Great (but sad) article on how Jeremy Richman tried to cope with his grief.
RIP Jeremy.
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It took a time to find the address Richman had given me, but when I did so I sat for a little while across the street, taking in the neat painted house and the garden with spring sun falling on its rolling lawn and on the woodland beyond. I needn’t have approached Richman’s front door with any trepidation. He greeted me with a wide smile, holding eye contact, introducing me to his wife Jennifer and their daughter Imogen, then nearly two, before taking me up to the studio room at the top of the house to chat. “People struggle to find a way of talking about what happened to our family,” he said. “But people who kid-glove us quickly learn that is not necessary.”
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While he discussed all this Richman emphasised how the foundation not only borrowed his daughter’s name, but also her spirit; Avielle, who was six when she was killed, was a lover of stories, and a “steadfast friend for anyone she thought in need”. I noted how every time Richman mentioned her name, he made a point of smiling.
He showed me the hill that she sledded down outside, and the woods she had loved to play in, and then he drove me around his regular haunts. We had a coffee in the bagel bakery that Richman had taken Avielle to every Saturday morning; we stopped by the office in the old Town Hall which was home to the foundation; we paused at the fire station where the parents had gathered when news of the tragedy first broke, with its 22 gold stars on its roof, 20 small ones for each child, six larger ones for their teachers. And then we drove up to the hilltop cemetery where Avielle was buried along with several of her classmates, all in a row. At weekends, and during holidays, Richman and the family would come up here with a picnic to spend time with her.
Quite often, since I met Richman, I have found myself dwelling on that afternoon. This was partly due to the fact that he had a gift for storytelling, for offering life lessons. The one I remembered best was a story he told about a visit that he and his wife had made to China when they had first met. They had got involved in a programme to help repatriate kung fu masters who had been exiled during the Cultural Revolution. “We were travelling there with this 80-year-old guy,” he told me, “and he was in crazy good shape. He invited you to punch him as hard as you could and he wouldn’t flinch. One day I asked him, you know, what is your secret? I thought he was going to say: ‘you have to train 10 hours a day’ or whatever. What he actually said was, ‘number one: you have to get together often with your friends. Number two, you have to laugh every day. Number three, you have to sleep well.’”
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I would not begin to speculate what was going through his mind before he made that last decision. As anyone who has even a glancing knowledge of suicide knows, all the act takes for someone dealing with severe trauma is a very bad day or a very bad hour. Richman’s wife, Jennifer, asking for privacy, grief heaped upon grief, noted in a statement:
“My champion and the love of my life is the person who had every tool in the toolbox at his disposal … [But] he succumbed to the grief that he could not escape. To parent our children without my champion shatters my heart and I will love my best friend forever.”
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BBM.