HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Happy birthday, Pat!!!

Time is passing.... and we are missing you.

The Second Year Without Pat

Pat and Dad at graduation (2005) and with Lib, Anne, and Dad in San Francisco 2000




Part 1:


Dear friends and family of Pat,

When I last wrote, Pat’s headstone was installed in April, and I was sharing some reflections on his death compared to my father’s. I hope you don’t mind if I revisit some of that territory. It’s hard to separate the two since they were so close in life and now in death. When I was visiting my father and watching him approach his last days, I remember making comparisons between Pat dying alone and my father dying with many people visiting even though he was barely able to sustain conversation longer than two or three sentences. There were awkward silences between his visiting friends and us because although we were trying to share my dad’s last days, he was, in reality, going it alone. The rest of us had the luxury of functioning. My dad did not. He could not drive, read, walk, or get to the bathroom without help. Most painful to him, a man who held the distinction of being UCLA’s first gastroenterologist in residence, a man who succeeded by the power of his intelligence, was that he could not think. The medication that barely kept pace with his pain, dulled his entire thought process. It prevented normal communication, but it did not spare him the clumsy blunders which resulted. Friends of thirty years ended up staring at the floor while trying to find words. Most conversations were light, and arriving at the moment of final good-byes was often not possible.

The last day I saw him, almost a year to the day after Pat died, I too, made light of his emotional good-bye. I was advised by the hospice doctor that he would still be alive by the time I could return. “I’ll be back, Dad,” I said, interrupting a long hug. It was February 4th. I would visit Lib in San Francisco and return to Connecticut on the 6th. As he quickly deteriorated, I tried to come back, but it was too late. He stopped eating about a week later. The medication was increased to extreme levels. By the morning of the 16th, he became agitated, uncomfortable. The hospice nurse and doctor were called. My stepmother, Anne, found herself in the impossible position of trying to know when to call, when to increase the meds, in other words, how to make life and death decisions. The pressure was exhausting. She comforted my father with every fiber of her being, stayed on top of his care better than anyone, and now it was ending. All her nursing, tending, listening, and trying was about to be over, and it wasn’t going as well as it should. My dad was clearly uncomfortable, agitated, and it took about eight hours to again increase the morphine so that he could die in peace. It was all he had asked, and it was the one thing that did not go according to plan. As much as they had prepared for that moment (and believe me, no human beings on the face of the earth could have planned better), even with every conceivable detail decided--the living trust, the cremation, the funeral, the reception including the jazz band he wanted, the post reception, the new bank accounts, who would help Anne--in spite of an entire year confronting every contingency, his extreme pain the last 24 hours could not be anticipated. It was not as smooth as they wanted.

Is there such a thing as a clean death?

It was a lonely trail for Dad in spite of the many people saying good-bye. We could not really share his burden. We could only watch how he did it, and hope that we ourselves didn’t have to face it soon. Call it courage. Call it surrender. We were spared, and he was not. The life force is fickle. It gives you one body, and when that one wears out, it’s busy creating new ones, looking elsewhere, being distracted from the life that’s ending by the billions of remaining lives. How can we savor the importance of one individual with so much competition? Maybe we should model a northern European society I recently heard about on NPR. It was said to be relatively happy, in part, because it reserved 20 minutes every day to think about the dead. I found that even as my father was slipping away, life was interrupting. I needed to get more plane tickets, get a room, plan a slide show, buy some black clothes that fit, get a substitute at school, and on and on. Dad was getting lost in all the preparation for Dad.

The struggle to think purely of the ones who aren’t here, to simply remember them is the present battle. His battle, Pat’s battle, and more recently, my cousin Stephanie in Cornwall, England, who is in the final stages of breast cancer, has given way to me, to us, to fight on our own. And it is an internal struggle in which I fail every day.

Part 2: Pat's Grave Stone

Dad’s reception at the Los Angeles Country Club with me (second from left and cousin Chris, brother Doug, cousin Skip, Karen, Ned, and Marina, and brother Doug.



After my dad’s funeral, March 3, 2007, came a series of numbing responsibilities. Pat’s head stone, decided after much agonizing, arrived at South Cemetery in Pomfret, barely a mile from our home. We had struggled with every part of it because none of it would ever be right. But after searching for shapes, designs, symbols, and inscriptions in Germany, through Steve and Ryan, at the Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and at local cemeteries, we arrived at a classical style with a German epitaph. It was as good as we could make it, and in spite of the wrongness of the entire exercise, we felt relieved. It was over. We had made a place for Pat, and although going there is hardly satisfying, his grave is worthy and respectable. Bob goes more than any of us. He became a member of the Cemetery Board and maintains the grounds. Last year he raked many years worth of leaves and repaired the stone wall behind Pat’s head. Next year he will complete a new road so that hearses and visitors can drive through the new section, where Pat lies. The only part of Pat’s funeral that displeased Bob was that the hearse backed in to get Pat’s casket close enough to the grave site. It wasn’t the way it should have been done, he said later.

The epitaph, loved by Pat, comes from the German poet Friederich Rückert (1788-1866) and was set to music by Gustav Mahler in 1902.
It was translated by Pat’s good friend Steve in Berlin:

Und ruh' in einem stillen Gebiet!
Ich leb' allein in meinem Himmel,
In meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!

And I rest in a quiet realm.
I live alone in my heaven,
In my love and in my song.

It comes from a series of five songs, the last two of which I’m including because they so well capture the beauty, depth, and longing of Pat’s soul.

4. “I am Lost to the World”

I am lost to the world
with which I used to waste so much time,
It has heard nothing from me for so long
that it may very well believe that I am dead!

It is of no consequence to me
Whether it thinks me dead;
I cannot deny it,
for I really am dead to the world.

I am dead to the world’s tumult,
And I rest in a quiet realm!
I live alone in my heaven,
In my love and in my song!

5. “At Midnight”

At midnight
I awoke
and gazed up to heaven;
No star in the entire mass
did smile down at me
at midnight.

At midnight
I projected my thoughts
out past the dark barriers.
No thought of light
brought me comfort
at midnight.

At midnight
I paid close attention
to the beating of my heart;
One single pulse of agony
flared up
at midnight.

At midnight
I fought the battle,
o Mankind, of your suffering;
I could not decide it
with my strength
at midnight.

At midnight
I surrendered my strength
into your hands!
Lord! over death and life
You keep watch
at midnight!

The lyre is for Pat’s love of music, the olive branches for his wisdom,
and the Greek style for his classicism.

Part 3: The Letter to President Hennessey

I had not gone to Pat when he was so ill. I would not make the same mistake with my father. I forced myself to put Pat aside so I could be with my father on three separate trips to Santa Monica the second year after Pat’s death. While there, long talks with my brothers and Dad influenced me greatly. They put the responsibility squarely on Pat. I was relieved of some guilt but not convinced. After my dad’s funeral, I revisited where I left off before he became so ill. I allowed myself to retrace my roll, Pat’s participation, and the influence of his friends. Who was in the best position to understand him? The mental finger pointed back at me. I had had the most complete picture. It was an open and shut case. I knew he wasn’t happy, and I didn’t go to him. The problem then was what to do with that information. No answer presented itself.

Then Virginia Tech happened. It was eerily similar. The questions I had asked myself for over a year were now constantly on the news. Why didn’t anyone see it coming? Why didn’t the school do more? How should they handle depressed students on campus? It was almost entertaining to watch them struggle, and not surprisingly, they didn’t come up with much except that Seung-Hui Cho’s mental record was over looked when he bought the gun.

Not a factor in Pat’s case.

So what were the factors?

About the same time that I refocused on them after my dad’s funeral, Lauren Schneider sent me Stanford president John Hennessey’s open letter proclaiming a reassessment of psychological services on campus. He also asked that everyone be more aware, more alert for signs that someone needs help.

Finally, in the aftermath of the worst mass murder ever on a college campus, the decades old student right to privacy, so guarded by college administrations, was beginning to crack. Colleges now felt a responsibility to protect their student bodies over the rights of an individual. They needed to know, and communicate when students became a danger to themselves and others.

But along with that, they kept a wary eye on when this communication was a violation of privacy, including doctor-patient privilege. And then what action they would take? Wouldn’t restrictions against the mentally ill be considered discrimination, especially if no crime had yet been committed? Would restraining orders be issued against suspected murderer-suicides?

As illusive as these answers were, Cho’s incomprehensible aggression caused a paradigm shift in the hands-off policy imposed by schools and tolerated by parents because of the Buckley Amendment in 1974, which proclaimed our newly emancipated college students’ privacy inviolate. No matter what. During Pat and Lib’s four years at Stanford and the University of Vermont, for example, we were denied information on applications and transcripts. We could not receive grades or tuition bills until they signed waivers. We couldn’t find out the amount of Libby’s bills from the UVM Health Center. They couldn’t acknowledge that she was a patient (Well, let’s say hypothetically, I told the receptionist, if she were a patient, and her doctor wanted to get paid, he would need to tell me the amount. No problem, she said, and promptly gave me the figure). We couldn’t help with roommate problems or dormitory overcrowding. At UVM Libby was stashed with two others in a room meant for two, and I do mean stashed. She could hardly move or find peace and quiet. By the second semester, both roommates had dropped out and Lib moved to another double. The best answer from the school was a $700 refund, the difference in cost between a double and a triple.

But now, after Cho, media discussion shifted the balance of rights toward parents. Maybe we couldn’t get tuition bills (until they were past due because Pat and Lib forgot to mail them), but we weren’t going to tolerate unsafe campuses. I decided to pass on a few of these thoughts to Dr. Hennessey. I wrote him an open letter, which James Hohmann, Editor in Chief of the Stanford Daily, generously published in its entirety on May 14, 2007. I include the link for Dr. Hennessey’s deliberation:

http://daily.stanford.edu/article/2007/5/4/opedHennessyReflectsOnTragedy

and then my letter and the responses, some of which were highly critical, accusing me of “nannyism”:

file:///Users/Pat/letter%20to%20Hennessey/opedAnOpenLetterToPresidentHennessy.html

Part 4: After the Letter

To his credit, Dr. Hennessey sent a letter of condolence in response. He agreed that even the most capable students could be victims of suicide, but he did not address the specifics of my letter. It appeared that, yes, although Stanford and the Ivies have better psychological services compared to public colleges (according to my therapist who teaches a class in grief at UConn) Stanford would not improve their follow-up of students abroad.
Thankfully, that was not the reaction of the Stanford Center in Berlin. When Libby and I visited Karen, the director, the following July, she told me that Pat was beginning to change their policies. Where they had once prohibited communication of any personal issues between Palo Alto and Berlin, they were now reconsidering. In fact, all of Stanford’s study abroad programs were leaving the door open. They, like us, were trying to learn, to improve, to gain insight, to prevent another Patrick or Cho, and most recently, Kazmierczak from ever happening again.

Part 5: Pat's Scholarship

While we were concentrating on the headstone, Pomfret School chose a recipient for Pat’s Scholarship and designed a silver bowl and plaque. By June 2007, we had received about $25,000 in donations (with much thanks to my father). It was enough to award a $500 prize to a very deserving young lady named Hannah Leo from St. Mary’s School in Putnam, Connecticut. She would be entering ninth grade in the fall, and the Pomfret admissions office felt she was outstanding, much like Pat. She had maintained the highest grade point average in her class and was of exceptional character. She was a go-getter, and the minute we presented the award at her graduation ceremony, we knew she was the right choice--beautiful, focused, and sharp-eyed. Bob gave a magnificent speech. Honestly, I don’t think I was the only one crying. The irony of being the constant recipient of these awards to being the one giving them was too stark. I kept asking myself, How did this happen? But I could not make the connection from one rarity to another. It was too big. I found myself standing by the alter, looking down, while Bob read his remarks, another eulogy actually. I was grateful that I did not have to function as well as he. When Hannah stepped forward, I shook her hand, looked into her warm dark eyes and said congratulations, Honey.

We were passing on the mantel that Pat had worn his whole life, a mantel in which we had wrapped ourselves along with him. We let the glory rub off on us, and now we were giving it up. Instead of receiving, we were taking it off, humbled at how small we felt without Pat’s greatness. I tried to find Hannah after the ceremony to explain some of that to her, but she had disappeared with her friends. We packed up our empty gift bags, which had carried the silver bowl for Hannah and the plaque for St. Mary’s School, and found the car. Hannah’s mother later wrote me a loving poem, and Hannah has already had her picture in the paper for a science project. Her first semester, she received straight A’s and did “some of the best work in the entire freshman class” according to her mother. She was the perfect choice. But her mother has not allowed herself to be proud without worry. She struggled with the decision to let Hannah go on a chorus trip to Japan:

“It's probably one of the hardest things I have had to decide as my co-worker in the early 90's lost her HS aged daughter on a terrorist plane bombing over Lockerby Scotland. Her daughter was returning from a HS trip w/her classmates from Central MA when the plane imploded in mid air. I watched her grief for years and now I am faced w/a decision that
frankly scares me to death.”

She has allowed herself to contemplate what if, a reality that she knows exists. It’s no preparation. I went through the same what if. It’s a judgment that I can guarantee will haunt every parent who loses a child.

Patrick D. Wood '01 Memorial Prize
Established in Memory of Patrick D. Wood,
Pomfret School Class of 2001, who was a
Top Scholar, Accomplished Musician, and
Outstanding Member of the Pomfret School Community

Awarded to the Top 8th Grade Student From
Windham County Matriculating at
Pomfret School


Bob’s presentation remarks
June 9, 2007

Following the loss of our son Patrick to a sudden and severe episode of depression in Berlin, Germany in January 2006, and after his family had attained a measure of composure, we--Pat’s mom Lisette, here with me this PM, his twin sister Libby, and his older brother Colin-- decided to try to honor his memory in an appropriate manner. To this end, we approached Pomfret School with our intention, and to our immense gratitude the school willingly assented to help us to establish a merit award in his name to go to a deserving Windham County elementary school student accepted for attendance at the School. This year’s prize of a silver bowl and cash prize to that student, and a plaque to St. Mary’s School, is the first presentation and it will go to a local student whose academic performance at St. Mary’s and in standardized testing, as well as in extra-curricula activities, upholds the rigorous study, self-discipline, curiosity and enthusiasm for learning so evident in Patrick. Before presenting the award, allow me to tell you just a little about him.

Pat graduated from Pomfret Community School in 1997, was awarded the full four year Peck Scholarship to Pomfret School, and became a member of the class of 2001, where upon graduation he was honored by being named first in class. He was awarded numerous other academic prizes during his four years there, as well. Besides excelling in the classroom, Pat was a three-time winner of the Ct State Music Teachers’ classical piano competitions when at Pomfret, while also participating in the interscholastic sports of cross-country, crew, and lacrosse. Upon graduation, he attended Stanford University, graduating in 2005 with distinction in mathematics, and had been accepted into Stanford’s prestigious Graduate School of Computer Science for the 2006 fall term.

All in all, not a bad resume for a country kid from Windham County. It demonstrates that we have the educational resources here to prepare our young people for great things. Obviously, St. Mary’s School has prepared this year’s winner, and we commend it. Now, let me get to the business at hand and present the two--part awards: first is to the student chosen by Pomfret School’s admission office, and the second to St. Mary’s.

To Patrick’s Loving Family,

We can’t comprehend just how sad you must feel

For the loss of someone you love.

This sorrowful time must still feel unreal

While you’re looking for strength from above.
Our hope, from our hearts, that your pain will decrease,

That your spirits will gain strength again,

And we pray that your faith will create inner peace

And that God will send blessings…Amen

-The Leo family

Part 6: Pat's Obituary in the Longy Music School Newsletter

Spring 2007


Pat’s piano teacher at Longy Music School in Cambridge, MA was a sensitive, caring woman named Deborah Beers, who taught the whole Pat. Many nights before she and Pat were to play concertos for four hands in Longy’s Pickman Concert Hall, I would ask her advice on keeping Pat calm. He was nervous that wrong notes would ruin the performance and that pieces could vary in uncontrollable ways. That’s the beauty of it, she would reassure him. He trusted her musical judgment and plunged in. Longy was a bigger venue than Pomfret Center, and the caliber of audience greater than adoring parents. She guided him expertly, letting him beg off most competitions because they brought too much pressure. He did find himself in chamber master classes and the end of semester recitals. By the end of his third year there, he had conquered his nerves and even had fun. A friend who used to play with him there wrote that they had purposely played badly at an “evaluation,” just to get a reaction. It worked, and they laughed like crazy afterward. The judges had made the mistake of taking them seriously. They obviously didn’t know Pat.

Because Debbie was such a soul mate, she waited a polite amount of time for me to send her the obituary information, and then took it upon herself to enter her own. I’m not sure why I didn’t help her. I remember my brain feeling very full and touchous about the Pat projects I undertook that spring. The thought of preparing one more obituary, which would force me to face him was too much, but then the thought of not doing it was even worse.

Part 7: Return to Berlin

Lib taking a picture of Pat’s last apartment, the lower balcony, on Nesstorstrasse in the Charlottenburg district of Berlin, a block away from Ryan and Steve.









Patrick’s Garden, where he and Libby used to hide from their parents






















Summer 2007 brought a time to reflect and a time to plan. Within a year, almost to the day, I had lost both Pat and my Dad. School was over. I could return to the many condolences, which should have been answered, and the journal entries, which should have been written. In reality, I did neither. Libby and I were going back to Berlin. We had to go. We needed to be with Pat, and we both felt that he was there more than anywhere else. We needed to learn about what he loved, the schools, the libraries, the cafés, the clubs, the language, the opera house, the philharmonic, and most importantly, the people. We needed to know the people he loved and who loved him back. And we did, as much as possible, in the ten days we were there, largely because of the generosity of Pat’s friend Christian Krüger. He gave us his newly renovated apartment, in the Prinzelauer or northeast section of Berlin. Christian was a doting host in spite of a demanding job with Germany’s state department and exams looming. Our first night, he showed us the quiet but busy neighborhood, including the best places to eat, how to get on the internet, where to buy groceries, get on the U-Bahn and the S-Bahn, get phone cards, and buy train tickets. When we finally got to bed around midnight, he was still up, doing laundry, and then going to his other apartment across town, from where he would leave at 7:00 AM for Vienna for a week. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I do this all the time.” He convinced us by saying that he had already hosted thirty-five guests that year. We marveled at his energy but were too tired to help him.

The next morning, long after he was on a plane, we found a welcome note, guide books, two maps of Berlin (one of which was so detailed that we could find the smallest streets), as many bottles of wine as we could possibly drink, and four bars of chocolate. We felt a warm sensation that had nothing to do with the sun shining outside or the warm breezes floating through the open and unscreened windows. We were home. Pat’s home. The fear of a strange city, a foreign language, new friends, receded. It was time to learn about Pat’s world.

The rest that follows is my thank you letter for that trip. As soon as Libby and I returned to Connecticut, I wrote it in a mad rush, eager to recap our renewed love of Pat’s Germany. I backed up my hard drive right after the first draft, and about five minutes later, it crashed, just like my techie friend warned it could. By the time I got a new one and returned to those reflections, school started, and I put the blinders on to keep pace with my fast-thinking chargelings. If you’ve been in a middle school lately, there is no need to explain. Let’s just say that I’m back in eighth-grade and saying words like cool and awesome more than normal. My kids are great and don’t mind my reminisces about Pat or the occasional tears. In fact, I think they welcome the honesty because they listen silently, and then they give me a hug.

Before I include that letter, I wanted to mention a few small items to those who loved Pat. One is that we started a garden at home in his memory. It began with a yew tree, which Bob planted because it is often found in cemeteries. It is part of the setting outside the Capulet vault where Romeo and Juliet kill themselves, a play which Pat read in eighth-grade and recommended to me for my own literature class. I’ve taught it every year since, and when I returned to school the April after Pat died, I taught it again. My students rejected the idea that lovers would kill themselves, but I told them it happens, and they stared back at me knowingly.

We added a stone bench and a weeping willow given by my cousins Avery, Ned, and Polly, and their mother, my Aunt Beverly, who loved Pat and who is the wisest woman I know. I added a memorial plaque, donated by a friend, who remembered when I was hugely pregnant with Pat and Lib. The picture I’m including does not show the yew, which was eaten by deer and now has to live in an unattractive wire cage. As soon as it’s presentable, I’ll take another picture and give you an update.

Another is that we are donating a memorial bench for Pat to the Pomfret Library. It will sit to the left of the entrance, in front of green bushes, and be so close to the road that you might be able to read the inscription from your car if you slow down.

Part 8: Thank You to Pat's German Family

Pat in Berlin 2005

Lib, Christian, and Joe on the way to Schloss Rheinsberg

Lib and Tobi in his medieval Lüneburg






Libby and I received an amazing gift on our return to Berlin in July. We were basically adopted by what I call Pat's German family. We were ferried to and from the airport, housed in a roomy apartment, chauffeured to Pat's favorite places, wined, dined, escorted, and generally tutored in all things Patrick and German for ten days. The result is that Pat's family has now become ours.
Return to Berlin
July 7, 2007

Dear German family and Pat People everywhere,

Libby and I re-entered the real world after a magical trip to Berlin--she to her apartment-and-graphic-arts-job search in San Francisco and I to my household chores. Bob took care of everything while we were away, including horses, dogs, cows, and one ancient lone chicken, so now it's our turn to help out. We came back in good repair thanks to walking much of Berlin and Paris, but mostly thanks to the five flights of stairs to Christian's apartment. Around the fourth floor, I really had to push myself, but that pushing made me five pounds lighter when I returned. Thank you, Christian, for the only weight loss plan that's ever worked for me. Now all I have to do is get my weeding and pitchfork arm back in shape.

It's hard to thank everyone who made the trip such a success. I know each of you said that our being there helped you as well. I think we were all curious about each other. We wanted to know where Pat came from. What was his family like? What were his friends like? With whom did he work? What was the school like? We wanted to know more about him because we are still trying to understand him. Were there any clues within his family, friends, school, or colleagues? Or maybe in the places he frequented--his apartments, job, restaurants, clubs, sightseeing attractions, friends' apartments? For me, the answer is yes. The trip confirmed what we already learned right after he died. Everything Pat could have wanted was there: loving friends, magnificent culture, a welcoming school, and highly regarded work place. The trip confirmed the evidence that I am gathering: Pat was painfully, terminally ill.

When I first began to search for Pat, I was looking for clues. What happened to him that would explain such an irreversible act? Was he rejected by his friends? Was he broke? Was he evicted? Was he failing at work? At school? At anything? We know that he was rejected by Oli, but does this alone explain his action? I think we know the answer, and if we don’t, we have a better idea since our trip. There is no explanation other than the fact that depression is a lethal disease, and it killed the least likely victim we could have imagined.

We shared a wonderful ten days and many conversations. We remembered the good and the bad but mostly the good because as Karen said, "He had a good life here." Our family never doubted that, but we needed to see it first hand. We needed to judge for ourselves the kind of people and places Pat knew, and we confirmed that those people and places were the finest on the planet. Although I do not absolve myself, I am a little closer to the premise that Pat's demise was not about me or us. Yes, we all could and should have done more, but in the final analysis, it was not the rejection that killed him. It was his level of frustration, his aggravation, driven out of proportion by a cancer of emotion. If you look at a picture of a severely depressed brain, as I have done with the help of my doctor, you will see a shrunken hypocampus, the area where emotion resides. Instead of robust tissue, the outline is flatter and smaller because stress has hindered nerve regeneration and damaged nerves have caused stress. The cycle feeds on itself, worsening and depleting with each depressive “episode.” According to Peter Kramer, whose book Against Depression explains the recently discovered anatomy of depression:

Chronic stress leads to the production of stress hormones. Stress hormones damage hippocampal (and other) brain cells, isolating them and pushing them to the brink of destruction. Further stressors push the cells over the edge. As damage progresses, feedback systems fail. Even minor adversity then causes the overproduction of stress hormones. What would otherwise be limited injuries extend, in the presence of stress hormones, into substantial brain damage. The hormones also dampen repair and regeneration functions, so that temporary injuries become permanent (p. 121)

Stated more simply, “Depression is characterized by frank abnormalities in the nervous system” (p.121).

While I was thinking Pat was better because he had been treated, statistics show exactly the opposite. Failed suicides are actually more likely to be completed, not less. This is where I went wrong. This is what I didn’t know. But these trends still repulse me. Pat was not a statistic. He was unique and soaring as the music he played. He defied quantification. If I knew everything then that I know now, I’m not sure it would have helped. I put him on a pedestal. He was above me, surely not susceptible to common vagaries…

Pat's good friend and roommate Andrew Nielson once told me, "He was his own man." I am still fighting to believe that. It's difficult to see him outside of my conversations with him. I cannot disconnect him from myself, but those words came back to me many times in Berlin. We saw evidence over and over that he was functioning and independent. Andrew Tompkins told us that, "He knew a lot of people,” that in Berlin's nightlife (by that I mean all night), he was constantly greeting people. He had no shortage of friends and people who liked being with him.

Dr. Kuemmlee, the director of Pat's division at Siemens, told us that they didn't realize anything was wrong because he had a good social life. He was out at night with friends. After he died, Dr. Kuemmlee met with his colleagues and also the medical staff at Siemens to find out what they could have done better and to prevent such a tragedy from happening again. They could arrive at nothing to help them in the future. They said he showed no indication that he was lonely or depressed, signs that would have prompted them to do more. They, like me, have come to the hard realization that depression operates outside the realm of logic or reality. It strikes even the most successful indiscriminately. I did not understand this before Pat and neither did Siemens. If nothing else, at least our meeting, accompanied by Joe and Tibor on the day of our departure, exposed this discovery: depression is a disease of the brain. It's like cancer only without the painkillers that enable terminal cancer patients to endure. During the last few weeks before my father's death in February, he was taking such high levels of OxyContin that he could barely concentrate. Pat needed medical intervention. Yet the very ability to seek that intervention was, itself, under siege and therefore inoperable.

Our meeting with Dr. Kuemmlee at Siemens was one of many important revelations. What did all of the other "Pat People" in Germany show us? Their magnanimous support and generous time. I often said that I didn't know what to expect when we got there. We had a few meetings lined up, but I didn't know how it would really play out. It was a bad time of year for almost everybody. Karen was away most of the ten days we were there and returned with a bad back and a calendar full of doctors' appointments. Jutta was in the tail end of a move after 18 years in the same apartment and now had bronchitis; plus she was getting her daughter ready for camp in Sweden. Christian was leaving for a week in Vienna the day after we arrived. Tobi was preparing for exams. Ryan and Steve were undertaking the most complicated move ever. Two years' worth of treasurers had to be sorted into four, maybe more, piles at least two of which were limited by weight. Joe and Tibor had no unusual constraints, just the constant classes and jobs balancing act. Andrew was moving back to the states to begin his doctorate and more immediately, contemplating the small matter of a major paper due. He had been researching social movements in Germany. Ask him anything about modern history in Germany and he'll fascinate you, but the actual writing of the paper is, "one of those difficult questions."

Into these already frothing lives we arrived and were made to feel as though everyone couldn't wait to see us. Karen managed to pull off a miracle of scheduling and take Lib and me to see her horse perform haute école dressage and then drive through Potsdamm on the way to a doctor's appointment. She limped back to the Stanford Center on crutches in time for Pat's bench and plaque dedication. Jutta could barely talk for all her coughing but had dinner with us and hosted me at her new apartment. Ryan and Steve broke away from their upheaval to have dinner, and take us on another Pat Tour. And this was preceded by the initial task of picking up two exhausted travelers at Tegel, cramming their embarrassingly oversized suitcases into Ryan's normal sized car, and then lugging those suitcases up the five flights of stairs I mentioned in the beginning. We will always owe you for that, Steve. Tobi hosted us for a full day in his pristine medieval town of Lüneberg, 2 1/2 hours north by train from Berlin. We were transformed by his gentle conversation, marathon listening, and his unblemished village, where the houses and streets sag from underground salt mining during the middle ages. If you haven't seen it, you are in for a treat. You can stop at Malzer, the same ancient and lovely restaurant where Tobi brought Pat for dinner, and you can sit at their table, just like we did thanks to Tobi's reservation.

In the beginning of the trip, along with Steve, Christian had the duty of acclimating his non-German speaking houseguests. Lib and I were exhausted from the trip, partly because we missed the connection in Paris (they don't let you get on the plane even if it's five minutes to takeoff), but also because we don't sleep well on planes. We made up for it immediately after Steve delivered us and woke up to get our first in-service with Christian. He showed us the apartment, madly cleaning, folding laundry, and making beds along the way. He even showed me how to put on the quilt covers which are less common here but which Pat preferred and also had in his apartment. He then walked us to a good Thai restaurant next to the Internet café, which he used to expertly track down train tickets far enough in advance to get major discounts. We met him back at his apartment, tickets purchased and madly packing for Vienna while on the phone. He did not escape to his other apartment until 1:00 AM even though his flight to Vienna left six hours later. After thanking him profusely, he said it's no problem. He had hosted 35 people already that year.

Joe and Tibor gently commandeered us toward the end of the trip. Their Pat Day, also known as "The Project," began with brunch at Berio's, Pat's favorite restaurant, at the same table where they first met him. The story goes that one of them, Tibor I think, noticed Pat eating breakfast around 5:00 in the afternoon in the spring of '04 while reading a guide book (probably the one I gave him for Christmas that year). He offered to help him learn about Berlin, and a friendship began. Berio's was key. Even though other restaurants had better buffets, food was not the criteria. That day, every event revolved around Pat.

Our Champaign brunch was followed by an air-conditioned ride to Rheinsberg about an hour north. Air-conditioning is not common in Germany, so we reveled in Joe and Tibor's VW until we got to our destination--Frederick the Great's castle. In addition to rich artifacts, it housed a museum of Kurt Tulcholsky, Pat's favorite poet the last six months of his life. Ryan and Steve had taken him there for his twenty-third birthday, October 29, 2005. Five of us, Libby, Christian, Joe, Tibor, and I wandered around the grounds, bought tickets, and headed for the Tulcholsky exhibit. We were greeted by a docent who handed out strips of paper with a Tulcholsky poem on it, the same poem with which Pat signed his emails and which I include to impart the same epiphany we felt at discovering the source of his inspiration. Pat must have gotten the same slip of paper when he came for his birthday.

Und immer sind da Spuren,
und immer ist einer dagewesen,
und immer ist einer noch höher geklettert
als du es je gekonnt hast, noch viel höher.
Das darf dich nicht entmutigen.
Klettere, steige, steige.
Aber es gibt keine Spitze.
Und es gibt keinen Neuschnee.

Yet always there are traces,
and always somebody else was there,
and always somebody climbed even higher than you ever could, much higher.
Let that not discourage you.
Ascend, climb, climb.
Yet there is no peak. And there is no untrodden snow.

Kurt Tucholsky (aka Kaspar Hauser)
“The World Stage” April 7,1931. Vol. 14. p. 515. (Rowohlt Publisher)


The Schloss Rheinsberg audio tour was followed by ice coffee at the Tulcholsky Café, an underwhelming little building, preparing for some equally underwhelming kareoke music. But it quenched our thirst until we got back to Berlin. We had dinner at Pat's favorite Indian restaurant even though other Indian restaurants had since become better, according to Joe and Tibor. Nevertheless, we went for authenticity, and authentic is what we got. On the way, Joe and Tibor described one of the regulars of the restaurant, a wizened, older gentlemen who worked on mathematical formulas, which he hoped, would someday quantify social movements. He brought bulging bags of papers to which he referred while he wrote at his table. The curious thing about him was that his name was Einstein and he looked like him as well. Most importantly to me, he had been at the cafe when Pat came with Joe and Tibor. They were really hoping he would be there that night. We sat at the same table, which they had shared with Pat, but no Einstein look-alike was there. We ordered the same drink as Pat, a frothy unique-to-Indian-restaurants milk shake, which could be served either sweet or salty. Sweet got my vote, along with the puréed mango that was optional.

When we were well into reminiscing, along came Einstein to his usual table next to ours. He spoke easily about his project, mostly in German but some in English. I asked if he knew why we were here and proceeded to tell him. He nodded his head in understanding, said a few more pleasantries, and then gathered his bags. He hung them, like sacks of grain, off the back of his bike, and rode out of sight. He could have been mistaken for a bag lady, his load was so great, but there was one difference. He had an email address, which he shared with us before he left.

Such was the magic of that day. It seemed as if Joe and Tibor had announced a re-creation of a day in the life of Patrick, and everyone showed up on cue, including the mysterious Einstein, who, like Pat, lived in a world of ideas. Everyone came on stage to show us what Pat would have seen and heard. But the night wasn't over. Actually, "The Project" was just heating up. The dinner was followed by a stop at a sort of gay help social center near the restaurant which had a bulletin board with pictures and notices. Someone had placed Pat’s Siemens picture on it, the one that Joe and Tibor had published in Siegasseule, Berlin’s gay scene magazine. We could barely see it through the closed blinds, but we will return, someday, when the center is open and hopefully find out who admired him enough to publicly display his picture. Joe and Tibor did not know, but they wanted us to see it as one more example of Pat’s extended Berlin following.

We drove in silence contemplating the extent that others reached out. It was a small gesture, but it was on the heels of an already full day of learning about Pat’s life. It added to the mystery. In addition to the constant attention by Pat’s friends, there were still others out there, who we might never know, others who had such a friendship that they honored him in places we had yet to see. And then I realized, as finite as his life was, I would never know all of it.

We drove to Joe and Tibor's apartment where Pat had visited many times. They even had pictures of him there, which I had not yet seen. They showed us a DVD of a hilarious British comedy called Little Britain, which Pat had seen from the same couch where we sat. Full of off-color, outrageous humor, it was vintage Pat. A new comedy series. What could be better? We were still learning from him.

To my astonishment, it was 1:00 AM already. Perfect for clubbing. Café Moskau would be hitting full throttle. The night was still warm and inside was even warmer. We breezed past the front desk. Tibor had put us on the guest list. That meant no 10 euros per person charge. Remember, this is the same Tibor who got Pat back stage after a Blue Man Group concert, where food and schmoozing lasted into the next day. He is a master at free clubbing. According to Tobi, Tibor could get anybody in anywhere. It was as if he could open his jacket and display rows of tickets like a black market watch dealer. Tonight it was our turn to benefit. We walked up the stairs, I think the same on which Pat had sprained his ankle after he first arrived in April 2004. The music, considered moderately heavy on this level, throbbed, with video in the background and people dancing. We eased our way through the crowd past a bar and into a courtyard where cooler night air surrounded a relaxed crowed. It was one of the few places where men didn't look at women. And why should they when men like the one seated next to us dressed up more elegantly anyway? This striking beauty with a slightly deeper laugh was known for her shows, which we didn't get to see. That's even later, Tibor said. Beyond my endurance. Too bad. I'm sure it would have been hilarious. I could sense it from the crowd who were mostly there to yak. Everybody who knew anything about nightlife was there. This was the gay party for that night. Instead of having designated bars (like in Ft. Lauderdale, where I grew up, in the 60's. Remember the Student Prince on the beach?), Berlin has designated nights. The gay scene travels from club to club on different days of the week. Tonight it was Cafe Moskau, appropriately named for its location on Karl Marx Allee in East Berlin. Other nights it was Schwusz, another favorite of Pat's, next to the Schwules or Gay Museum in the Nollendorfplatz section of Berlin. We met Andrew there for a heart-to-heart dinner at the same table where he had dined with Pat. He told us he had considered Pat to be his best friend. He only knew him for six months but felt like it was longer and called him first whenever he went out. They met often. They had the same kind of humor--self-effacing and quirky--and Andrew was stunned over his death. Only weeks before, he had gotten a job lead for Pat. He couldn't understand. Pat seemed to be forward thinking, on a surge, and his death was inconceivable. Tears were shed that night. I told him Pat was lucky to have known him, and now, so were we. I paid for our bill after dinner at Schwusz, glanced at the receipt, laughed out loud, and imagined Pat doing the same. It was more vintage Pat humor. At the bottom, after inexpensive charges for the three of us, it said “GUTEN SEX & BYE BYE.”

Back to Café Moskau. We hung around the open courtyard, watching the crowd of mostly men. Gay women, Tibor said, are way in the minority at these "parties." But they blended innocuously that night with a mostly 20's looking crowd who were chatting and smoking, much like I used to do at college. From what I could tell, not much had changed in 30 years. But I had to hold that thought because the next move was to go downstairs to the "muscle" room, the lower level where music was louder and the crowd sweatier. Definitely a few body builders down here, but, again, nothing more than what I saw on Ft. Lauderdale beaches. The music thumped, almost forcing me to thump with it, but lest I make a fool of myself, being the only 59-year-old mother there, I watched in silence. Well, not exactly silence. More like without talking because the music was too loud anyway. Unexpectedly, the deafening beat gave me a chance to think, to imagine Pat, to picture him bouncing around, yakking, sparkling as my therapist likes to say. And all I could imagine was that he must have had a blast.

Our ten days came to a close, fittingly, with a tribute to Pat at the Stanford Center in front of his tree to dedicate his bench and plaque. Ten or twelve of us gathered for a few words and moment of silence. Libby, the ever-faithful cinematographer, tried to capture the scene and the sounds with a movie camera, but may have been drowned out with the ambient traffic noise. I spoke above it as best I could and Karen read her lovely reflections on Pat and the location of his memorial. The Stanford Center in Berlin is an idyllic home away from home for students. It's true that they work madly, especially if they take Karen's course on German theater (Pat bowed out so he wouldn't have to hover over keyboards after clubbing). But there is an atmosphere of soft touches, which is best exemplified by Jutta's story of Pat registering with police as all students are required to do in Germany. Correct me if I'm wrong, Jutta, but I remember you describing how you explained to Pat what to do, and he was fine about it. His German was good enough, and there weren't any obvious reasons why he couldn't handle a trip to the police station. But you sensed something different about him. You sensed a levity about him, not in a funny way, but an airiness, a reverie which would have to descend to the gritty reality of a police station. You felt like you had to grab his legs and pull him down, and you did by taking him to the police station yourself. Oh, that I could have pulled him back when he called me last. Thank you, Berlin. Thank you Pat's, and now our, German family.


Lisette

Hillside
104 Deerfield Road
Pomfret Center, CT 06259
Home phone: 860 974 3361
Cell phone: 860 428 4084

Part 9: The Dedication of Pat's Bench and Plaque

July 17, 2007
Stanford Center
Berlin, Germany

It’s hard to believe that a year and a half has passed since Patrick died, since we’ve all suffered the shock of his demise by his own hand. For my own part, it’s been a journey of humility and pain. As I told my father before he himself died a year after Pat, I feel like someone smashed me in the face for no reason, like I’ve been stunned without knowing why. But this memorial is not about my reaction or suffering. It’s about Patrick, because no matter how much I hurt at losing my beautiful son, it’s not nearly as much as he suffered.

I am struggling to come away with some kind of truth that will channel the pain, and I haven’t uncovered the answers. Like Pat’s favorite line from Tulcholsky, “There is no untrodden snow.” I only know that in my search, I might have stumbled on the path that took Patrick to his death. I think he was trying to understand the sorrow he bore, and he found that understanding in the literature, music, and the intellect of this great country, which is also the embodiment of monumental pain. Berlin itself, with its war torn past and rejuvenated present, symbolizes the extreme range of emotions Pat endured. He soared from the height of accomplishment to the depths of sadness.

It is because he was capable of great disparagement that I am especially grateful to all of you for giving him the solace, the encouragement, the freedom, the acceptance, and the happiness that he craved and that I so wished for him. Berlin brought out the best in Pat. He felt more comfortable here than any other place on earth because Berlin welcomed him. It embraced his humor, his honesty, his silliness, his intellect, and his lifestyle. He could be himself, and from all that I’ve seen since his death, that was more than enough for everybody here. The fact that you are honoring him here is the most meaningful gift you could give him. Even though he lies on a pristine hillside near his home in Pomfret, CT, I feel that he would be most excited to be recognized in the city and school he loved.

And yet the love that he felt could not heal him. There was sorrow in his heart, a sorrow that no one could reach or satisfy, a sorrow that I didn’t understand, and a sorrow that Pat could not control. He turned to literature and music, and those carried him along for many years. He wrote of this admiration and the distancing it caused in school. He describes his isolation because of his ties to a force greater than mankind. I think if we listen to him, we can better see his own path for understanding of pain and, possibly, the transformation he made in the last days of his life. I ask your indulgence in listening with me to Pat’s portrayal of a boy lost in dreams:

The strains of Brahms’s second piano concerto reached his ears and enveloped them with warmth. The gentle current of the music lifted his heart and he let it carry him away. He succumbed to the pure and irresistible flow of emotion, rising and falling as it did. A connection seemed to grow then between the souls of listener and composer; Brahms’s heart was speaking across the centuries in an utterly clear and perfect voice. The boy marveled at the mystery and magic of such a connection.
The boy realized with certainty that in that moment, borne as he was among the swells and waves and thrusts and threads of sound, in that moment he had been granted access to a source greater than words, than mankind. Perhaps it was like an invisible stream bubbling noiselessly through all time, from which composers’ pens plucked out masterpieces. But it had to be something greater than mankind. How else could it strike him so purely, so directly? Brahms, too, and all other humans had been granted access to this medium; but the boy guarded jealously the emotions frothing in his own heart. He knew not everyone was given a soul like his, a soul which could be molded and shaped by a man centuries dead.
With religious zeal he envisioned his own hands performing the piece, recreating for others the sensations he felt. But “recreating” was not the word. No. He was taking part in a mystical experience, bathed in the glow of the concert hall, channeling a force which filled him with joy as it passed through his body. It inhabited him, it nourished him, it elevated him. And in a secret way he imagined that the audience worshipped him. He was above them operating a gleaming ebony instrument—yes, an instrument, a tool whereon he forged a dazzling array of emotions. He was above; he was the vessel for a shimmering outpouring; they sat below in silent, rapturous devotion.
The music in his ears climaxed in a long-held, grandiose chord; but soon it ended and there was nothing beyond. The boy felt drained, betrayed even, in the silence that followed. His laughable images of godhood were shoved aside by the realities of the soreness of his clamped ears and the hard, rough carpet under the back of his head.
I am a fool and a dreamer, the boy said aloud.
Walking onto the crowded (school) bus (the next morning), he was frightened by how hostile and alien the children looked. He no longer felt one of them, but above or below them—he could not tell which. His mind counseled patience; his time would come, it told him. But he sat in an empty seat, and his heart felt very cold and small and sad as the bus rolled away.

Let us hope that Pat’s heart no longer feels “cold and sad,” but that he is above us, “the vessel for a shimmering outpouring” as we sit below in “silent, rapturous devotion.”
Our hearts want so much to realize that godhood for him. We felt it within his grasp when he was alive, and now, as we struggle to understand the pain that drove him to his death, as we attempt to grasp his decision, we find solace in the same ways that he managed, in the music, the literature, and the intellect of this great country. Let us always try to ease our pain in the way that he did his own. We will learn from his journey, and we will hope to be as prepared for our own demise when our time comes.



Karen assumed she would not attend Pat’s dedication. She was suffering terrible back pain and could walk only with crutches. She wrote the following to be read in her absence. But after a serendipitous doctor’s appointment, which allowed her to take Lib and me to see her horse and drive through Pottsdamm earlier that day, Karen gave these remarks at Pat’s dedication.
These words must be spoken in my absence about an absence that has deeply and irrevocably saddened us all. It breaks my heart that I could not spend this day with Lisette and Lib, and be here with all of you for Pat.

This tree and this bench, sponsored by the Bing Overseas Studies Program and Bragg family of Los Angeles, friends of Pat’s grandparents who have a special connection to the City of Berlin, will prompt memories of Pat in perpetuity. I think of Pat often. I will never quite fathom what troubles led him, in a moment of desperation, to shorten his life. I will never again pick up the Sorrows of Young Werther without thinking of Pat, bringing home, in the most bitter of ways, how immortal a poet is Goethe. I will think of Pat each time I come to this bench to have a to have a moment by myself. The first of Pat’s apples is struggling for life on this tree. Life continues.

But Pat’s death was not Pat’s life, nor does the tragic memory override. All of my exchanges with Pat were happy ones, and I will remember him that way: as a sensitive, gentle, engaging man who clearly loved life and demanded a great deal of it. I will remember his flashing blue eyes, windows to a perceptive and inquiring mind, a mind of depth and mirth; I will remember his beautiful smile as a wide and happy one, and his quick wit, that so often made us smile. And his music, of course, which was sometimes somber, but often lighthearted—as music is, and as Pat was.

I hope, Lisette and Lib, that coming here has helped you to share some of the happiness Pat found here; to better understand how this place engaged his highly honed aptitudes and skills, from language to math to literature to music; how many friends he had and how highly they esteemed him. That will not outweigh your loss, but I hope that to allow into the foreground the valid memory that Pat brought much to many in his short life, and that he lived deeply, will help you to heal. Don’t lose touch with us, Pat’s Berlin Diaspora: And remember, you are part of it now, too.


With love,

Karen

Part 10: Pat's Scholarship Update

Now that I’m at the end of this long post, essentially a year’s worth of news about Pat and his legacy, which was long overdue, I feel like I can bring you up to date on Pat’s scholarship. I promised myself that I would not mention it until this post was done. I have kept in touch by emailing many of you, but I owed it to Mike Love and Lauren Schneider, who set up the blog, to keep it current. It’s still not as complete as I would like. There have been many more amazing tributes, stories, jokes, laughter, conversations, realizations, and new perspectives, which I plan to explore. But for now, this was enough. I feel like I can allow myself to mentally shift forward to a cause I think is worthy of Pat.

Shortly after Bob and I came back from the Stanford Memorial, the question of what next arose. Yes, we were agonizing about his headstone, but we needed something more pro-active. We settled on the merit scholarship, which was awarded for the first time last year to eighth-grader Hannah Leo. The reason we chose it was because Pat had won it when he went to Pomfret School. It was the talk of the eighth-grade parents at the Pomfret Community School. Who would get the four-year free ride to arguably one of the best prep schools in the country? With a 99% on his SSAT’s and nothing but A’s on his report card, Pat was the hands down winner. At the time, when he graduated from eighth-grade in 1997, it was worth about $20,000 a year for day students of which he was one since Pomfret School is essentially in our front yard. It may also have been one of the few merit scholarships available. Most schools, Pomfret included, were leaning toward need-based financial aid. Scholarship, for its own sake, was disappearing. In Pomfret’s case, the 9/11 economic down turn spelled the end of what was known as “The Peck Scholarship.”

We approached Pomfret School about resurrecting a merit-based, and merit only, scholarship in Pat’s name. We had seen what it did for Pat. It was his award and his alone. It was not based on our income needs. He had deserved it and been recognized solely based on his ability. We wanted other young scholars to be rewarded on their own merit as well. As Bob put it, we didn’t care if Bill Gates’s son won it. He deserved to be rewarded for his own ability, not his parents’ income or lack thereof. Pomfret immediately agreed, allowing us to make the first presentation last June.

The problem is that we can only award $1,000 a year based on the interest of the approximately $27,000 in the fund so far. Geoff Liggett, Director of the Pomfret School Development Office, estimates that we will need over $1 million to fund a student every year for all four years as Pat was. Day student tuition, at this point, is about $25,000 a year. We are nowhere near rewarding bright students to the same extent, and we cannot approach that level without help.

Some of you have asked how to contribute to Pat’s memory. This is how. Help us make this the full ride that it used to be. Help make Pat’s name the envy of every aspiring Pomfret School applicant in the surrounding towns. I know of no better way to honor his memory. Yes, I would like to see the book and the movie of “The Essential Patrick,” as Ryan called him. I would like to see him at the forefront of enough research to eradicate suicide. But for now, this is a start. It was a reward that made Pat proud, and I would like to see it make others proud. I would like to see them earning every penny of what Pat got because they are simply the most amazing kids in the area, because maybe they are beautiful, quirky, funny, and astonishing. Maybe they are the standard bearers of “The Essential Patrick.”

Thank you for considering it, and for sending a contribution to:

The Patrick Wood Fund
Development Office
Pomfret School
928 Pomfret Street
Pomfret, CT 06258

I don’t think it’s the amount that’s important. Rather, I would like to see as many people as possible send a little bit. It’s a way of seeing the results of your admiration. A long list of donors would put his name in the limelight. You may be thinking that he had so much attention in his short life, and it’s true. He accomplished more than many of us will in a lifetime. But in order to perpetuate what he stood for and what he loved (even though he didn’t like drawing attention to himself), and maybe more fundamental, to create a reason to talk about him, we would love your help. Thank you again for reading, listening, and thinking about “The Essential Patrick.”

All our deepest gratitude,

Lisette

Pat in fifth, sixth, and eighth grade