18 years ago.
Such vivid memories of that day. I was 8 and a half months pregnant. Another
woman in my office was expecting as well, and our coworkers hosted a joint baby
shower for us that day. We were busy at
work all morning, and then drove over at lunch for the party. For some reason,
I didn’t listen to the radio on the way, but some people did, and that’s how we
found out. Word spread like wildfire throughout the guests at the shower. Surrounded
by the hope and excitement of new life, but faced with the devastation and
grief of loss only three hours north on I-35.
News was sketchy at first, but it was very quickly evident
that it was no ordinary act of terrorism.
The daycare in the Murrah Building made this attack even more
horrifying. The victims were true innocents. It was inconceivable that someone
could do this. 168 people, children and adults, were killed that day, hundreds
more injured.
My manager begged me not to watch the news coverage, for
fear that it would be too much for me to handle, that it might send me into
early labor. And so I avoided it, something that I am sure I would not be able
to do today, in this age of twitter and instant news accessible on the radio,
on TV, and delivered to the palms of our hands. I heard the stories, but I didn’t
see the video until years later, when on the 10th anniversary of the
bombing I finally brought myself to watch. The passing of the years did not
make the footage any easier to bear.
I first saw the memorial, with the 168 chairs in a field of
grass, next to the reflecting pool, across from the Survivor Tree, when I ran
the marathon for the first time in 2010. So many chairs. So many little chairs.
That day was a test of will and determination for me, as I was injured before I
even started the race, having fallen over a fence trying to get into the corrals.
But what kept me going that day was thinking of those chairs. And the lives
that they represent.
This has been a horrible week in so many ways. Senseless attacks
at the finish line at the most revered marathon in the country, a tragic
explosion in small-town Texas, events that alone would shatter our peace and
our sense of security. But coming within days of each other, days apart from
the anniversary of the Oklahoma City killings, I think instead, these attacks
and tragedies ultimately end up bringing us closer, strengthening our resolve,
uniting us across Texas and across the country. It’s how we work.
18 years ago, after we left that baby shower, emotionally
drained from confronting the fear and devastation wrought from the act of
terrorism, my coworker went home, then went to the hospital and gave birth to
her daughter. One month later, my son
was born.
Out of darkness comes light and hope.
Oklahoma City. 9-11. Boston. West, Texas. Next week, I Run
to Remember.
