Happy birthday Pat!!!

Bullycide

Pat’s life is still changing. It’s taking on new forms in the way all who knew him think and act and prioritize. For Andrew Nielson, it’s been the life-changing video “Twenty-Three.” For Libby, it’s been acceptance into the best therapy degree program in the country. For Colin, it’s been to pursue a degree in finance, which has required advanced math and programming, much like Pat used to do. For Bob, it’s been to caretake Pat’s grave and the Pomfret cemetery in which he lies. For me, it’s been to learn by writing and doing what I think Pat would value. Mainly, my learning has been through school, working with middle school students, offering a new understanding of their lives and a reordering of my own. Some of those understandings are not really understandings at all, but a drive for a wider take on the world. It’s a drive which includes Pat’s story and which is unfortunately the story of many other young people. It’s a drive motivated by Pat, but also by the students I see every day–their worries, questions, and fears. What about the hurts, the hates, the unknown, and the heartbreaks? Why is there violence? How do you handle pain?

This year, in particular, students asked questions of why young people, their own age, were so despondent that they took their own lives. How did they get to the same point as Pat? How did life look so hopeless that as young as age eleven, they came home from school and died soon afterward? Sometimes their questions were simpler. Why can’t people treat each other fairly?

As the newspaper advisor for my school, I encouraged them to write. Explore those issues, interview others, make sense out of the questions they pondered. But deep down the questions were mine. How could I explore, interview, and make sense? I was the student. I was the one really learning, and I did it alongside my middle school comrades. With a few names deleted, here were some of the results. For easier viewing, click on the article and then magnify.

More on Pat's Scholarship

From the Woodstock Villager, June 2010

One of the benefits of Pat's Scholarship is that it has allowed us to speak publicly about Pat and how we are encouraging his qualities in others. In the four years we've given the award, we've gone to area schools, explained a little about Pat, and praised local students. This year was different. This year we were able to thank two schools, which helped immensely after Pat died. Pomfret and Rectory schools have been paragons of caring institutions. I tried to explain the importance of that concern in my presentation remarks:

Our son Patrick Wood attended Pomfret School on the full four year Peck Scholarship. He was a national merit scholar. He earned perfect SAT’s. He won almost every book award possible. He graduated from Pomfret at the top of his class in 2001, and four years later, graduated from Stanford University with distinction in math.

Yes, Pat was an incredibly brilliant young man. He once said that he knew what it took to get an A. Internally, things just seemed to click and make sense for him. But the best part of him was his humor and his heart. He praised his teachers and mostly his coaches at Pomfret for opening him up to new dimensions of high school, for letting go and trusting himself and his teammates, for seeing how mental support will accomplish physical goals. Unfortunately, that mental support was not enough, and Pat died tragically in 2006.

In the wake of our sadness, the Pomfret and Rectory School response was incalculable. We were quite simply lifted up and pulled along with letters from students and faculty, flowers, food, hugs, tears–all were given constantly and infinitely until the end result was that we are able to stand before you today. The Pomfret and Rectory outpouring was nothing short of a renaissance for our family.

And so it is with deepest gratitude that we now give back to the communities that were so life giving to us. For the first time in the four years of this award, it is our honor and pleasure to give the Patrick Wood Memorial Prize for academic excellence to a Rectory student.

The Patrick Wood Prize has come home.

The recipient is a young man, headed for Pomfret, who closely resembles Pat with superior intellect, humor, and heart. He is a young man, whose passion for excellence was so strong that I worried about him. Homework was pages longer than average. Essays were fastidiously thorough. He devoted himself to each assignment, and he put up with my nagging about writing with power and brevity with a grace that I don’t often see.

But alongside his academic prowess was a humility, humaneness, and good old fashioned hilarity that I hadn’t known since Pat was alive. There is no better student for this award. It is my great privilege to award the Patrick Wood Prize to Daniel Kellaway.

Bob and me with Erik Bertelsen, Director of Pomfret School Admissions, presenting Pat's Award to Daniel Kellaway, who will be entering tenth-grade fall 2010

The Patrick Wood Memorial Prize was begun to honor Pat’s legacy of ability and integrity after he died in 2006. He had attended Pomfret School on the full four-year Peck Scholarship because of his academic achievement at the Pomfret Community School. But due to Pomfret School’s financial constraints, about two years after he won it in 1997, the Scholarship was ended. We wanted to give it back to Pomfret School. We felt strongly that the original parameters should be maintained and that it should be based on merit only. It’s not as large as we would like it to be. It was endowed by the Pomfret Board of Trustees last year and grants $1,000 to a local student matriculating to Pomfret each year. Our hope is that we can raise more for the winners, just as Pat received more, because they so obviously deserve it. They work hard for the success they earn. As a teacher, I see it every day in the classroom, and as Pat’s mom, I know the effort he gave to become valedictorian and get perfect SAT’s. He said he pretty much knew what it took to get an A, and I can say for sure that it took countless hours.

This year, there was no better student for this award. I was lucky to have Daniel in my eighth-grade lit class and in newspaper. He picked up new writing skills as easily as if he had known them all along. I saw him in the day-to-day moments when we all have ups and downs. Not Dan. He shone every moment, enjoyed new lessons, and responded wholeheartedly. He had an unwavering respect for all subject matter and a willingness more common in students twice his age. He deserves Pat’s Award and more. Along with the four previous outstanding winners from area schools, he is the quintessential example of why we started this Award. His fount of knowledge is already overflowing, and he is eager for so much more, but he’s also humble about it. He sees himself as a student, pure and simple, not as “accomplished,” and, of course, that made him all the more qualified. In addition to academic achievement, part of the criteria is character, and all of the previous winners have demonstrated that quality. It’s been nurtured and promoted at Pomfret School, which is why it will be a great new home for Daniel.

Happy Birthday Pat!!!

Germany 2009

“Green Grocer” by Tobias (at Dallmayer's in München)

At one point during our two-week stay with Pat’s friends in Germany, we were sitting in a drenching rain at the Seehaus in the Englischer Garten in München, one of Pat and Tobi’s favorite bier gartens. The large green tents, brightened with beer stein chandeliers and strings of beer stein lights, were crammed with people escaping the down pour. We counted a thundering crack about a second after bright lightening. A father on the lake was madly rowing his children to safety. I was sitting nearest the edge of the tent, and Libby tried to shield me with her scarf. We huddled there for an hour or more, unable to move. No one was giving up his seat under the crowded tents until finally the storm dulled to medium strength. We dined on the world’s best beer and cheese. We watched an older couple share an umbrella. “I don’t care what it does,” I said. “We’re here together, and that’s all that matters.” We looked at each other in agreement and toasted “prost.” The moment captured the mood of the trip, the high points of which were nonstop. Most were recaptured in the pictures that follow. Others bear special mention:

• My cousin Avery putting me up the night before leaving and getting me to the airport so Bob did not miss his softball game (nobody plays left field like he does). No problem even though she and her family were leaving for Israel the day after.

• Joe taking time off from work to meet us at Tegel and waiting an hour for our—actually, my--bag. Libs and Linds know how to travel light.

• Joe and Tibor giving us the biggest bedroom in their apartment, which was a half hour walk through the Tiergarten to the Reichstag. A HALF HOUR!

• Tibor shepherding us to the VIP section of the Christopher Street parade (mit free drinks und food) and explaining to the Mayor of Berlin how he had once introduced Patrick, and now he was introducing his mother. TO THE MAYOR! DER BÜRGERMEISTER! (More on this, the trip, and other Pat thoughts are in process.)

• Joe’s father hosting me in his van, at a Brück horse show, with cheese and three kinds of homemade sausage on top of dark, dense bread.

• Tibor rescheduling his singing rehearsal and Steve rushing from work to meet us at the Stanford Center for a few words for and by Pat.

• Karen bringing me to watch her ride her lovely dressage horse. Heavy Berlin traffic cut it short, and anybody who rides knows that is not good.

• Steve treating us to dinner and then staying up endless hours with Joe and Tibor to translate Pat’s German text messages, the last communications before he died.

• Joe and Tibor getting our train tickets to München and then hauling suitcases (well, maybe just mine) to get there on time.

• Tobi, surprising us by jumping on the train two stops before München then navigating the U-Bahn to get us to our pension within walking distance of everything München. EVERYTHING!

• Tobi, guiding us to everything Patrick for the next nine days. NINE!

• Dr. Heidrun Belzner, from BMW, showing us where Pat worked and explaining for several hours why he was “the best intern we ever had.”

• Wolf-Dietrich Junghanns, from the Stanford Center, putting me in touch with Heidrun.

• Tobi, renting a car and then driving us to his home town of Missen, two hours southwest of München in the Allgåu, the greenest, and most old-lady accessible and cow-covered mountains in the world. Check out my iCow movie, which doesn’t do them justice.

• Tobi’s aunt and uncle, preparing the same pork meal as Pat’s even though it wasn’t normally available that day.

• Tobi’s Neuschwanstein and hiking plans getting rained out nearly every day.

• Tobi’s Neuschwanstein plans, magnificent, even in the rain.

• Joe, Tibor, Christian, Steve, Karen, and Tobi, answering our endless questions; enduring our (my) terrible pronunciations; repeating untold directions; protecting, guiding, and hand-holding every step of the way; driving us from and to airports, train stations, rental cars; and being genuinely, overly grateful for the puny little meals we bought. Are these the greatest friends known to mankind?

• Libs and Linds hauling my embarrassingly large suitcase and my anchor weighted backpack, and most luxuriously, bringing me breakfast every morning in Bavaria. They graciously tolerated my old-lady presence every step of the way. I could not have made the trip without them.

• And most importantly, Woody taking over full-time farm management for two weeks, which involved feeding a horse who throws grain everywhere. TWO WEEKS!

I tried to cut out enough pictures to make them manageable for the blog, but there were just too many good ones. They show the high points better than words. They may look like a travelogue more than revisiting Pat places, but they felt right and fit the mood at the time. Thanks for checking them out on the site I created to accommodate all of them. Of special note are the pictures by Tobi. He’s going for an art degree, and if these pictures are any indication, he has an incredible future in that field. He has the talent, and more importantly, he has the heart. He, and everyone who knew Pat in Germany, set the standard for surviving suicide. They walked hand-in-hand with us through some tears, some laughs, some toasts, and some silence. They gave us Pat’s Germany, as he would have done had he been alive. They extended their friendship to him and gave it to his entire family. It was nothing short of life giving to Libby, Lindsay, and me.

For the Germany 2009 pics, the site is:  

file:///Users/lrimer/Dropbox/Public/Germany%202009%20site/Germany_2009/Photos.html



For great cowbell music, check out iCows, the movie.

Continuing Tributes

I've been remiss in posting some files, so here's is an overdue roundup of "Pat News."

• Tobi Bader, a friend from Germany, created a pdf last fall, which all who loved Pat and question suicide should see. It is a searching and artistic triumph. You should be able to click on each of the pictures to enlarge them and read the text. For those who would like the full size pdf, which is even more beautiful, email me at: mlrimer@earthlink.net.

• At about the same time as Tobi's "Autumn," Libby designed a t-shirt in honor of her and Pat's birthday, October 29th. Germanophiles like Pat will recognize the background. But if you don't, you'll have to go to Berlin and pose in front of the Reischstag like Pat did, uncomplaining but clearly tired, for his grandparents (my father and Anne) after he'd been up most of the night clubbing. I think Tibor and Joe had something to do with that.

Lib with Pat's shirt

Pat and vorm Reischstag spring 2004 before lunch in the dome with his grandfather and Anne.

• Pat had the honor of being memorialized on Helpguide.com, a mental health awareness site created by friends of my father, Mr. and Dr. Robert Siegle. Their daughter Morgan also committed suicide and they have been dedicated ever since to mental health awareness. It's an impressive site with up-to-date research and medical articles. You can visit Pat's memorial at: http://www.helpguide.org/memorials.htm

• And finally, in honor of Pat and other students who worry about being different for any reason, I started a Safe Place program (actually, it's more a state of mind) at my school. My friend Nora Robbins designed the poster,

and I addressed the school with remarks, which I'll include shortly. For the most part the response was terrific. Many teachers and students appreciated the point that most gay students are afraid of school because it's still acceptable to discriminate against them and that they should be treated as courteously and respectfully as anyone else no matter what your beliefs.

Pat's mom

“Twenty-Three”

Andrew and DJ at Amoeba, March 12, 2009

Andrew (aka MC Lars) wanted to include the mp3 file along with some of his thoughts in writing it, but Mike Love (creator of this blog) and I were unable to upload it, so here is the link again if you haven't yet heard Pat's song:

http://mclars.com/mp3s/albums/2009%20-%20tgrk/08%20Twenty-Three.mp3

Libby, Lindsay (Lib’s girlfriend), and I had the amazing luck to see Andrew and DJ (another Pat friend from Stanford) perform it at Amoeba Records on Haight St. in San Francisco in March. As sad as we were about Pat, Andrew and DJ were a total lift. Every song was fabulous, even to an aging mother whose penchant for loud music has waned. Not this time. “Post-punk laptop rap” is my new favorite. Check out Andrew’s web site for his tour schedule:

http://mclars.com/news.php

I’d love to see him in Berlin. Pat’s clubs would be a perfect venue.
Most importantly, check out Andrew’s article in the San Francisco Chronicle March 9, 2009. He talks openly about “Twenty-three” and his music in general:

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/03/09/DD8U16B5RI.DTL

Andrew is no lightweight opportunist as the term rap might imply. His version is “hip-hop that’s not afraid to be smart.” If a kid “wants to read Hamlet afterward, then that’s a bonus.”

From hip-hop to Hamlet? It’s true. He makes the connection. Check it out. A movie of the Amoeba performance, which I hope to post, will be forthcoming in May.

Pat's mom


Andrew on “Twenty-Three”

"It was a moving experience to record this track and I still feel sad every time I go back and listen to it. For me it's the end of the second verse that resonates when I listen to the song again, remembering when I saw Pat's room and his freshman yearbook. I wrote and rewrote the song many times over the past year. That I was able to find a way to express how everything made me feel but also be musically engaging was rewarding and has helped me heal... and I hope it will serve the same for others. Pat was an awesome friend and roommate."

"Twenty-three" by MC Lars

Dear Pat People ,

Andrew Nielson (MC Lars), a roommate of Pat's at Stanford, has written a song, which he wanted to share. It's part of his latest album This Gigantic Robot Kills, which has been well reviewed thanks in large part to "Twenty-Three," the song he wrote for Pat. Check out this review, which Andrew sent to me: http://changetherecord.net/2009/01/18/mc-lars-this-gigantic-robot-kills-2/

The album is available on Amazon, but "Twenty-Three" can be downloaded at this link courtesy of Andrew:

http://mclars.com/mp3s/albums/2009%20-%20tgrk/08%20Twenty-Three.mp3

"Twenty-Three" is a lovely tribute, beautifully written and produced. Andrew has dignified the life and death of Pat in an intimate and eloquent way. Please join me in congratulating him for his artistry, and join me also in supporting him by purchasing the album on Amazon.

All my gratitude, Andrew,

Pat's mom

Pat at Stanford

"Twenty-Three"

lyrics by MC Lars

music by James Bourne



I don't sleep, because sleep is the cousin of death



Down the hall, there's a kid that I know

He's kind of quirky so I say hello

He's so sarcastic but he's always right

Working on those problem sets late into the night

Mad magazines sit piled by his bed

A million brilliant thoughts going all through his head

We bike to class in the autumn rain

He tells me that he's fine but I know he's in pain

Pat I miss you dude it's so hard to say goodbye

In Europe last winter you were tired of the lie

Monoxide in the bathroom but the door was locked

We were always there for you, you could have called and talked

I felt guilty and alone and so sick when I discovered

You did it in Berlin, you'd just talked to your mother

I guess it was too much, depression disillusion

Maybe suicide's an answer, but it wasn't the solution



CHORUS:

And I wish that you hadn't done it

Could have won it and moved on from it

And we could have grown old together

But instead you'll always be 23.... 23.



We sat together one night on El Camino

On the bench by the bus stop hiding from El Nino

You told me your secret I just sat there in shock

You couldn't tell your parents, you couldn't break that lock

Cognitive dissonance, trapped in your shell

Depression and regression made your life a living hell

The pain was too intense, the fence too strong to break

So you went to Germany, it was too much to take

You came back broken hearted distracted by the dream

The worlds collided now, college wasn't what it seemed

You went to back to Berlin to find yourself once more

They broke down the door and found you lying on the floor

I took the Amtrak up the coast, your mom met me at the station

I went to see your house and photos of your graduation

We drove to your grave, no tombstone where you lay

Your freshmen yearbook's by your bed and your room's in disarray



CHORUS



(vocal samples recorded spring 2003)



Lars: Ladies and gentlemen, I want you to meet a good friend of mine, this is Patrick Wood!

Pat: What's up Lars?

Lars: What's up Pat?

Pat: How you doing man?

Lars: Good. What do you think of me having my recording equipment take up three quarters of our small room in the Kimball dorm?

Pat: It's no problem man, I love you.

Lars: I love you too Pat.

Pat: Thanks Lars.

Lars: Pat Wood! Hey that's you.

Pat: (Sarcastic laughter)



CHORUS:

And I wish that you hadn't done it

Could have won it and moved on from it

Now we'll never grow old together

But you're in my memory, 23... 23.



Suicide sucks.

Year Three

~A place for Patrick,

in the city he loved~

Patrick Wood, 1982~2006

On Patrick's bench at the Stanford Center in Berlin.
Photo by Jutta Ley, Winter 2008

Dear Friends and Family of Pat,

Thank you for another year of cards, letters, well-wishes, and heartfelt thoughts. I have reread your Christmas cards and can't help but shake my head at the time you took to connect, especially when it was a connection miles away from a holiday celebration. I am not much farther along in understanding, but I am heartened that you continue to show support for someone no longer here but not gone. Just knowing that the ever-present paradox is shared works miracles. It's as if I handed my life over, and you rebuilt it. I guess that's one lesson with which I've come away: if you are lucky enough to be surrounded by good people, you can survive anything, even (as I anticipate) your own death.

I'll pass on a good quote by Ezra Pound from a steadfast cousin in Alaska. "A poem is a momentary stay against confusion." Meaning is rare and precious, but it does come from the greats who went before. They have endured all and steer with wisdom born of hardship and eloquence. I include your letters and kind deeds in that category. You have astounded with your tributes to Pat, including Andrew Nielson releasing a song he wrote called "Twenty-three;" Libby designing t-shirts to help with her reflections yesterday; Pomfret School awarding $1,000 to incoming freshmen in Pat's name. Last year, two incredibly talented students received it; Tobi creating a stunning pictorial essay of Berlin, which I hope he will not mind me including here :) ; Joe and Tibor sending birthday wishes on the blog; Jutta sending the picture of Pat's snow-covered plaque above; my cousin Karen calling regularly while her own sister was dying of breast cancer; and my cousin Polly starting a Day of Silence, a nationwide recognition that gay students must be silent about their identity. She started it in Pat's memory at her school in Long Island. I'm working on a similar program at my school.

And just when I think the list of kind deeds is finished, I remember that yesterday, as I was writing this note, my dear friend Nora came to say good bye to an old horse who will soon be underground with other equine friends at the top of our fields. At twenty-nine, he is older than Pat would have been. He has seen the comings and goings of our entire family. For most of those years he stationed himself to view the house. Neither dog nor fellow horse dared to obstruct his monitoring. And if he spotted you around feed time, he whinnied to remind you who came first. We had a good cry outside with him in the freezing January wind. We thanked him for the many thrills he had given us--thrills not entirely expected like walking over small trees to scratch his stomach, letting himself out of latched doors to roam and snack freely, finding food in pockets with a muzzle like an opposable thumb. That muzzle is now covered with incurable infection, and when the light in his eye grows dim, we will attempt to open the frozen ground one more time, much like we did for Pat three years ago.

Thank you as always for listening, reading, and writing. Your shared sadness pulls me out of the vacuum into which I descend to think about Pat.

All my love,

Lisette

Published by Pat's Dad in the Woodstock Villager 1~31~09

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

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