell me, I am sure, that her reality was not the world of happiness and confidence that we attempted to build with her; she was consumed by whatever inner turmoil she struggled against. 

We’ve got Molly’s bedroom all spruced up now.  It looks nice.  But it is somehow fitting that I found the knife that she had stashed away in the closet.  It is tempting to build a legacy for Molly that is all lightness and talent and beauty.  But that is only part of the story.

Retiring the Computer

When Molly started high school, she was required to have her own laptop.     It was an exciting proposition – a requirement that you are happy to follow.  For her, I think it symbolized freedom and emerging independence.  For me, it heralded how different her life was going to be from mine, and how much she had to look forward to.  

In my day, we were excited about boxes of 64 Crayolas with the sharpener on the back.   The laptop offered Molly similar excitement and a lot more promise.

After Molly died, there was the question of her laptop.   As she left several handwritten journals, I did not sense that we would find any notes to us in the computer files.  And we have not found any.   But I also knew that a computer guru could probably learn from the computer…  her internet searches, downloaded files, emails sent and received.

I have hesitantly looked through the word files, but other than that I chose not to look for clues.
 

Instead, I decided to use the computer.  It has seen me through half of grad school, introduced me to Facebook, seen me through my first attempts with Skpe.  That computer has been a tangible tie to Molly while keeping me very much in this world.

And now I am retiring that laptop.  Frances gave me a new laptop for my birthday, and we both cried as I opened it.   A huge piece of me wants to hold on to Molly’s computer; like any treasured object, I loved using it everyday knowing that she had loved it and used it. 

And yet, knowing that choosing to live is often accomplished in very small – and seemingly inconsequential -  steps, I was excited about the gift.

I love this new laptop.  It is the first computer that is really and truly mine.  I am having fun with the wallpapers and the desktop gadgets and the fancy features.   But everyday as I turn it on, I am reminded that I am moving beyond the limits of Molly’s experience.

The reverse of that is, of course, that Molly has moved beyond the limits of my experience.  Computers are not important to her any more.  In that way, my challenges are not that different from those faced by any parent.   Children do move on.

I do not honor her by clinging to her life – I celebrate her by living my own.

The Closing of the Pub

The local pub closed this week. 

We were regulars.   Nobody would recommend this, but we  relied on the place, the people - and yes, the alcohol to some extent - as we became increasingly involved with Molly's doctors, therapist, medicines and hospital visits.   It was completely incomprehensible that our our smart, talented, beautiful daughter who had never had a bad grade in her life could be spiraling into a mental illness with the potential to kill her.  The pub, at least, we understood.

It fancied itself to be an Irish bar, but I've been to Ireland and this was definitely an American bar.   Sports on the big screen TV.  Plenty of room for the pool table and the darts board.  Codeword BIG - big servings of fish and chips, big drinks, big space.  But within that BIG was an intimacy that you could tap into, and once you did, the place became home.  Your drink would be poured before you even sat down.

It's the place we retreated to after hospital visits and associated (required) family therapy. 

I was not then and am not now a big fan of therapy, so I am not an ideal participant in required sessions.  But I tried.    One hospital session brought together me, Frances, Molly, Molly's therapist and a hospital social worker who never saw Molly before or after that session.  Molly was nervous.  Frances and I were too.   Frances and I did not want this to be true; I guess Molly knew it was.  The hospital social worker's standard of success seemed to be that we all weren't throwing chairs at each other - with that as a criteria, she deemed our session a great success.  Molly's therapist, and I am guessing here, sensed the futility in the session and - ultimately - the hospitalization. 

My approach was to be as cooperative as possible so that we could "pass" hospitalization and move on with our life.  Surely this was all one massive mistake.  Molly was a very high performing patient.  She had no police background or past use of illegal substances.  She was a good student; she had never been in trouble for anything. She was respectful and well loved.  This couldn't be happening.

Perhaps because we really didn't fit the mold, the hospital social worker (was her name Betty Boop?)  was willing to follow my lead.  While there was talk of "partial" hospitalization as follow up care, it was quickly discarded as an option since Molly attended a local private boarding school.  There were no other options.  Take your daughter home and love each other.  Worked for me.  Let's get out of here.

Molly stayed a few more days, because that is how things are done,  and Frances and I headed to the pub.  The bar was almost big enough to hold our total bewilderment.  Confusion.  Pain.  Shock.

Every chapter of our life has a page lived out at the pub.  I cried at the back booth in the week before Molly's funeral when my sister was trying to bring me back to some semblance of living.  We've comforted Molly's friends over dinner and accepted condolences as the word of Molly's death spread.  And we have celebrated too - Frances had her 50th birthday party around the pool table.

The pub has been an extension of our living room.  A really important extension.  And we will miss it.



Failing

Today I was subbing for a high school math class, and the teacher had posted his students' grades on the wall.  Of course I looked at them.   Half of his students are failing.  Literally failing.   F.

Students who were in danger of not graduating had to sign letters today notifying them of that fact.  Half of the class signed the papers.

We are in trouble here folks.

And I don't have the answers.   But I do know that for many, many reasons there are thousands and thousands of students who are not taking their educations seriously.  Maybe that has always been the case.  But in the past, the alternative to school was hard work: farm labor, hours in a factory, paper routes.  Today, the alternative to taking education seriously seems to be to sit in school for hours at a time in a perpetual daze. 

A daze is good - it doesn't generate too much attention, it doesn't get in trouble and it doesn't require too much energy.

So, I watch these kids who are not taking their lives seriously and I KNOW that there are so many kids in this world who for whatever reason - poverty, illness, war - are unable to go to school.   And some of those disadvantaged kids are doing everything that they can to educate and improve themselves.  They want to make something of their lives.   They envy the kids in school.

While at the same time, so many of the kids in upper middle class America, who have every opportunity, throw it all away every single day.

And the kids who are doing well in school?  Those kids are diminished by the thousands of their peers who just don't give a damn.  It takes a village, and if half the village can't communicate effectively or do simple math, everyone suffers.

We are in trouble because so many of our kids are choosing not to learn.  We are in bigger trouble because our culture will let them make that choice.  

Pictures

I love family photos.  I didn't really grow up with them, but I have embraced them as an adult.  We've got an ancestry wall in our hallway that stares back at us from the late 1800s. 

My brother has a huge collection of photos as well – his collection highlights our lifetime and our experiences as opposed to the past.   Whenever I am at his home, as I was this weekend, I spend time re-living the moments that are immortalized on his wall.

Thankfully, Molly continues to be part of that wall.  There she is at 8 playing in the leaves.  And remember the day that she and my niece made me a birthday cake using Splenda?  That photo is on the wall too.  So is the photo of Molly singing and dancing on Christmas Eve wondering what “figgy pudding” could possibly be.  The photos, ever so momentarily, hold time hostage.

Of course, Frances and I also have Molly’s picture up all over the place in our home.  There are photos of her on the wall, in the cabinets, on the refrigerator. 

Seeing photos of Molly is not difficult because I miss her, it is jarring because the photos seem to breathe.  Looking at photos of Molly is entirely different than looking at photos of relatives.

A photo of Molly puts me back in some of the best moments of my life.  I can sense her emotions – which were huge – and her yearning – which may have been the defining quality of her life.  Sometimes the photos bring tears, but more often they put me in touch with who she is and who I am because I knew her. 

We never took photos of Molly down after she died.  I didn’t want to look at them right away – and I still don’t want to face the pain that is sure to come from watching videos of her – but today I treasure those photos.

And I am so grateful that photos of Molly are on walls and shelves and dressers of so many that knew her.  Thanks for holding her close for me.

Reminiscing

Molly’s high school has kept us on their mailing list.  So we get the alumnae magazine, invitations to events, and fund raising appeals. 

The alumnae magazine is full of stories about the students – some of whom I still know – and full of pictures.  The pictures of smiling students doing amazing things are a tangible reminder of Molly at her best.  When the magazine comes, I am tempted to recycle it immediately. 

But I can’t help but look through the magazine.  I really do love the school and many of the people there; our family enjoyed our years as part of the community.  The positive side of looking through it is re-living the memories; so far, that opportunity has outweighed the clamor of “what could have been” that hovers over every picture. 

Oh, how I wish Molly could have taken that trip, or played the part in that play.  Would Molly have worked well with the new field hockey coach?  The questions cannot be avoided.

The magazine also offers a marker – Molly’s class is graduated now.  In 5 or 10 years, I imagine that many will be married and starting their own families.  I can’t imagine what glancing through the magazine will feel like at that point. 

I look through the magazine – briefly - but I can’t imagine going to a school event.  I appreciate the invitations – but no thank you.  Molly died at school, and when we left the campus that night, I remember telling the police officers/detectives/social workers that I would never return.  I can’t imagine changing my mind about that.

And as for the fund raising appeals, they’ll get some money when I am dead.  And if I win the lottery I’ll build them a building.  Heck, I’ll build them three buildings.  But if I do that, I’ll probably want to go to the campus, won’t I?

The Cleanse

Health Week.  Sort of.

Frances is on a cleanse.  After two years of aches and pains, and steroids and weight gain she was on a plane - going to her birthday party in fact - seated next to a husband and wife chiropractor team who happen to be local. 

Frances owns MANY sets of noise cancelling headphones.   She does not talk to people on planes.  But for some reason, this time she did.  And by the end of the 6 hour coast to coast flight, having spilled her life story and learned a bit of theirs, she was maybe not sold on their ideas.  But she was willing to listen them.

Frances was suprised by herself - suprised that she talked to strangers on a plane; suprised that the strangers were interesting.  For me, the introduction was Molly's 50th birthday gift to Frances.  Why not?   I have become accustomed to looking at the world through a new set of glasses.

There are funny stories about Frances' first trip to the chiropractor; I think she questioned exactly what she had gotten herself into as she was taken to the "Tranquility" room for her first appointment. 

But, the cleanse itself is going well.  Don't get me wrong, it's not for me  You eat vegetables and drink "smoothies" (if you want to call them that) for 2 weeks.  BUT, the change in Frances' diet is impacting me as well:  less alcohol, more veggies, brown rice, less cheese, more THOUGHTFULLNESS about what I eat.

And to be fair, I feel better than I have felt in quite awhle.

Thanks, Molly.