By Janina Todesca
Matthew Donahue’s feet pound against the ground as he runs. Every step he takes and every drop of sweat that falls, he knows will only make him stronger.
Matthew is training for his dream.
“As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a cop,” Matthew says between gasping for air on the treadmill.
Matthew looked like a cop the week before his physical exam with the Milton, New Hampshire Police. With his hair buzz cut short and his 5’10 rather muscular frame, his body waited to fill out a police uniform.
Matthew sailed through the written police exam a month earlier at the University of New Hampshire campus. Now all that was left before getting a chance at an interview was the physical exam. Matthew has to run one and a half miles in twelve minutes, do thirty-seven pushups in under sixty seconds and thirty-eight sit-ups in under sixty seconds.
If he got through that, he knew he would get the job because at the interview they would see how bad he wanted it.
As Matthew walked toward the exit of the gym he wiped the sweat from his forehead and bent his neck back and forth, displaying a nervous habit he had since childhood. The red-headed girl at the front desk wished him good-luck with a smile and a wave. Matthew waved back, hoping the next time he went back he’d have good news.
Matthew got home in time for a hearty meal with his mom, nana, papa and two older brothers; Terry and Chad.
Chad, a rather husky boy, who had already started eating when Matthew walked in the door, put down his fork to say, “Tomorrow is the big day, huh champ?”
Matthew nodded. He was at ease with his whole family surrounding him; they knew not to ask too much, as to add on any pressure.
“Well if those idiots don’t see how great you are then it’s their loss,” Matthew’s Papa added, “there’s plenty of towns, and plenty of states you can get into, I’m not worried about it.”
Matthew wasn’t either; he knew he was confident and qualified.
He was a twenty-two year old senior at Westfield State College. He would attain his degree in Criminal Justice and Economics with a GPA of 3.8. He worked a part time job in the mail room at Westfield State, went to classes and fulfilled an internship with the United States Postal Inspectors. His record was clean and he could shoot a gun quite well; he’d gotten many compliments at the shooting range that past weekend.
Matthew was confident on a night when he should have felt nervous and insecure.
After dinner Matthew went upstairs to get some well deserved rest after his weeks of training. All he could think about when he laid down in his bed and covered himself with the same pale blue plaid sheets he had since the 7th grade, was how it would be him and the track tomorrow.
The 90 mile drive from his hometown of Westwood to UNH felt only a tenth of that distance. The heat in his 1998 red Ford Ranger wasn’t working but he wasn’t cold. Toby Keith’s song, American Soldier, was blaring from the speakers, two tolls were paid, the blinker was turned on and off many times, and then he arrived.
He parked his truck in the first spot he saw and walked about 100 yards to the track.
He bent to make sure his warn out grey Nike sneakers were double knotted. He stretched his legs out, twisted his neck back and forth, and looked around at the competition. Thirty-five other hopefuls were there, but he was sure they didn’t want it as bad as he did.
Then he saw them: all the officers, including the Milton NH Chief of police, lined up on the side of the track. They were talking amongst themselves, all dressed in uniform.
He got a surge of energy. The internships, the studying, and the sweaty physical training the weeks before this day had faded.
He knew it was just him and the track.
As he lined up with his competition, he took one last deep breath. He stood with his right foot in front of his left, his knees slightly bent, some of his competition crouched close to the ground. Matthew did not crouch, he stood ready, his green eyes focused straight ahead, his dark eye brows turned down in concentration, his arms bent, and fists tight. Then an officer on the sidelines blew a silver whistle, and he started to run four laps in twelve minutes.
Lap one.
He past the officers, “Donahue 1,” only three more to go.
As he ran, Matthew thought about his family, waiting for him at home. He thought about how proud they would be that he was the opposite of his unreliable father who had trouble with the law and hadn’t been in his life since he was six years old.
Lap two.
“Donahue 2,” Matthew felt his legs get heavier, his mouth grow dry. He was thinking about his girlfriend now; how he needed to get this job to start their life together; how happy she would be.
Lap three.
“Donahue 3,” He felt tired. Just then he thought he couldn’t make it.
“Come on Donahue, only one more,” Matthew looked up at an officer who was suddenly rooting for him. He then felt a renewed surge of energy. He would run that last lap for himself; for his dream.
Matthew saw one competitor start vomiting, another falling down, and another quitting.
Lap four.
“Donahue 4,” this was the finish line. He did it. Matthew kept running, he ran in circles, celebrating what he had just achieved. He bent with his hands on his knees and head hanging down, the sweat was dripping from his forehead, and his smile was beaming.
Matthew then got down, nose to the ground, and was able to complete the push-up portion. His arms going from straight to bent, 37 times, in only fifty-six seconds. Then he flipped over, took a few deep breathes, and lay back down on the cold grass, covered in morning dew. He completed the 38 sit-ups, despite the cramps and pain, with five seconds to spare.
As he stood up he shook out his arms and bent his neck back and forth, he knew he had done what he had worked so hard for. Matthew had passed the hardest physical exam he had taken in his whole life; he felt like he was walking on air, just for a moment.
Then Matthew stepped back to reality because he knew what would happen next.
Then the moment he waited for; out of thirty-five hopefuls, fourteen names would be called. Those names filled out interviews, which would then fill the three available spots on the Milton, New Hampshire Police force.
There was few left standing, some sat on the grass gasping for air. Others gulped water between wiping their sweat on their shirts. Then there was Matthew, he stood with his hands on his hips, his green eyes again focused, but this time on the Chief. He knew he had passed everything, but he still had a pit in his stomach.
The Chief stood amongst all the hopefuls and called out the last names of those who had done it.
Donahue was one of them.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Goodbye Until Tomorrow
It was July 3rd, 2009. Bridget Shannon and Shannon Newell, cousins and best friends, were driving home from the Jersey Shore. It was a hot summer day so they drove with the windows down, listening to the finale of Shannon’s favorite musical, The Last Five Years. Bridget texted her sister. She would see her in one hour. Bridget had been visiting Shannon and her family in New Jersey for the past two weeks and Bridget’s family had just arrived to pick them up to take them on the annual family summer vacation. They traveled up Route 55 singing and dancing. Shannon, who had only been driving for a month, looked down to turn up the song "Goodbye Until Tomorrow." She took her eyes off the road. The car drifted over to the rumble strip on the side. Startled by the noise and inexperienced, Shannon grabbed the wheel quickly. She pulled too hard and lost control of the car. They went off the highway, crashing into a tree.
Bridget opened her eyes, glass and branches were everywhere. She could smell pine and sap. The Cheetos they had been eating were all over the car. Her knee hurt. Blood was seeping through her favorite blue sweat pants. She looked over. Shannon was covered in blood and branches, caught between the steering wheel and the tree.
She started to scream.
Shannon and Bridget were born six weeks apart in the summer of 1990. They have been best friends since. Their relationship is hard to define, one that crosses many boundaries. They are more than cousins, almost sisters, but mostly best friends. They share all their secrets and stories and are each other’s most loyal companions. Even though they live 300 miles apart, they make it work. They don’t know any other way. Shannon and her family have spent every Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter in Massachusetts with Bridget and their extended family. Bridget and Shannon had visited each other several times a year since they were 12. But birthdays were special, on their birthdays the made a point to be together. So on June 22, 2009, Bridget flew to New Jersey for Shannon’s birthday the next day. When they picked Bridget up at the airport that night Shannon sent Bridget’s mother, her godmother, a text that read “Thank you for Bridgie!” For the next two weeks together like they would have any other summer, hanging out, shopping, swimming, going to walks to Wa-Wa, a sub shop and convenience store in one that Bridget loves but can only be found in the greater New York area. On July 2 they visited a friend on the Jersey Shore. The next day they would start a week of family time with Bridget’s parents and extended family. July 3 came and they got up early to leave. Bridget sent her sister a text that they were leaving. They would be home in an hour, she said.
Bridget was wrong. Shannon never made it home.
“Somebody help. Somebody please help my cousin!” Bridget screamed as loud as she could.
Paula Vivona was driving behind the girls. She and her husband, Mike, saw the accident, and stopped the car. He called 911 . She ran to the car to help. She couldn’t get to the drivers side. She ran to the passenger window, instead, trying to look inside. She saw the wreckage. She was afraid it was bad. She could see a young woman in the car. She was conscious so Paula tried to keep her calm.
“What hurts?” she asked Bridget.
“It’s my knee and my foot,” Bridget answered, her voice shaking in fear. “Shannon won’t answer me.”
“What is your name?” Paula asked.
“Bridget.”
“That’s a beautiful Irish name. I’m Paula. Just stay calm my husband is right there he is calling for help. Help will be here soon, just look at me.”
“Do you have children?” asked Bridget.
“Yes, five teenagers.”
“Well you must be a very good mom,” said Bridget, smiling almost. “I’m sorry that you had to stop, you’re not going to be late for anything right?”
“No hunny, it is perfectly fine, I’m staying right here just keep looking at me.”
Bridget was scared, not for herself but for Shannon. Her pain was excruciating but talking with Paula kept her mind off it. They waited there together for 15 minutes before ambulances and helicopters arrived, sirens on. The rumble of the two helicopters arriving made it hard for them to hear. The New Jersey State Police used the Jaws of Life to cut the door off to get Bridget. She tried to look back, tried to see Shannon but they put Bridget on the stretcher taking her away to the helicopter. She didn’t need a helicopter. She screamed where were they taking Shannon? Was she going to be okay? The helicopter took off and she started to cry for the first time.
On the ground police and EMTs were using the Jaws of Life to cut off the roof trying to reach Shannon. It wasn’t until the police moved Paula away to saw off the door that she let go of Bridget’s hand just like she promised.
As they put Bridget on the stretcher to take her to the medical helicopter, Paula yelled to her. It was drowned out by sound of the helicopters and the voices of the police and EMTs.
“I just didn’t want her to be alone. She was so brave.”
“She is going to be fine,” said the doctor, his glasses thick on his round face. He stood tall when he spoke, sure of what he was saying. “She has a concussion and the knee was very badly cut but she is going to be okay.”
A wave of relief came over the family as they hugged and cried. Their clothes were slept in and didn’t match. They had not showered.
They stood in the hallway outside the trauma room their loved one was in. The trauma center was busy, the security guard told them it was normal for a holiday weekend. People coming in and out, waiting to hear about their loved ones, calling others to tell them of the latest news. It smelt like blood and bleach at Cooper Trauma Center, the biggest emergency room in New Jersey. The hallway was bright between the lights and sun. There was a small waiting room, now overflowing with people. In the waiting room a television played the Jackie Chan, Chris Rock comedy “Rush Hour.” Others stood around and wait for news but they still watch as this family embraces. They watch as a mother, father, and daughter learn about the youngest member of the family, Bridget. Their accents were wrong for the area, thick and harsh with their Rs missing, putting them out of place. They asked the doctor about the driver.
“Which hospital was she taken to? Why didn’t they call her parents?”
The doctors here have very few answers. She is at Kennedy Hospital in Washington Township. A blonde woman in her late 40s is nearby, overhearing. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop but I heard the doctor say Kennedy Hospital,” says the blonde. The family looks at her. “They only take you there for cuts and bruises that isn’t a serious hospital at all.”
Again the family embraces. The mother sobs, the daughter looks around wondering if she can tell her sister right away. The dad thanks the woman, telling her she has no idea what that means to them. At this moment the dad’s phone rings. It is the mother of the girl who was driving the car. He answers, hopeful while the mother and daughter anxiously wait.
“She didn’t make it,” his sister says on the other side of the phone.
His face says it all. He doesn’t need to repeat it for his family.
“No Susie, No.” is all he replies.
The mother gasps in disbelief. The daughter sinks to the floor. The father can barely speak.
“I’m sitting here with her and she is still warm, but she’s gone.”
It is then that the daughter on the floor looks up at her parents, hoping they have the answer and says, “How are we going to tell Bridget?”
Bridget, ready to be released, comes around the corner, pushed in a wheelchair by a nurse. Suddenly it is clear that Bridget is not lucky. Shannon is many things to this family. She is their godchild, their cousin, their best friend, their confidant, their superstar.
Now she is their tragedy.
Bridget’s suffered a concussion and a badly cut up knee. She was released from the hospital after two hours. It was the least of her trauma. The doctors believed Shannon died on impact. In the following days, Bridget did not want to talk about the accident. She just wanted to grieve the loss of her best friend. She knew how close she was to death but she didn’t die.
She was the survivor.
“So many people told me how lucky I was,” explains Bridget. “Who wants to be the kind of lucky that you watch your best friend die?”
Through those days, she told people about the woman at the car window. The one who stayed with her. She could describe her and what she had said. The stranger who stopped, the stranger her parents called an angel.
Four days after the accident Dan and Carolyn Shannon met Paula. The wake for Shannon was at the neighborhood church where she had been a cantor a summer before, Holy Savior in Westmont, New Jersey. People waited in line for over three hours. About two hours into the wake, a man and a woman reached the casket then they turned to Shannon’s parents.
“You don’t know us but we felt like we had to be here. We stopped at the accident.”
They embraced and quickly rushed over to Dan and Carolyn, Bridget’s parents. It was in that instant the Shannon family and the Vivona family would be bound forever.
“We could not thank you enough, you have no idea what it means to us what you did for our Bridgie,” said Dan, tears in his eyes, as he stood with his wife Carolyn and his oldest daughter.
“You have an incredible daughter and I am so blessed that I got to meet her,” said Paula, crying and holding Bridget’s hand.
The families sat together for over an hour exchanging stories about their lives and where they come from. They talked about their love of their hometown baseball teams, Phillies and Red Sox. They talked about the indescribable relationship that Bridget and Shannon had.
“You are our angel,” sobbed Carolyn.
In a church full of mourning there was just a split second of two families celebrating the cousin who lived.
It has been nine months since the accident. Bridget sits at her desk and reads a Facebook message from Paula.
Paula who was a stay at home mom for twenty years was so traumatized that she couldn’t help at the accident she has enrolled herself and her family for EMT courses. Life is for the living, she realized and has since gone back to school to finally get her degree in nursing that she started years earlier.
She writes to Bridget every once in a while to check on her and see how she is doing. It is a wonderful friendship forged in tragedy, and life.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
No One Understands
By Tara Nolan
Caroline could feel her heart beat with every step that she took as she entered the doors of her high school for the first time. She was anxious and excited to meet new friends at Westford Academy in Massachusetts.
She would try out for the soccer team. She would earn good grades. She would make lots of friends. Then the months passed. Caroline started locking herself in the bathroom and she fought with her mom. She was confused and suffering from depression.
Princeton defines depression as a mental state characterized by a pessimistic sense of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity. Caroline has her own definition:
“Depression is not a phase, a feeling, a bad day, or a ploy or attention. It is an illness.”
It was one thing she couldn’t explain.
“People would ask me why I’m depressed. I had no reason to be. Although certain events can spark depression, depression can arise for no reason at all.”
Caroline’s mother Sue never considered depression even through the fighting with her daughter.
Then things changed. It was August 2004. It was hot and Caroline was at her high school’s soccer tryouts. She wanted to play that fall during her sophomore year but, as she walked onto the field that day, she got anxious. She had her first panic attack.
“It is all-consuming. It takes over my whole body and affects everything I do and it is all I can think about. It just feels like your heart is sinking to the bottom of your stomach.”
Caroline’s mother, Sue, was extremely worried about her and decided that it was time for Caroline to talk to someone. Caroline went through many counselors. At first she refused to speak to them. During her first visit was with an older woman Caroline sat in silence. She was angry, frustrated and sad.
“At the beginning, the concept of counseling was strange and uncomfortable. I had to find who I was most comfortable with.”
Through counseling Caroline felt that she wasn’t being judged and realized that counseling doesn’t make you a weak person. Neither does medication. She began to realize that she had an illness and could not go through it alone. It had to be treated.
After her first visit to the counselor Caroline was put on Lexapro. It is a medicine that is shown to lessen the symptoms of depression in adults and adolescents ages 12 to 17. Although it was showing signs that it was working, finding the right medication is often a long and tedious process because many of them have negative side effects such as nausea, fatigue, and weight gain.
Caroline became extremely irritable. She began to resent others. She was overwhelmed with sadness. It was a struggle for her to get out of bed and go to school. She just wanted to sleep. In the winter of her sophomore year, about four months after beginning to take Lexapro, Caroline overdosed for the first time.
She walked into the bathroom. Her head hung over the sink. Her body trembled but, at the same time, all she felt was numbness. Her pants stuck to the back of her legs, sweaty. She felt beads of perspiration slowly dripping down her spine. She looked in the mirror. She couldn’t recognize the girl staring back at her. Her face was hollow, her eyes sunken and gaunt. Her cheeks were stained, blotchy and red from tears. Her jet black hair was matted back against her head. She was lost. She had never felt so empty and vulnerable. With each racing breath she grew weaker.
“When I overdosed it was as helpless as I’ve ever felt. I just didn’t want to be here anymore.”
Then she was angry. She slammed her sweaty palms onthe counter and screamed. She grabbed the bottle of Lexapro, and one by one forced nine down her throat. She turned the faucet and ran her hands under the cold water. The water ran. It was January 12, 2005. Caroline had given up.
Caroline’s 13-year-old brother Conor was the only person home at the time. He found Caroline in the bathroom unconscious.
“I just remember looking at his face. I never want him to have to go through that again. He’s my little shnooks and I would not be here today if it weren’t for him.”
He called 911 and Caroline was rushed to the hospital. She was hospitalized for a week and then put into group therapies and outpatient programs. Her medication was changed to Wellbutrin and Prozac.
By her junior year of high school, she was feeling good. She wasn’t as irritable and for the first time in a long time she was enjoying life. She didn’t want to keep taking her medicine and pleaded with her mom to let her. Her mother gave in. It was a near fatal mistake. Within a few months, Caroline, now 16 began cutting herself.
“It’s all you think about and you can’t just stop.”
The first time Caroline went into her room and shut the door and sat on her bed. She began to feel clammy and anxious. She looked around her room for something sharp. She would go on to use razors, knives, tweezers, pieces of broken glass, pocket knives, keys , and even the sharp edge on a tape dispenser to cut herself in the future. She saw scissors sitting on her desk. She lifted up her shirt and pulled her pants slightly down. Wincing at the pain she made small cuts into her hips then pushed a little bit harder. The pain was a relief. She calmed down. She finally found something to make her forget the pain that she was feeling on the inside.
Cutting has been something that Caroline struggles with. She hasn’t been able to go four months without doing it at least once. It wasn’t suicide. It was a relief to her. According to Discoveryhealth.com, 72 percent of young people injure themselves by cutting and the majority of them are female. Experts believe that the majority of cutters are female because they tend to internalize anger while males are taught to repress emotion. Whether these facts apply to everyone or not, for Caroline cutting provided relief. In order to stop herself from cutting, she will hold a pen, ice, an orange, or go to someone who will tell her not to do it, like her best friend Lauren.
“Do something for yourself. Figure out what makes you laugh. You need the strength to transform your mind and turn it into something else,” says Caroline.
Caroline still struggles with cutting but, she feels that it is important to find an outlet or a niche that you can turn to in order to help you slowly stop cutting. For her it is her brother, Conor.
By her senior year at Westford Academy, Caroline was still taking Wellbutrin and Prozac. Although she continued to cut she was feeling happy most of the time. Her teachers and guidance counselor were also very accommodating and caring which helped make thing easier for her. However in the spring of 2007, close to her high school graduation, Caroline had her second and worst overdose when she took an entire bottle of Wellbutrin pills. That day is a blur in her mind and she tries to avoid thinking about it at all. Her doctors and family came to the realization that the medicine that Caroline was on was not working. She switched to Seroquel and Prozac and went to therapy more often.
Family and friends are also an important support system for Caroline. Her parents Ken and Sue are amazing advocates for her.
“Just knowing that they’re there to listen and that they don’t pressure me to talk is enough because, eventually I will.”
Following her overdose senior year, things got very bad and Caroline began having panic attacks often. She had been accepted to Stonehill College in Easton, Massachusetts. In her freshman year, however, she was taken out of school for cutting and had to join an out-patient program before she was allowed to return. The school allowed Caroline to come back her sophomore year after she showed progress.
There was a day her freshman year that Caroline had a bad episode cutting. She was sitting on her bed in her dorm room with her keys in hand making slight cuts in her upper arm when one of her friends at the time walked in on her. To this day she has never heard from that person again. Caroline came to realize that true friends are the ones that stick around through hard times and although she has lost a few along the way, she knows that the ones that matter are still here.
“The worst thing that a person could say to me is, ‘I know how you feel.’ If I could give one piece of advice on what to say to someone struggling it would be, ‘I don’t know how you feel, I don’t know what’s going through your head but, I do know that it sucks and I am always here for you to talk to. I will always just be here to listen.’”
Caroline is now a junior in college. She studied abroad in Australia in the fall of 2009 and wants to be a teacher. Depression and cutting will always be an issue for her, she has come to terms with it. She will likely be on medicine for the rest of her life. It has saved her.
In the past year, she spoke at schools and other places across the state of Massachusetts. She hopes that her story will give others strength. After she spoke at a middle school in her hometown of Westford, Massachusetts, Caroline has receieved dozens of letters and emails thanking her and calling her an inspiration for other struggling with depression.
“There are times when I’m so happy and I honestly think I’ve beaten it but, then one day I’ll wake up and feel that pain again. I just have to remind myself that I’ve gotten through it many times before, and I can do it again.”
Caroline could feel her heart beat with every step that she took as she entered the doors of her high school for the first time. She was anxious and excited to meet new friends at Westford Academy in Massachusetts.
She would try out for the soccer team. She would earn good grades. She would make lots of friends. Then the months passed. Caroline started locking herself in the bathroom and she fought with her mom. She was confused and suffering from depression.
Princeton defines depression as a mental state characterized by a pessimistic sense of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity. Caroline has her own definition:
“Depression is not a phase, a feeling, a bad day, or a ploy or attention. It is an illness.”
It was one thing she couldn’t explain.
“People would ask me why I’m depressed. I had no reason to be. Although certain events can spark depression, depression can arise for no reason at all.”
Caroline’s mother Sue never considered depression even through the fighting with her daughter.
Then things changed. It was August 2004. It was hot and Caroline was at her high school’s soccer tryouts. She wanted to play that fall during her sophomore year but, as she walked onto the field that day, she got anxious. She had her first panic attack.
“It is all-consuming. It takes over my whole body and affects everything I do and it is all I can think about. It just feels like your heart is sinking to the bottom of your stomach.”
Caroline’s mother, Sue, was extremely worried about her and decided that it was time for Caroline to talk to someone. Caroline went through many counselors. At first she refused to speak to them. During her first visit was with an older woman Caroline sat in silence. She was angry, frustrated and sad.
“At the beginning, the concept of counseling was strange and uncomfortable. I had to find who I was most comfortable with.”
Through counseling Caroline felt that she wasn’t being judged and realized that counseling doesn’t make you a weak person. Neither does medication. She began to realize that she had an illness and could not go through it alone. It had to be treated.
After her first visit to the counselor Caroline was put on Lexapro. It is a medicine that is shown to lessen the symptoms of depression in adults and adolescents ages 12 to 17. Although it was showing signs that it was working, finding the right medication is often a long and tedious process because many of them have negative side effects such as nausea, fatigue, and weight gain.
Caroline became extremely irritable. She began to resent others. She was overwhelmed with sadness. It was a struggle for her to get out of bed and go to school. She just wanted to sleep. In the winter of her sophomore year, about four months after beginning to take Lexapro, Caroline overdosed for the first time.
She walked into the bathroom. Her head hung over the sink. Her body trembled but, at the same time, all she felt was numbness. Her pants stuck to the back of her legs, sweaty. She felt beads of perspiration slowly dripping down her spine. She looked in the mirror. She couldn’t recognize the girl staring back at her. Her face was hollow, her eyes sunken and gaunt. Her cheeks were stained, blotchy and red from tears. Her jet black hair was matted back against her head. She was lost. She had never felt so empty and vulnerable. With each racing breath she grew weaker.
“When I overdosed it was as helpless as I’ve ever felt. I just didn’t want to be here anymore.”
Then she was angry. She slammed her sweaty palms onthe counter and screamed. She grabbed the bottle of Lexapro, and one by one forced nine down her throat. She turned the faucet and ran her hands under the cold water. The water ran. It was January 12, 2005. Caroline had given up.
Caroline’s 13-year-old brother Conor was the only person home at the time. He found Caroline in the bathroom unconscious.
“I just remember looking at his face. I never want him to have to go through that again. He’s my little shnooks and I would not be here today if it weren’t for him.”
He called 911 and Caroline was rushed to the hospital. She was hospitalized for a week and then put into group therapies and outpatient programs. Her medication was changed to Wellbutrin and Prozac.
By her junior year of high school, she was feeling good. She wasn’t as irritable and for the first time in a long time she was enjoying life. She didn’t want to keep taking her medicine and pleaded with her mom to let her. Her mother gave in. It was a near fatal mistake. Within a few months, Caroline, now 16 began cutting herself.
“It’s all you think about and you can’t just stop.”
The first time Caroline went into her room and shut the door and sat on her bed. She began to feel clammy and anxious. She looked around her room for something sharp. She would go on to use razors, knives, tweezers, pieces of broken glass, pocket knives, keys , and even the sharp edge on a tape dispenser to cut herself in the future. She saw scissors sitting on her desk. She lifted up her shirt and pulled her pants slightly down. Wincing at the pain she made small cuts into her hips then pushed a little bit harder. The pain was a relief. She calmed down. She finally found something to make her forget the pain that she was feeling on the inside.
Cutting has been something that Caroline struggles with. She hasn’t been able to go four months without doing it at least once. It wasn’t suicide. It was a relief to her. According to Discoveryhealth.com, 72 percent of young people injure themselves by cutting and the majority of them are female. Experts believe that the majority of cutters are female because they tend to internalize anger while males are taught to repress emotion. Whether these facts apply to everyone or not, for Caroline cutting provided relief. In order to stop herself from cutting, she will hold a pen, ice, an orange, or go to someone who will tell her not to do it, like her best friend Lauren.
“Do something for yourself. Figure out what makes you laugh. You need the strength to transform your mind and turn it into something else,” says Caroline.
Caroline still struggles with cutting but, she feels that it is important to find an outlet or a niche that you can turn to in order to help you slowly stop cutting. For her it is her brother, Conor.
By her senior year at Westford Academy, Caroline was still taking Wellbutrin and Prozac. Although she continued to cut she was feeling happy most of the time. Her teachers and guidance counselor were also very accommodating and caring which helped make thing easier for her. However in the spring of 2007, close to her high school graduation, Caroline had her second and worst overdose when she took an entire bottle of Wellbutrin pills. That day is a blur in her mind and she tries to avoid thinking about it at all. Her doctors and family came to the realization that the medicine that Caroline was on was not working. She switched to Seroquel and Prozac and went to therapy more often.
Family and friends are also an important support system for Caroline. Her parents Ken and Sue are amazing advocates for her.
“Just knowing that they’re there to listen and that they don’t pressure me to talk is enough because, eventually I will.”
Following her overdose senior year, things got very bad and Caroline began having panic attacks often. She had been accepted to Stonehill College in Easton, Massachusetts. In her freshman year, however, she was taken out of school for cutting and had to join an out-patient program before she was allowed to return. The school allowed Caroline to come back her sophomore year after she showed progress.
There was a day her freshman year that Caroline had a bad episode cutting. She was sitting on her bed in her dorm room with her keys in hand making slight cuts in her upper arm when one of her friends at the time walked in on her. To this day she has never heard from that person again. Caroline came to realize that true friends are the ones that stick around through hard times and although she has lost a few along the way, she knows that the ones that matter are still here.
“The worst thing that a person could say to me is, ‘I know how you feel.’ If I could give one piece of advice on what to say to someone struggling it would be, ‘I don’t know how you feel, I don’t know what’s going through your head but, I do know that it sucks and I am always here for you to talk to. I will always just be here to listen.’”
Caroline is now a junior in college. She studied abroad in Australia in the fall of 2009 and wants to be a teacher. Depression and cutting will always be an issue for her, she has come to terms with it. She will likely be on medicine for the rest of her life. It has saved her.
In the past year, she spoke at schools and other places across the state of Massachusetts. She hopes that her story will give others strength. After she spoke at a middle school in her hometown of Westford, Massachusetts, Caroline has receieved dozens of letters and emails thanking her and calling her an inspiration for other struggling with depression.
“There are times when I’m so happy and I honestly think I’ve beaten it but, then one day I’ll wake up and feel that pain again. I just have to remind myself that I’ve gotten through it many times before, and I can do it again.”
Gene Brumby: From Rehabilitation to Redemption
By Matthew T. Gemme
Gene Brumby stands in front of Hall D the San Diego Convention Center soaking in the sight. Hundreds of Magic: The Gathering players buzz by him as he soaks in the moment. The smell of the Star Bucks coffee kiosk down the hall, the sight of so many of his peers, and the feeling that he’s finally made it here.
For Gene Brumby the trip here has been quite the adventure.
He’s overcome injury, mental anguish, and a sea of people all aiming for his spot.
Gene Brumby is a professional Magic: The Gathering Card player. His living is made by traveling the world and selling and playing cards. He also organizes local tournaments in his hometown Wellington, New Zealand.
For Gene this is his life.
And he’s finally got it back.
***
Saturday August 1, 20009 Gene Brumby looks at the 5 o’clock traffic of the busy Auckland commuters, nothing he hasn’t crossed before. On his way to a friend’s house, Gene makes his way across the street. Then, black.
In a daze Gene Brumby wakes up in a small, three seat plane next to two complete strangers. He doesn’t bother to figure out who they are. He’s handed a pair of headphones, and he’s back asleep.
While crossing the street Gene was struck by a car and his head ended up going through the car’s windshield. He suffered numerous injuries:
Broken Ribs.
Torn Ligament in right knee.
Sprained Ligament in left ankle.
Several skull fractures.
Bones broken in ears.
No hearing in his left ear.
Gene is finally brought to a rehabilitation facility outside of Wellington, New Zealand. He can’t help but notice how much this place reminds him of a prison. For Gene, someone who travels the world for a living, this is not a lifestyle he’s ever been used to. However, this is the lifestyle he’s got to get used to. For the next month and more, this will be Gene’s home.
Everyday Gene hears the same discouraging mantra, "You're not going to be as good at things as you are used to." Trying to stay positive is hard for Gene, who is away from his friends, surrounded by some people who will never get better, and smelling the sterile smell of a hospital. Gene hates that smell.
While he works at getting better the world is moving on without him.
He’s unable to work, which over the course of his stay will cost him $2879.80 NZ. Due to Gene’s business, while he’s away the community suffers. With the prospect of not making money for a month, and a community waiting his return, the stay in rehab was hard for Gene.
Once out of rehab, Gene still wasn’t completely back to normal. What he was told by nurses in rehab always stuck in his mind, “Walk, Crawl, Run.”
Gene wasn’t allowed to work right away, which not only meant not being able to hold local tournaments but also attend national ones as well.
The bulk of Gene’s income would take a hit if he could not make these national tournaments, where he does most of his work.
If Gene was not attending and playing in national tournaments he would lose his Pro Tour eligibility, which made getting to these events much more difficult.
As the months dragged on Gene started feeling better and was not holding small events for the community, but he was unable to attend any large events.
By late September it was becoming more and more certain that Gene would be losing his Pro Tour eligibility for 2010.
He did have an outside chance, however.
On October 10-11, 2009 in Melbourne, Australia there was going to be a large open tournament, with the top 16 contestants gaining Pro Tour eligibility for the first event of the 2010 season. There would also be a Pro Tour Qualifying tournament, with the winner getting eligibility, at the event site on the 11th.
Since Gene holds the Pro Tour qualifiers in his city, he’s not allowed to play in them. This means in order to qualify he needs to fly to other cities to participate in their events.
With little options ahead of him, Gene decided that this weekend was his best chance to qualify.
October 10th couldn’t have come any faster for Gene. However, it also couldn’t have ended any worse. Starting 3-0, Gene only needed to go 4-2 in his next six rounds to make the second day of the event. That wasn’t in the cards.
Gene now only had one more shot at getting back on the Pro Tour, The Pro Tour Qualifier.
Sunday morning Gene arrived at the Melbourne Park Convention Center early. The place was packed with players from all over. The sea of tables held one of the most diverse groups of people he had seen. Japanese players trading cards with Americans, native Australians mixing it up with a group of Germans, and even a few Kiwis (New Zealanders) had made it to the event.
As the tournament began an announcement came from the tournament organizer that there were 155 contestants and there would be eight rounds followed by a top eight playoff.
Walking to the first round Gene remembered the words he had heard in rehab. “You’re not going to be as good at things are you are used to,” and he almost let them get to him.
“Out of all the people here there has to be someone who can beat a guy with brain damage,” he couldn’t help thinking. Gene quickly erased these thoughts; remembering he had been to much bigger tournaments than this.
He drew a deep breath. “I’m going to try my best and win this,” he said to himself.
Eight rounds later, Gene found himself undefeated and playing for the qualifying spot.
By now all of Gene’s confidence is back. He hasn’t lost a round yet and he doesn’t see who possibly can beat him.
The top 8 playoff, three rounds (if you keep winning) of best two out of three games, would prove to be harder for Gene- especially when he lost his first game of the quarter finals.
Gene would rally in two straight games, drawing on himself to player better and getting more consistency out of his deck.
The semis were a breeze; his dreams were now close in reach.
There would be no climactic final match in this tournament, as Gene didn’t want to give his opponent any chance of taking his job, dream, and his life away from him.
After a close first game, which Gene won, he commanded the rest of the match.
His emotions were hard to contain as he ran over, hugging friends and getting high fives.
It took an amateur tournament to show the Pro how much this game meant to him. He was back on the Pro Tour and for him, there was no looking back.
***
Gene gathers himself and begins walking into the hall to look for friends.
No longer is he worried about rehab, getting money, or getting back on the Pro Tour, he’s done all that.
Now Gene looks to the future. To earn the most career Pro points in New Zealand history and to give Pro Tour: San Diego all he’s got.
With what he’s been through, it’s hard to believe he won’t do just that.
Gene Brumby stands in front of Hall D the San Diego Convention Center soaking in the sight. Hundreds of Magic: The Gathering players buzz by him as he soaks in the moment. The smell of the Star Bucks coffee kiosk down the hall, the sight of so many of his peers, and the feeling that he’s finally made it here.
For Gene Brumby the trip here has been quite the adventure.
He’s overcome injury, mental anguish, and a sea of people all aiming for his spot.
Gene Brumby is a professional Magic: The Gathering Card player. His living is made by traveling the world and selling and playing cards. He also organizes local tournaments in his hometown Wellington, New Zealand.
For Gene this is his life.
And he’s finally got it back.
***
Saturday August 1, 20009 Gene Brumby looks at the 5 o’clock traffic of the busy Auckland commuters, nothing he hasn’t crossed before. On his way to a friend’s house, Gene makes his way across the street. Then, black.
In a daze Gene Brumby wakes up in a small, three seat plane next to two complete strangers. He doesn’t bother to figure out who they are. He’s handed a pair of headphones, and he’s back asleep.
While crossing the street Gene was struck by a car and his head ended up going through the car’s windshield. He suffered numerous injuries:
Broken Ribs.
Torn Ligament in right knee.
Sprained Ligament in left ankle.
Several skull fractures.
Bones broken in ears.
No hearing in his left ear.
Gene is finally brought to a rehabilitation facility outside of Wellington, New Zealand. He can’t help but notice how much this place reminds him of a prison. For Gene, someone who travels the world for a living, this is not a lifestyle he’s ever been used to. However, this is the lifestyle he’s got to get used to. For the next month and more, this will be Gene’s home.
Everyday Gene hears the same discouraging mantra, "You're not going to be as good at things as you are used to." Trying to stay positive is hard for Gene, who is away from his friends, surrounded by some people who will never get better, and smelling the sterile smell of a hospital. Gene hates that smell.
While he works at getting better the world is moving on without him.
He’s unable to work, which over the course of his stay will cost him $2879.80 NZ. Due to Gene’s business, while he’s away the community suffers. With the prospect of not making money for a month, and a community waiting his return, the stay in rehab was hard for Gene.
Once out of rehab, Gene still wasn’t completely back to normal. What he was told by nurses in rehab always stuck in his mind, “Walk, Crawl, Run.”
Gene wasn’t allowed to work right away, which not only meant not being able to hold local tournaments but also attend national ones as well.
The bulk of Gene’s income would take a hit if he could not make these national tournaments, where he does most of his work.
If Gene was not attending and playing in national tournaments he would lose his Pro Tour eligibility, which made getting to these events much more difficult.
As the months dragged on Gene started feeling better and was not holding small events for the community, but he was unable to attend any large events.
By late September it was becoming more and more certain that Gene would be losing his Pro Tour eligibility for 2010.
He did have an outside chance, however.
On October 10-11, 2009 in Melbourne, Australia there was going to be a large open tournament, with the top 16 contestants gaining Pro Tour eligibility for the first event of the 2010 season. There would also be a Pro Tour Qualifying tournament, with the winner getting eligibility, at the event site on the 11th.
Since Gene holds the Pro Tour qualifiers in his city, he’s not allowed to play in them. This means in order to qualify he needs to fly to other cities to participate in their events.
With little options ahead of him, Gene decided that this weekend was his best chance to qualify.
October 10th couldn’t have come any faster for Gene. However, it also couldn’t have ended any worse. Starting 3-0, Gene only needed to go 4-2 in his next six rounds to make the second day of the event. That wasn’t in the cards.
Gene now only had one more shot at getting back on the Pro Tour, The Pro Tour Qualifier.
Sunday morning Gene arrived at the Melbourne Park Convention Center early. The place was packed with players from all over. The sea of tables held one of the most diverse groups of people he had seen. Japanese players trading cards with Americans, native Australians mixing it up with a group of Germans, and even a few Kiwis (New Zealanders) had made it to the event.
As the tournament began an announcement came from the tournament organizer that there were 155 contestants and there would be eight rounds followed by a top eight playoff.
Walking to the first round Gene remembered the words he had heard in rehab. “You’re not going to be as good at things are you are used to,” and he almost let them get to him.
“Out of all the people here there has to be someone who can beat a guy with brain damage,” he couldn’t help thinking. Gene quickly erased these thoughts; remembering he had been to much bigger tournaments than this.
He drew a deep breath. “I’m going to try my best and win this,” he said to himself.
Eight rounds later, Gene found himself undefeated and playing for the qualifying spot.
By now all of Gene’s confidence is back. He hasn’t lost a round yet and he doesn’t see who possibly can beat him.
The top 8 playoff, three rounds (if you keep winning) of best two out of three games, would prove to be harder for Gene- especially when he lost his first game of the quarter finals.
Gene would rally in two straight games, drawing on himself to player better and getting more consistency out of his deck.
The semis were a breeze; his dreams were now close in reach.
There would be no climactic final match in this tournament, as Gene didn’t want to give his opponent any chance of taking his job, dream, and his life away from him.
After a close first game, which Gene won, he commanded the rest of the match.
His emotions were hard to contain as he ran over, hugging friends and getting high fives.
It took an amateur tournament to show the Pro how much this game meant to him. He was back on the Pro Tour and for him, there was no looking back.
***
Gene gathers himself and begins walking into the hall to look for friends.
No longer is he worried about rehab, getting money, or getting back on the Pro Tour, he’s done all that.
Now Gene looks to the future. To earn the most career Pro points in New Zealand history and to give Pro Tour: San Diego all he’s got.
With what he’s been through, it’s hard to believe he won’t do just that.
Caitlin's Twenty-Six Mile Journey
Running For Something
Caitlin arrived in Hopkinton, where the race commences, at 9. Hopkinton, MA is a quite, suburban town, of just under 15,000 people. Residents often joke that in Hopkinton “Everyone knows your name.” However, on the day of the race, Hopkinton is a bustling with thousands of runners.
According to the Boston Athletic Association there are 26,735 numbered runners—those who qualified in a previous race accredited by the B.A.A. or those who raised a specific amount for charity can receive numbers and are considered can register for a number. Although the B.A.A. discourages “bandit” runners—runners without numbers—nearly 15,000 run the race every year.
Caitlin is a bandit runner. In lieu of a number, she sports the Kelly green, tie-dye t-shirt she wore for Stonehill College’s spring weekend festivities. The shirt represents her house of twelve of her closest girl friends, all of whom donned the t-shirt throughout the weekend. On the front, in big bold typeface, the shirt reads These Are My People. It’s wrinkled, stained and still smells of beer.
With nearly two hours to spare before the bandit runners cross the starting line, Caitlin makes her way through the crowds of runners. She is a tiny green speck, in a sea of thousands. Although many have come alone to the race, like Caitlin, others run in groups—representing schools, causes, charities and organizations. Some run in remembrance of individuals—for mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends, cousins. Their uniform reflects what they are running for.
Then there are those people who don’t need a uniform to showcase their motivations for running the marathon. Among the bandits—countless blind runners, running with guides, wheelchair runners, accompanied by runners pushing them, and other physically impaired competitors.
“That was the coolest thing to see during the race,” says Caitlin, “all of these people who are clearly running for something… I wish I was doing that.”
Although Caitlin’s shirt doesn’t advertise her cause, it’s not to say she doesn’t have one.
Caitlin is running for herself.
“I wanted to do it because I broke up with my boyfriend of three years,” she says, “I just needed to get out of this rut I’ve been in. I needed to do something for me. And so I did this.”
Caitlin, already a runner, decided to run in the Boston Marathon late January. Prior to her training—in which she followed a sixteen week marathon preparation workout—she had never run more than thirteen miles at a time.
The Boston Marathon route is 26 miles, 385 yards and crosses through seven towns—Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, Newton and Brookline—and ends in Boston, on Boylston Street.
During training Caitlin ran at most, twenty miles. She will rely on adrenaline and willpower for the remaining 6.2 of the marathon.
At 10 Caitlin does some warm up jogs and stretches; she rips open a packet of orange Gu—a 100 calorie gelatin shot of electrolytes and caffeine meant to boost the body before physical activity—and gulps it down. She keeps moving to warm her muscles.
At 10:30 she situates herself among the huge crowd of bandits; she chooses a spot at the end to allow herself more space.
Other runners chat with friends and relatives whom they’ve come with. Caitlin is alone among this crowd of nearly 40,000, with only her thoughts to keep her company.
At 10:47 she crosses the starting line.
A Familiar Face
Nine miles in, Caitlin is doing as well as she expected. She’s keeping a steady pace, slow enough that she hasn’t exhausted herself, but fast enough to finish the race at her projected goal time: four hours. She’s warm now, hot even, and has removed her long sleeve shirt and tied it around her waist.
The day is perfect for the race. It’s sunny, 65 degrees—warm enough to combat the windiness of the city. Spectators line every part of the route, yell encouraging words, and pass out water, bananas and oranges.
Despite being alone, Caitlin feels confident in the company of the crowd. They both push her to keep going and act as judges to ensure she doesn’t stop.
Caitlin sees a former student, friend of friends, Dan Wilkins, who graduated from Stonehill a year earlier.
“Hey!” she says, “You…” She pauses to try and remember his name.
“Dan,” he replies, “Caitlin, right? I’m so glad to see someone I know.”
“Me too. I’ve been by myself this whole time. Were you running with someone?”
“Yeah, my friend Keri, but she has a number.”
Caitlin and Dan chat for the duration of the ninth mile. Caitlin has increased her pace to match Dan’s. His 6’2’’ frame enables his long legs to move faster; Caitlin is practically sprinting at this point.
At the beginning of the tenth mile, Caitlin feels her energy start to drain. Her legs cramps up and she falters for air. Although she wishes she could stay with Dan, a familiar running partner, she knows she has to slow down.
“Dan, go ahead of me,” she says exhaustedly, “I have to slow down.”
“Okay. It was nice seeing you and good luck with rest of the race.”
He sprints ahead, disappearing into the crowd.
Slowing down to a walk, Caitlin tries to catch her breath. She walks off to a water stand at the side of the road to rehydrate. After gulping down a cup, she jogs slowly ahead before arriving at an underpass free of spectators.
There, Caitlin takes a moment to pause. She stretches out her legs, knees, arms. She takes a few deep breaths and thinks about the pace she’ll need to set to get herself back on track.
All of a sudden she feels a pat on the back.
“You’re doing great,” a short, elderly man shouts at her as he runs by.
The man, Caitlin notices, wears the number M-75 on his back. The older contestants wear either an F, for female, or M, for male, in addition to the number that reflects their age.
She shouts a half-hearted, “thanks,” as he runs by her, this man nearly four-times her age.
At that, Caitlin continues the race.
Heartbreak Hill
When Caitlin Kelly reached the last of the Newton Hills, also known as Heartbreak Hill, she thought she was going to have to stop.
Located halfway between the twentieth and twenty-first mile of the Boston Marathon, in the middle of Boston College’s Newton Campus, Heartbreak Hill is where many runners hit a wall. The hill is an ascent of over 0.4 miles and the most difficult of the Newton Hills. Until that point, runners are accustomed to the route’s steady downhill trend.
For the 114th Boston Marathon, B.C. students are lining Commonwealth Avenue, creating two moving walls of maroon and yellow. They are drunk and merry, celebrating what one B.C. student, senior Vlad Georgescu, calls, “the best day of the year,” Marathon Monday. This section of the race is just as famous for its student onlookers as it is for that notorious, last hill. They scream, chant and cheer throughout the duration of the race.
They cheer for Caitlin Kelly as she slowly makes her way up the hill.
“Go Kate! You’re almost there!”
Before the race started, Caitlin wrote her first name on the back of her Kelly green, tie-dye t-shirt at the suggestion of another runner; an older woman and veteran bandit runner.
“Trust me,” the woman said “You want them to know your name.”
Now, as Caitlin struggles to keep running up Heartbreak Hill, she could not have agreed more. She shook with exhaustion. Her legs felt like two stone pillars. Her knees ached. She was covered in sweat.
“I wanted to stop so badly. I didn’t think I had it in me to keep going” she would say later.
That’s when the B.C. students turned their attention to Caitlin—the lone, worn-out runner; the green among the maroon and gold.
“They must have seen me slow down. I looked miserable, so I’m sure they saw that on my face too.”
Faceless voices from among the crowd started chanting Caitlin’s name, cheering her on as if she was one of their own. The voices were loud, plentiful and filled with urgency.
“Come on Cait!”
“Let’s go Cait!”
“Move your ass! You can do it!”
“Let’s go girl!”
Caitlin, hearing her voice ring out from the sidelines, got her momentum back. At their urging she continued. She gradually picked up her pace from a slow walk, to a power walk, to a light jog and finally, to a run.
Crossing the Line
As Caitlin approaches the last mile of the marathon, taking a left onto Boylston Street, she is filled with relief and excitement. At this point the finish line is well within her reach. She knows she’s going to finish.
However, in her excitement, she forgets that she must still run the long, quarter-mile stretch of Boylston before she’s done. There’s work to do yet.
Heart beating loudly in her chest, legs and feet throbbing, sweat pouring off her body, Caitlin strides toward the finish line. It’s in sight now, as is a massive crowd of families and friends waiting to congratulate their runners. Caitlin’s family waits for her in the crowd, her parents Aileen and Robert and her brother Matthew drove down from New Hampshire to support her. Her friends are waiting as well—Emily Gabree, Vanessa Marchica, Jill Eid, Caitlin Nunan, Chrissy Slyne and Marissa Zimmell—all fellow seniors and housemates.
With her family and friends in mind, and the finish line just a few feet ahead, Caitlin starts sprinting to finish the race. She’s more than ready to be done.
At 3:02 Caitlin crosses the finish line. Her time is four hours and fifteen minutes.
Immediately, a marathon volunteer comes over and wraps a space blanket around Caitlin—a lightweight shiny, metallic blanket that reflects 90% of a person’s radiated body heat—to keep her muscles warm and to prevent cramping.
“Congratulations!” she tells Caitlin.
Among the crowds Caitlin can’t find her family or her friends. She’s fifteen minutes ahead of her predicted finish time and is worried that she won’t find anyone.
She walks over to a police officer and asks to borrow his phone; he’s friendly and hands it to her. She calls her mother, who answers and arranges to meet her outside of a parking garage close by. Then she calls Vanessa’s number and tells her the same.
Caitlin thanks the police officer and walks toward the garage.
Along the way she sees other runners who’ve found their families and friends. She sees an older man look searchingly into the crowd who spots his wife and young son. They rush to each other; they hug, kiss, and cry. Caitlin is also almost moved to tears at the sight of them.
“Cait!” she hears someone scream, “Cait! Over here!”
It’s Vanessa, and the rest of her friends, who swarm her.
“We’re so proud of you!”
“We love you!”
They drown her in compliments.
Then her mother, father and brother join the crowd. They hug her and issue similar warm words of praise and astonishment. Caitlin’s mother hugs her again and both she and Caitlin start to cry.
One of her friends, Chrissy, asks her, “So Cait, what is it like to run twenty-six miles?”
“It’s crazy,” she says, “It feels good, but I’m glad I’m done.”Friday, November 22, 1963
It was 12:45 on a Friday afternoon as Mary sat in Saint Augistine church surrounded by all her classmates from Minter Elementary School. Her stomach was in a knot and her palms were so sweaty she could hardly hold her prayer beads. Unlike a normal mass or service, not a single child misbehaved. Everyone, including Mary, knelt in front of the pew and prayed. Over the loud sobs of the nuns, the packed Church prayed the rosary aloud as they hoped and prayed for good news. Ten minutes after the prayer session began, faint pitter patter of shoes could be heard coming from the back of the church. A woman was jogging towards the front of the church. She ran down the aisle of the church with handkerchief in her hand, running to Sister Alicia, and leaning in to whisper news into her ear. Sister Alicia, the head nun and principal, looked around the Church at the sea of students.
In a shaky and broken voice she announced “President Kennedy has been pronounced dead. Everybody must take their belonging as return home. The school buses are waiting outside and you will be taken directly home. Quickly! Gather your belongings.”
Mary was overcome by fear. Why would anyone want to kill the president? Why would anyone want to hurt America? Many unanswered question ran through her mind. It had seemed like such a normal Friday morning.
Friday November, 22, 1963 Mary Feldman woke up around 7 a.m. for school. She shuffled to the bathroom with heavy eyes, washed her face and brushed her teeth catching a slight glimpse of the overcast weather the hung in the sky outside. She walked back to her bedroom and picked out a jumper and stockings to wear to school. At Minster Elementary school girls were not allowed to wear pants or shorts regardless to the freezing winter conditions. After she combed her hair she hopped down the stairs to the kitchen and packed breakfast for school. Everyone in Minster Elementary had to attend 8:30 Mass and it was frowned upon by the Church if you ate before communion. So like every morning, Mary packed her favorite breakfast, a bacon sandwich. As she placed the sandwich in her backpack her tummy began to grumble. She ignored it and hustled to the front door to meet her brother and sister before catching the bus.
Growing up in the town of Minster, Ohio, being a Catholic was not just a religion, it was a lifestyle. With a town population under 700, every member of the small town belonged to the same church, St. Augistine. And on January 20, 1961 when President John F. Kennedy was sworn in as the 35th president, the town of Minster, Ohio couldn’t have been happier. Kennedy was the first Catholic president the United States had ever elected. He was young, voted into office at the age of 43, and seemed like your everyday man.
Mary hopped off the school bus and said goodbye to Mr.Wieging, the bus driver who smoked a wooden pipe every morning on the 30 minute bus ride to school. She walked through the front doors of the school and down the tan halls to her classroom. Heat poured out of the classrooms as she walked by. As she entered her room, she greeted her classmates and shoved her brown leather book bag and winter coat in her cubby and took her seat. She had prime real estate in the 3rd grade classroom, second desk from the door in the second row, located just close enough to grab good place in line on the way to the cafeteria and church. She had a great view of the chalk board and the bulletin board above it which usually had an arrangement of seasonal decorations. In the center of the bulletin board were two framed photos, one of Jesus Christ and to his right President Kennedy.
The day proceeded as normal, the class filed out of the room following their teacher, Sister Generosa, down the hallway to morning mass. Sister Generosa was a manly woman. She stood about 6 feet 2 inches with a slight mustache and wire rim classes. Mary guessed she was about 45 years old but it was almost impossible to know for sure. Every day she wore a grey skirt that hit mid shin, a white collared shirt, tucked in with a grey wool cape overtop with her habit covering all of her hair. She had a large silver cross, about four inches long, which hung from her neck and swung like a pendulum. Mary noticed when sister Generosa became nervous or overwhelmed she rubbed the cross like a lucky rabbit’s foot; sometimes even giving it a slight kiss. The class sat through morning Mass and went about the day as if it were no different than the rest.
While Mary finished her peanut butter and jelly sandwich around 12:45, an announcement came over the PA system. The wooden speaker located above the door of the classroom crackled a bit before the voice of the principle Alicia (better known to the students as Big Al) came over the loud speaker.
In a broken and shaken voice, Sister Alicia began to speak, “There has been an announcement th- th- that at 12:30 this afternoon, our President, President Kennedy was shot in Dallas, Texas and is bein-ng rushed to the hospital. Sis-sisters, please escort all students to the Church for an afternoon of prayer.” Mary looked up to see her manly, brawny and normally stern teacher begin to sob. The faint sobs turned louder and soon enough her teacher was inconsolable. Sister Generosa turned to the cork board and, gazing at the photograph of the president, she grabbed the cross around her neck and began to rub it. She pray the “Our Father” out loud.
She pulled a large dinner napkin size handkerchief from her cape and began to sob into it, blowing her nose and honking. She quickly turned around and ordered the class to gather their things and line up in front of the door.
At this point Mary was numb. She got up from her desk and walked into the coat room. From inside she could still hear Sister Generosa sobs and honks. She looked around the classroom to see how others were reacting. Confusion and panic began to build in and the children. They hustled to the door of the classroom. Buttoned up in coats and hats, the 3rd grade class walked down the hall towards the front entrance of the school, passing classrooms where other students were also rushing to gather their belongings.
Sister Generosa, still sobbing, held open the door for her class. They brusquely walked across the playground and into the back entrance of the church. The smell of old incense filled the air. The church was about half full; more classes still hadn’t arrived. Sister Generosa’s class filtered into two pews as they had done hours earlier she told them to kneel and pray.
Mary’s was filled with questions. Why anyone would want to shoot the president?
He was Catholic, handsome, young, and had a family. It was absurd for anyone to harm him. In fact, the only person Mary had ever known to be intentionally shot was Abraham Lincoln and that was in 1865. The faint sound of puttering feet filled the echoing heights of the church. Mary prayed on her homemade rosary beads, her mind wondered. Would there be a war? Would her parents cry? Would others die just like President Kennedy? The puttering feet grew closer and closer.
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