just been three of us severely injured, instead of two.
Her father had been quoted in the newspaper a few days after the bombing saying she was “angry and depressed.” It was no doubt true. We all felt angry and depressed. Sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes both. But now Remy was conflicted about that, too.
“I’m embarrassed,” she confided to Erin. “Why should I be struggling when other people have it so much worse?”
Knowing Remy, she’s probably embarrassed that I’m writing about this. But she shouldn’t be, because her feelings are normal. That’s what I’ve come to realize. Feeling guilty—whether about being lucky or about not stopping the bomber—is normal. So is embarrassment. I still feel embarrassed every day because I don’t have legs. So is feeling traumatized. Being twenty feet from a bomb instead of two doesn’t make it easy.
We didn’t talk about that, though. There was no need. We talked about our lives. Our recoveries. Our families.
“Are you part of the family?” a nurse had asked Michele’s boyfriend when she found them together in her room on the second day.
“No,” he said. “This is our fifth date.”
“It wasn’t easy having my boyfriend put me on the bedside commode for our fifth date,” Michele told us with a laugh.
Before the bombing, she hadn’t been using the word boyfriend . Now, she relied on him. Like Erin and me, they were closer because of what they’d been through. I don’t know if that’s a natural reaction to tragedy: to move toward someone, if they don’t pull away.
I tend to think tragedy gives you perspective. When I was lying in my emergency room bed with no legs, staring at the ceiling, I had to ask myself: What do I want now? What do I care about?
When I am in pain, who makes me feel better? Who can I be honest with, without being afraid of their reaction? The answer always came up Erin.
I felt better when she was there, so much so that the only photograph in my hospital room was of her. It was a cell phone shot I’d taken in Washington, D.C., a close-up of the two of us pressed together and smiling. I taped it to my IV stand so I would see it every time I opened my eyes.
That day with Michele and Remy was important, especially for Erin. With the four of us together, I think she felt her own wound healing. Damage had been done, but the essential parts of her life had not been lost. She still had her family and friends. She still had her handsome man. The world she had made for herself had been blown off center, sure, but she was stronger because of what we’d been through.
Someone snapped a picture of the four of us that day. There are at least a dozen pictures of the four of us together, spread out over the last year and a half, but that picture is my favorite. Michele’s in bed with her leg in a walking boot. Remy is standing to one side of her, and Erin is sitting on the bed on her other side. I’m beside Erin, in my wheelchair, with my mandolin, ready to play.
And we’re smiling. Not photograph smiles, but genuine smiles, like we’re about to start laughing. It looks like we’re having a good time.
Unbreakable . That was the word Michele’s father used. He told her, “I feel like, because of what we’ve been through, our family is unbreakable.”
I think it was the same for the four of us. I hope we always stay that way.
15.
S paulding was… I want to say it was a community, because that was where the bombing victims came together. We had been spread out at the five hospitals near downtown Boston, but most of us eventually ended up at Spaulding. Not all of us, of course. I only saw the daughter from the Richard family once, for instance, even though she lost a leg. That family had suffered like nobody else: the mother had eye damage, the little girl lost her leg, and poor Martin Richard, who was eight years old, was killed. I saw his older brother once, and it broke my heart. He was the saddest kid I have
Her father had been quoted in the newspaper a few days after the bombing saying she was “angry and depressed.” It was no doubt true. We all felt angry and depressed. Sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes both. But now Remy was conflicted about that, too.
“I’m embarrassed,” she confided to Erin. “Why should I be struggling when other people have it so much worse?”
Knowing Remy, she’s probably embarrassed that I’m writing about this. But she shouldn’t be, because her feelings are normal. That’s what I’ve come to realize. Feeling guilty—whether about being lucky or about not stopping the bomber—is normal. So is embarrassment. I still feel embarrassed every day because I don’t have legs. So is feeling traumatized. Being twenty feet from a bomb instead of two doesn’t make it easy.
We didn’t talk about that, though. There was no need. We talked about our lives. Our recoveries. Our families.
“Are you part of the family?” a nurse had asked Michele’s boyfriend when she found them together in her room on the second day.
“No,” he said. “This is our fifth date.”
“It wasn’t easy having my boyfriend put me on the bedside commode for our fifth date,” Michele told us with a laugh.
Before the bombing, she hadn’t been using the word boyfriend . Now, she relied on him. Like Erin and me, they were closer because of what they’d been through. I don’t know if that’s a natural reaction to tragedy: to move toward someone, if they don’t pull away.
I tend to think tragedy gives you perspective. When I was lying in my emergency room bed with no legs, staring at the ceiling, I had to ask myself: What do I want now? What do I care about?
When I am in pain, who makes me feel better? Who can I be honest with, without being afraid of their reaction? The answer always came up Erin.
I felt better when she was there, so much so that the only photograph in my hospital room was of her. It was a cell phone shot I’d taken in Washington, D.C., a close-up of the two of us pressed together and smiling. I taped it to my IV stand so I would see it every time I opened my eyes.
That day with Michele and Remy was important, especially for Erin. With the four of us together, I think she felt her own wound healing. Damage had been done, but the essential parts of her life had not been lost. She still had her family and friends. She still had her handsome man. The world she had made for herself had been blown off center, sure, but she was stronger because of what we’d been through.
Someone snapped a picture of the four of us that day. There are at least a dozen pictures of the four of us together, spread out over the last year and a half, but that picture is my favorite. Michele’s in bed with her leg in a walking boot. Remy is standing to one side of her, and Erin is sitting on the bed on her other side. I’m beside Erin, in my wheelchair, with my mandolin, ready to play.
And we’re smiling. Not photograph smiles, but genuine smiles, like we’re about to start laughing. It looks like we’re having a good time.
Unbreakable . That was the word Michele’s father used. He told her, “I feel like, because of what we’ve been through, our family is unbreakable.”
I think it was the same for the four of us. I hope we always stay that way.
15.
S paulding was… I want to say it was a community, because that was where the bombing victims came together. We had been spread out at the five hospitals near downtown Boston, but most of us eventually ended up at Spaulding. Not all of us, of course. I only saw the daughter from the Richard family once, for instance, even though she lost a leg. That family had suffered like nobody else: the mother had eye damage, the little girl lost her leg, and poor Martin Richard, who was eight years old, was killed. I saw his older brother once, and it broke my heart. He was the saddest kid I have
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