THE PHENOM’S WIFE— A Memoir. Authors Event: Sunday Feb 23rd
Jan 28, 2025 | by Jenna Miller, Alumni Parent
Dearest Villagers,
This is Jenna Miller. My now 20-year-old son, Payton Pelaez, graduated from NVS in 2018. He is currently a civil engineering major at UCLA, still loves baking, and can now reminisce—with nostalgia—about his two-day sit in Peru.
I am writing to warmly invite you to read my memoir, The Phenom’s Wife, and to attend my author’s book launch at Book Passage in Corte Madera on Sunday, February 23rd at 4pm. Book Launch Evite
I share this invitation with you because The New Village School played a profound role in this story.
My book chronicles the near-death, partial recovery, and aftermath of my husband Steve’s 2017 cycling accident on Paradise Drive. I’ve taken my 500,000-word daily CaringBridge blog and turned it into a gripping narrative.
The story takes you on a present-time journey through Steve’s up-and-down recovery and, more importantly, into the awe-inspiring magic and miracles that emerged from the community who lovingly cared for us.
That community includes many of you— New Village families and teachers who wrapped us in love; who held Payton as he collapsed onto the floor at NVS, cocooned by sheepskins and your warm embraces; who held our entire family in ways beyond imagination.
From Grace Renaud’s gospel singing revivals to Michael Rennie’s band playing at Steve’s one-year celebration to Virgine De Paepe’s therapy sessions with Steve, the time and attention generous NVS community members gave our family was extraordinary. Parents and teachers supported us with hospital visits, rides for the kids, meals, words of encouragement, referrals, prayers, and gifts. The New Village School became both a trauma recovery program for us and a second family for Payton when ours dissolved.
My memoir is my love letter to all of you.
For those of you who were not with us in 2017, I warmly invite you into our story. It is painful and raw, but simultaneously the most brilliant display of human kindness and collective manifestation I have ever witnessed.
Here is the book trailer—brace yourself:
You can order the book from any bookstore or through Amazon:
The Phenom’s Wife: How a Caregiver Lost and Found Herself in Her Family’s Trauma
SAVE THE DATE
Book Passage in Corte Madera
More info: https://www.bookpassage.
My bookstore launch
Sunday, February 23rd at 4 PM.
I’d be honored to see you there.
Here is a passage from the book about Steve’s visit to the New Village School, shortly after coming home from the hospital—four months post-accident:
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The Phenom’s Wife…
Day 133. It's 3:36am. I hear the faint sound of Steve exhaling. I feel a wisp of wind against my face. I ask, "Steve, what are you doing?
"I'm blowing on you."
"Why?"
"You're hot and sweaty."
I've been sweating in my sleep the past few nights. Steve cooling me off makes the fact that he's up in the middle of the night less annoying. Steve blames me regardless; my sweat somehow makes him cold. Steve's blood thinners and TBI make his entire body perpetually cold.
At 4:43am I find Steve in the kitchen. "Steve, what are you doing?"
"Eating ice cream."
I am researching how to best help Steve. He wears a rosary and clutches a wooden cross in his hand 24/7, even while sleeping.
He needs someone who is both spiritually and medically astute to unravel his sadness. Conventional physicians who treat Steve offer medication as the answer to his woes — but he's already on a host of pharmaceuticals. I want Steve to access his mind via words, meditation, prayer, the right foods and vitamins, and alternative therapies like Bowen and EMDR. I believe Steve needs to be grounded to the earth.
Steve and I drop off Payton at school. To my surprise, The Phenom wants to see the teachers, including the headmaster. Steve asks, "The small European woman — what's her name?"
I answer, "Meinir."
Steve exclaims, "Meinir!"
But the first person we see is Chako San, who recognizes Steve and seems flooded by emotion. As Steve slowly shuffles toward the big room, where teachers, parents, and students gather each morning in a circle, he's unraveling each teacher or parent one-by-one. Parents approach me crying, so overcome with feelings by the living Steve.
When we arrive in the big room we spot Meinir, casually seated at the pink piano, playing with her back to us. She's wearing white flowing linen pants and a matching shirt with a blue scarf around her neck. Her short dark hair is wrapped in another scarf. Steve walks up to the piano and lays his hands next to Meinir's. She stops playing and springs up stunned, a huge grin on her face and her hand on her chest. "I can't believe what I'm seeing," she gasps.
Steve smiles and says, "Hello Meinir. I'm here."
We join morning circle — a spiritual occasion on any day, but especially today when Meinir announces our guest.
Steve responds, "This is what resurrection looks like."
He glows, looking over the sea of inspired faces. Meinir initiates the morning ritual, whereby teachers and students greet one another. Each teacher says something heartfelt about Steve.
Meinir suggests the children sing the special song they sang many times before, including during Grace's gospel prayer service. It's called "Come to Me." I never imagined hearing this song with Steve in the room. I remember that my friend Angela dreamt of this very moment. This is surreal.
Heading home, I feel moved by Steve seeming so joyful, energized, full of life this morning. Anything feels possible in moments like this. Steve falls asleep and when he awakens, we talk about the visit. He says, "It was very difficult."
I'm confused that he is recalling something different than he expressed. Could it be both difficult and joyful at once? Steve's reshaped mind is a mystery I am devoted to solving.
Tonight, the vegan taco dinner we receive from a generous Mill Valley family is so good Payton repackages the leftovers for school lunch — before I have a chance to eat! He is hiding the food from me. Payton, not a fan of the blog, says, "You'd better write this one up. This is solidly the second best meal we've had during this entire ordeal. Number one, of course, is Lousang's homemade dumplings."
Day 134. I receive a lovely note from Meinir, reminding me of the blessings of this tragedy. She writes, "When I turned to look and saw Steve, I was blown away. He looks so ethereal — what he has seen is just incredible. And you, beautiful as ever, calm, present — just astonishing. We were all quivering inwardly this morning. It was such an honor to have you both with us..."
Sentiments like this help when the pain of daily life tends to smother the joy. I need to help Steve see beauty again — an enormous challenge for his shattered brain. Today marks one week since Steve's homecoming. It's been wonderful and terrifying, sad and hopeful. Joy and pain are soldered together, impossible to disconnect. I repeatedly tell Steve I love him and am grateful for his life. I can't stop saying it because I can't stop feeling it.
Steve complains so little about his pain that when it's released, like after Bowen therapy, I realize how unaware I am of his quiet suffering. The same is true for emotional pain, which seeps out unexpectedly. When Steve describes traumatic childhood events that sound like fiction, I call his brother for validation. We carry so much around in our heavy bodies; I long for my husband to feel weightless.
People often ask me how I do it all. The answer is I don't. I do only what I can and I'm well aware of the long list of things I am not doing. This tragedy happened at a challenging developmental time for my children. Payton became a teenager when Steve was in a coma. Aria started middle school, which is essentially the same thing. I am not the present mom I want to be. They feel it and are having their own reactions to it. Meeting everyone's needs is hard.
I am out at night for the first time, a party for middle school moms. The conversation quickly goes dark: drugs, sex, kidnapping.
I cannot fit the terrifying information about what kids are facing into my already overflowing mind.
A tall, beautiful woman with short, curly auburn hair shyly approaches me. She carries me away from the darkness with her charming British accent. She says, "Hi Jenna. My name is Sarah. I've been following your blog. I am so sorry about Steve."
Sarah explains that our daughters were in class together last year and she's made something for Steve but has been afraid to come over. Her blessing is that she distracts me from the tailspin the group conversation tempted me with. Sarah and I get lost in our own conversation, focusing on love versus fear.
It's moments like these - when someone reaches out with a kind word, gives me exactly what I need the moment I need it, sends me the perfect book in the mail - that enables me to get through this wackadoodle life without falling apart.