A year ago this April my hometown of Boston was attacked. D and I had been living in SF for eight months and I was sad to be missing the marathon for the first time in a long time. We used to live on the course at mile 23, and hosted a viewing party every year. I was at work when I got a text from my sister. Miss your marathon parties. :( I texted back, Me too :(
Almost an hour later, she texted again. Explosions at the finish line. Is everyone you know who ran it ok??
I spent the rest of the day Googling and following the news. The confusion quickly gave way to horror. We waited anxiously to hear from D’s brother and our friends who were there. At home, I switched on the TV and familiar places lit up the screen. I watched that downtown stretch of Boylston Street, a scene of celebration and personal victory, a scene I knew so well, explode into chaos. People screaming. Blood all over the sidewalk. Body parts littering the street. I watched it over and over and over. I could not stop crying.
Three nights later, news of a shooting at MIT flickered across the screen. Then a carjacking in Allston. A car chase into the suburbs. The MIT police officer pronounced dead. A firefight in the middle of Watertown. The entire city of Boston and surrounding towns going into lockdown. I remember wondering if the world were about to end. Somewhere in all this, it became clear that these were the activities of the marathon bombers. We spent hours glued to the TV and the internet, getting annoyed as CNN mispronounced the names of familiar towns and streets. The lockdown stretched into the next day, a Friday. I spent the workday following the events, unable to think of anything else. Shortly after 5:30PM Pacific time, the suspect was apprehended and taken into custody.
After four harrowing days, I exhaled. The city of Boston exhaled. And then there was celebration. Crowds came pouring out of their homes in the middle of the night and gathered at the finish line and in Boston Common to pay tribute to the people who had been injured and killed, the heroes who came to their aid, the medical professionals who cared for them, and the police who captured the bombers. D and I and some friends visiting from Boston had a big drink and celebrated along with them from SF.
That was the weekend Mila was conceived. A week later, I went home and visited the finish line myself, as her cells divided secretly inside me. I chose to think of her conception as a sign of hope. A light in the darkness. Good triumphing over evil.
Now it's a year later, an April later. Boston is gearing up for the marathon again. Mila should be 3 months old. But Mila is gone, and it is so, so dark.
This morning I made the mistake of looking through old pictures on my phone. I saw months and months of belly pictures scroll by, and I actually smiled. After the very last belly picture, which showed me standing in our kitchen and smiling on December 22nd, the belly pictures suddenly gave way to a screenshot of a list of funeral homes. I’d forgotten that was there.
I wanted to throw my phone across the room. These last few weeks, I thought I was doing okay. I’ve been downright cheerful. But watching her life end like that on the tiny screen of my phone made me realize I still, still cannot believe she is dead. She is supposed to be here. This wasn't supposed to happen.
I’ve done a lot of thinking about what I want our lives to look like in a year, and have been thinking about ways to make my work schedule more accommodating of a family in the near future. It’s scary, thinking about making choices that are not career-maximizing. I’ve never made those choices before. Today that started to get to me. What am I doing, looking for working mom hours, when I don’t even have a baby to look after? It’s hard not to feel very, very bad about myself. Lame. Unambitious. Stupid. Can't hack it, can’t do anything right.
This afternoon I was sitting in my parked car and came across this photography/film project to honor the one-year anniversary of the Boston Marathon bombing on April 15. The photographer, Robert Fogarty, photographed and filmed the survivors coming back to the finish line. I read some of the interview quotes; they were beautiful.
My message is “Still Standing.” I wrote still standing because the bombers hurt me—they took my legs—but I can still stand on them.
I’m still standing.
This is the first time that I was back at the finish line. I had never been back, and this was about reclaiming it. That finish line has been a negative space since the marathon. This was about reclaiming that space in a positive way. I chose to be there. I took back control. I chose to do this and the heck with everybody else. Celeste Corcoran
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I think that the experience of losing my leg has made me become more compassionate, so I may have less of a leg now, but I think my heart is bigger because of it. Heather Abbott
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We have deformities to our bodies, but I think it makes us stronger to be so open with it. I think it’s part of our therapy to get through what happened to us. Roseann Sdoia
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I read a quote, and it said “Never be ashamed of a scar. That it only means you are stronger than what tried to hurt you.” And it really resonated with me. I am strong, and this is just a little token. Lee Ann Yanni
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“Love this life” has been my motto since the bombing. I spent a lot of time prior to the bombing always seeking out the next thing in my career and putting the majority of my focus on finding the right career for myself and on school. I didn’t always take time to focus on those around me —my family and friends, the ones who I’d want to spend my last days with. Since the bombing, I’ve decided to spend each day as if it were my last. This to me means focusing on and acting more graciously to all of those around me. It also means spending as much time with friends and family as possible and viewing those I love as the center of my universe. Brittany Loring
I started the video, and as I watched it, I sat in the car and cried.
Keep running. Boston Strong.
Dear World, a love letter from Boston marathon bombing survivors. from Dear World on Vimeo.
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