Obits

Today's Hyde Park Herald ran my obituary text in full, I believe.

The Chicago Tribune website just went live with a thoughtful, extensive piece, based on several interviews by the reporter.  It should appear in tomorrow's paper.

The only important part from my initial draft that didn't make the Tribune is this:

"The family asks that contributions in Leslie Hornig’s memory be sent either to The Ancona School, 4770 South Dorchester Ave., Chicago, IL 60615, or to the Hyde Park School of Dance, 5650 South Woodlawn Ave., Chicago, IL 60637."

Bitter. Sweet.

If birthdays are more or less evenly distributed across the calendar (and setting aside stories of terminally-ill people who hold onto life to reach a landmark), statistics would suggest that most families get a bit of breathing space between losing a loved one and their birthday.  Our family got a 1-2 punch:  April 23 was the uppercut that followed the gut shot of her death.

Still, Leslie had a favorite expression that even when you can’t change what happens to you, you can decide how to respond to it.  With that in mind, Caroline and Emily and I decided to make a bitter day quite literally sweet, by turning to family tradition.

In the morning, we spent time as a family making batches of our favorite hot fudge sauce – our annual holiday gift.  Then, in the afternoon, we went into the neighborhood delivering jars of fudge to friends and colleagues.

At Lab, we stopped in Leslie’s classroom, where we were charmed by students’ notes on a poster board (recall that current 4^th graders never had her as their teacher).

We cheered on a very pregnant classroom rat to deliver her pups on Leslie’s birthday.

We left gifts, as well, for the carers who battled her illness, then kept her comfortable when the fight was lost – her oncologist and that doctor’s amazing PA, her palliative care doc who stayed with us through hospice, and her hospice nurse.

We wish we could have reached everyone who has visited, shopped, cooked, run errands, called, written, commented here, and sent “karma rockets” our way.  Since we couldn’t, we invite you to join us in celebrating Leslie’s sweetness and rich life.  Here’s the fudge recipe – it’s equally good on ice cream and straight from a spoon.  Leslie’s scientific nature would demand that I tell you it really does need Dutch Process cocoa.

Leslie Elizabeth Hornig, 1957-2012

Many who have come to our blog over time didn't know Leslie beyond their particular point of contact, only knew me, or simply stumbled across something they found meaningful.

What follows is the obituary I prepared for Leslie; it has been submitted to the Chicago Tribune, the Providence Journal and the Hyde Park Herald.  The photo is courtesy of Picture Day, the company that takes school photos for the University of Chicago Lab Schools, which gave permission to use this stunning shot.

Leslie Hornig came late to teaching, but clearly it was her calling.  Students who passed through her fourth-grade science classroom at the University of Chicago Laboratory Schools treasured learning chemistry from Pancake Day, studying adaptation by creating their own unique creatures, and caring for the classroom rats.

Ms. Hornig had worked with rats as a graduate student, and drove around Chicago’s Hyde Park in a van with the license plate RAT PUP 1.  She delighted in showing students how affectionate and responsive the animals could be, taking pride in the many students (girls in particular) who overcame fear and helped her care for the rats.

Ms. Hornig died in Chicago on April 18, less than a year after being diagnosed with metastatic endometrial cancer. She was 54.

She moved from Washington, DC, in 1988 to pursue a Ph.D. in Evolutionary Biology at the University of Chicago and received her degree in 1995.  Following three years of post-doctoral research in genetics, she decided to leave academia and share her love of science with younger learners at the Lab Schools, where she taught from 1998 to 2011.

“Leslie was the first to admit that the Lab Schools took a chance on her.  Her primary experience at the time was coaching youth soccer and having a daughter who’d just completed fourth grade,” recalled her husband, David Kleeman.  “She instantly became intrigued by learning and developmental differences, though, and found great mentors who helped her become an outstanding child-centered teacher.”  She organized discussions among her colleagues around topics like learning and the brain, and positive discipline.

David Derbes, chair of Lab's Science Department, said, "How often does a person with Leslie's training--Harvard undergraduate, Chicago doctorate in biology--become a lower school teacher? And of these few, how many love kids and can reach them so well? We were incredibly lucky to have had her as long as we did. She was a wonderful colleague, not least because she would so often challenge the majority viewpoint."

Ms. Hornig also exercised her passion for learning as a trustee of Hyde Park’s Ancona School, which her daughters attended from pre-school through eighth grade.  Head of School Bonnie Wishne recalled that “Leslie loved Ancona’s intimate, individualized learning community but, never one to pull a punch, she had many astute ‘suggestions’ for how we might be a better school. It wasn’t just talk; as a parent and trustee, she rolled up her sleeves and pitched in.  When she became a teacher, she often walked over at the end of the day just to sit and sort out teaching or learning issues.  She was always striving to be a better champion of children.”

Ms. Hornig was born to science. Her father, a chemist, was science adviser to President Lyndon B. Johnson before becoming President of Brown University.  Her mother, Lilli, a chemistry professor as well, advocated for bringing more women into the sciences. Residents of Providence and Little Compton, RI, both worked on the Manhattan Project.

It was no surprise, then, that Ms. Hornig pursued a career in education and science.  After graduating from Harvard College in 1980, she became a program officer at the Fund for the Improvement of Postsecondary Education (FIPSE) at the US Department of Education.

Later, as a public affairs specialist at the National Zoo in Washington, she produced public seminars on animal behavior.  “Leslie went to graduate school late by the standards of the time,” Kleeman noted. “She probably wouldn’t have gone back at all, though, had she not become captivated by the work of her future advisor during one of the Zoo seminars.”

Before returning to school, Ms. Hornig spent two years working at the American Association for the Advancement of Science, producing the National Forum for School Science, a forward-looking effort to improve teaching quality.  She co-authored three editions of the Forum’s report and recommendations, “This Year in School Science.”

“Our older daughter was born at almost the exact moment the 1987 forum concluded,” her husband remembered.  “She went into labor as the conference started, and insisted on introducing the lunch speaker before heading to the hospital.  It was a pretty perfect metaphor.”

Hyde Park residents knew Ms. Hornig from her annual turn as the Mayor’s wife in the Hyde Park School of Dance Nutcracker, alongside her dancing daughters and her husband, who played Herr Drosselmeyer.

In addition to her husband, parents and three siblings, Ms. Hornig is survived by two daughters:  Caroline, 24, is a therapist for children with autism near Boston; Emily, 20, is a sophomore at Pitzer College in Claremont, CA.
 
A memorial service will be held at a date and time to be announced.

The family asks that contributions in Leslie Hornig’s memory be sent either to The Ancona School, 4770 South Dorchester Ave., Chicago, IL 60615, or to the Hyde Park School of Dance, 5650 South Woodlawn Ave., Chicago, IL 60637.

At Peace

Leslie is at peace; she died this morning at 6:27 with our family all together.

Our family has had blessedly few close encounters with death, so none of us knew what to expect.  The passing was remarkably peaceful, particularly given that her last 48 hours were characterized by restlessness.  She held and squeezed our hands, her respiration became soft and shallow, and in the final minutes the breaths simply came farther apart, until they stopped entirely.

We will hold a memorial gathering for Leslie, but have not set a date; it likely will not take place until May, at least, as we want to give family and friends plenty of time to make arrangements.

It seems unfair that Leslie was taken on a lovely spring day in Chicago, when normally she'd have found peace in her gardens.  Caroline, Emily and I spent some time there, later this morning.

So often, I'd come home to find her sitting on the front stoop or back porch, simply staring.  Sometimes, she was envisioning rearrangements - digging up plants and changing their positions.  Sometimes, she was on the phone with her sister Ellen, who until recently ran a perennial nursery, trying to identify the perfect plant for one of the few open spots.  Sometimes, she was simply lost in the ever-changing riot of greens and colors - her garden was planned for three-season splendor.

Leslie had two other gardens - one at Lab for her fourth grade students, and one in Little Compton, Rhode Island - the one consistent "home" in her 54 years.

She began planting vegetables there a few years ago after reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.  Leslie spent as much as possible of her teacher summers there, documenting its growth in photo essays for her students.  The garden yielded sumptuous amounts of shell beans, potatoes, eggplants and tomatoes, some of which she left in Rhode Island and some of which she brought home (have you ever carried 30 pounds of tomatoes past TSA?).

These weren't the biggest bounty of that garden, however; what grew best by the ocean were relationships.  Leslie spent time with her parents, gently helping them make accommodations to keep themselves safe and fulfilled.  When Leslie first tilled the space, her mother was suffering from back problems and her father from early Alzheimer's.  The garden became conversation pit and fitness center, and by the end of the first summer, her mother was sitting on a stool and weeding, and her father was hauling brush to his beloved bonfire pile and fetching the hose and tools.

Last summer, with Leslie in chemo, the garden returned to wild, though the reaping continued; Leslie was able to spend thoughtful time with her parents, her siblings, and friends who accompanied her to "the Comptons."  Later this summer, Caroline and Emily and I hope to return Leslie to the place she loved so much.

Bringing peace and closure to this difficult day, here are some images from Leslie's many gardens.

Little Compton garden, in process

Leslie loved having the tiller in her hands - whether gardening or sailing.

 

 

 

The Lab School garden being prepared.

 

Mr. Encesci

All our lives can be envisioned as Venn Diagrams of discrete and overlapping groups of people.  Leslie's enfolded so many diverse connections that it would look more like a budding rose than a simple clover.

I've always admired Leslie's social flexibility.  Early on, I loved that she could go from work clothes to softball uniform to evening dress without batting an eye (though, somewhere in there, one assumes she eyed a bat).  The diagram expanded over time: family, friends, our kids' friends and their families, community and school groups, dance moms (lower case, if you please), academic peers, fellow teachers and more.

I seldom got to meet, but was privileged to share Leslie with, yet another group - her students.  As a special area teacher, she had the distinction that every child in a grade level went through her classroom.  In recent months, we've received cards and drawings from kids she taught recently, and high-schoolers who fondly remember Pancake Day, rats and tree frogs, bubble bombs, and gardening.

All this is a very roundabout way of getting to a lovely tribute to Leslie's influence that we received today, a pillow made by a student she taught last year.

Meet Mr. Encesci.  Can you figure out where he got his name?

Mr. E now protects us from his perch on the headboard of our bed.

.2

Today is Boston Marathon Day, and I'm sitting next to Leslie watching the competitors struggle through the course on a too-hot day.



In the last two days, it feels as though Leslie has hit "the wall."  Her body has simply run out of resources and is shutting down.  I wrote recently that it can be difficult to notice change when you're with someone almost 24/7, but the latest decline has been all too apparent.



Leslie hasn't eaten in two days, and drinks only in very occasional, very tiny sips, mostly to keep her mouth wet.  Yesterday, she alternated between deep sleep and a half-awake hazy stare; overnight, that shifted to fairly steady low-level restlessness.  She murmurs often, but without focus or clarity.



For those concerned, the agitation seems mostly about finding a comfortable position or managing pain (for which we have several tools); I believe that Leslie came to peace with her situation some time ago.  Of course, it's impossible to think that her powerful mind isn't still processing or that her ears aren't hearing, and to ache for her possible frustration at not being able to make herself understood.



Our hospice nurse visited today, and found that, for all the other decline, Leslie's pulse and blood pressure remain solid.  The girls are on their way home today; is Leslie holding on for their arrival?



To return to Boston, it feels as though Leslie has turned off Hereford Street and is coming down Boylston.  She's reached that moment where you marshal the last of your reserves and, knowing you won't win, seek to finish with strength and dignity.  I have more sadness than fear, since that's exactly how Leslie has faced every challenge thrown at her in the last year.

Mot juste or Moe Howard?

Could stacking be...

...the new planking?

As unfair as it may be to laugh at what comes forth from a Dilaudid-deluded mind, Leslie was the one who said early and often in this ordeal, if you can’t laugh, what good is it.

This was a very difficult weekend.  Leslie's had more pain and discomfort, her appetite is waning, and she is less able to form or complete thoughts.  Hardest, though, is that with every happy visit – welcomed by Leslie with a beatific smile, a hug, and calling the person by name – necessarily comes the most uncertain goodbye.  This is especially true for family and far-flung friends, but even local visitors (or for that matter, myself, when I go out for a short run or stop by the office) can’t know if this will be a last embrace.

Given that, I’m not reluctant to share those moments when, among the tears and hugs, Leslie opens her mouth and sweeps away the clouds - sometimes with a mot juste and sometimes more of a Moe Howard.  Here are some recent examples:

As the kids prepared to leave, I asked Leslie if she wanted to give her baby a kiss.  As Emily leaned over, Leslie said, you’re not going to be a mommy, are you?

For a while, the need to go to the bathroom came out, for some reason, as bathing suit.  Yesterday, however, Leslie needed to explore the realm of her domain.  Caroline proposes that perhaps she was dreaming herself into “Downton Abbey.”

Leslie told her doctor and me that she was scared.  Both of us leaned in, since Leslie hasn't expressed anxiety for some time.  The doctor asked what she feared, and Leslie answered, left side driving.  Well, is she wrong (UK friends need not answer)?

Katie, Jess and I were having an admittedly raucous dinner around Leslie’s bed; she seemed asleep until she piped up with, this evening has been fucking awesome.  Indeed, it had. 

During that same evening, when I was feeding Leslie dessert, she announced, I want you to know that I don’t share my mochi.

As Caroline planned Easter brunch, she asked how many eggs she should make.  Leslie's perspective: only God can make an egg.

Finally, in her most spot-on assessment, as Katie and I tried to give Leslie her morning meds, Leslie pushed out the pills on the tip of her tongue and said, you guys are incompetent.




The bracelet was made by Leslie's doctor's daughter (who Leslie taught); she and several friends gather every few weeks to make bracelets for a charity that shares them with kids in families going through difficulties - military deployment, family illness, etc.

Mother and Daughter

Click anywhere within the photo to shift the focus to that spot; double click anywhere within the photo to zoom in, and then click to shift focus within that portion.

By Degrees...

You’ve probably heard the fable that if you plop a frog in comfortable water, then raise the temperature a degree at a time, the frog won’t notice or attempt to escape.  In today’s blog post, I will play the role of the frog and Leslie the pan of water.

As I’m with Leslie almost (thank you, friends and respite care workers) 24/7, it can take a regular visitor’s eyes, or time and repeated exposure, before I notice signs of her slow decline.  Friends who visit every few days comment on changes that only then settle into my consciousness.

One day she walks by herself with a walker; a day later she is unsteady enough to need a “spotter,” and a few days later – owing primarily to a blood clot in her leg – she needs a wheelchair to get from bed to bathroom.  She remains, however, very strong (thanks, Jess!):  she stands by wrapping her arms around my neck and I can still feel the power there and the leverage in her legs.

At the beginning of a week, she claims no appetite, but eats along with everyone else when food is placed in front of her.  Midweek, she prefers – and devours - smoothies, applesauce and other easy-to-swallow foods.  By the weekend, she consumes mostly sips of juice and milk (though she did enjoy a few spoonfuls of her favorite stuffed pepper soup from our go-to BBQ place, Chuck’s, and Lindsey's spaghetti and meatballs).

A week ago, Leslie got fully dressed every morning to “receive”; since Wednesday, she’s been in pajamas every day.

Her voice has become softer and more mumbled, and her thoughts often garbled.  On the other hand, she can rouse herself to voice an opinion:  this morning, I told my sister I wasn’t quite ready for breakfast and Leslie piped up with a very clear “speak for yourself”; later, she gave the certified nurse assistant bathing her an expletive-filled earful of her preferences about how to be positioned.

It’s been some time since she last asked for her iPad or laptop; I read her your messages, and trust that they are getting through the fog, and that she feels your love and light.
 
Slow decline is nevertheless decline, and Leslie is entering that netherworld where she is not in pain, but not especially enjoying life, either.  She still seems happy to see visitors, but more often the conversations fly above her, instead of revolving around her.

This is a terribly hard time, difficult to watch and to comprehend, but know, dear friends, that she is comfortable, hovered over by loving and gentle hands (friend and professional), and protected by her faithful kitty.