I spend most of my life on the proverbial fence. So when I actually (try to) go all in I am always clunky and awkward. I over explain. I definitely lack finesse. I get so nervous that I lose my train of thought. It is true. I am so not cool. Consequently, when I decide to speak up or stand up, my words and actions often result in an unfortunate mess of hurt feelings, tears and confusion (yours and mine).
Today I would like to thank Dave. After I tried to go “all in,” he suggested I go back to bed. When I suggested that my string of words were my attempt to hold my ground, he cynically responded,
“As if you ever having a problem speaking up for yourself.”
I have not spoken since. I have sent him three emails. He has not responded. He is sitting maybe ten feet away. We still haven’t spoken. Maybe that is where I will remain.
I hate fighting. And today, Dave and I fought. Our fight was dumb — really. And in my attempt to resolve misunderstanding, I made it worse (of course). And of course I take all responsibility for things going sideways. I always do. I think that stems from my abandonment issues. Thank you dad!
I am alone. I feel all alone. I do not want to be alone. And because I do not want to be alone, I accommodate. I want you to like me. I do not think that is so bad. See, I hate being mad. I hate when people hate me. And because I hate being hated, I safely remain fence-bound.
Running and thinking I look like a zombie. Maybe I am.
Truth is I think this whole accommodating-sitting-on-the-fence thing is killing me. In all aspects of my life (religion, family, friends, you name it), I firmly sit on the fence. I give people way too much power. And years of giving you my power has left me with nothing. I am vacant.
As a result, my bottom is bruised (from the fence posts) and I have been depressed. I am usually not depressed. In fact, most of the time, the fence actually works. Yet, for the past month the fence has only caused me discomfort. Like I said, I have been depressed. In my attempt to swim to the surface, I keep writing. I keep trying to post what I write, and then I feel foolish for ever thinking my words should see the light of day. It is so weird. And because I wonder if a public forum is the right place for these words, I have done the more sane and practical thing: I have spoken to Dave and a few close friends about being depressed. Additionally (and because this is not my first dark rodeo), each day I walk and run. In some ways exercising away the sad has worked. In fact, yesterday I did yard work. I even forced Dave and Eli to join me. We worked for hours and ended our work with laughter.
But after fighting with Dave I feel blue (again). Sure, I realize that I could medicate my sorrow. I have medicated my sorrow before. Antidepressants do work. That being said, no antidepressant or therapist will ameliorate my compelling need to please, or better, my compelling need to not disappoint. Oddly, through all of it, I somehow think, I, myself, have the power to resolve all conflicts, make all people love me, and to make it all better. If I serve and help away the sad, I will be ok, right? Wrong.
Bottom line is this: until I force myself off of the fence, I will not (consistently) feel good about me. Until I force myself to stand up for Beth (not just talk loud and say a lot of words), my feelings will keep getting hurt. Better, I will let things that should not be such a big deal be a big deal. I get it. My self-esteem should be tethered to my heart and not a fence post.
I only have me. Dave will be mad or not mad. I cannot change Dave. I can love Dave. In fact, 99% of the time Dave is my greatest champion.
Dave usually bikes along while I run. I really enjoy doing this together.
Ultimately I believe the way out of my pain is actually to go all in and feel a shitload of pain. I need to realize that I will make you mad. I will be clunky. I will lose my train of thought. I will embarrass you. I will ask you questions you do not want to answer. I will force you to look up and listen. Nevertheless, I need to let myself be ok with your frustration. And then I need to align myself with people who are ok with me. Come on, am I really that bad? Wait. Don’t answer that [wink wink].
Bryce Canyon National Park with friends, January, 2016
On January 31,2016, our friend, Stephen Jones, was caught unexpectedly in an avalanche. He had all the necessary gear, knowledge and experience. He had his avalanche beacon. He was on familiar terrain. His family knew where he would be, and he knew the backcountry well. All of Steve’s preparations made no difference. The snow is mighty and the avalanche was powerful. And I am certain I am not the only one who desperately hates that the mountain Steve was skiing defeated him.
Saturday, as I sat at Steve’s funeral, and as the tears rolled freely, over and over I heard the words,
“Steve always had an opinion. Steve cared about everyone! Steve was generous, enthusiastic, outspoken, freakishly intelligent, driven and mostly. Steve was devoted to his wife Melissa and their children.” Steve’s mom brought the crowd to tears as she declared, “Melissa, once Steve realized what was happening, I am certain his first thoughts were, Melissa, I am sorry.”
Dave and I have been doing a lot of talking about our passionately opinionated and brave friend, Steve. I have been doing a lot of processing. Honestly, Steve’s presence was intensely bright, and I often find myself saying,
“I cannot believe he is gone.”
Dave always responds with, “I can’t either.”
Dave and I, Lindon, Utah with friends.
I think it is common knowledge among those who knew Steve that he would not have been fully able to be Steve without Melissa, his amazing wife. She is gorgeous (inside and out), generous, kind, and grounded. She also affirmed Steve’s seemingly crazy, ambitious dreams right into realities. In his mid-forties, for instance, Steve took up ultra-running. Last summer, at age forty-nine, he ran two 200-mile races, five weeks apart. Melissa was there, encouraging him through his solo, unsupported endeavors.
That is what I love about both Steve and Melissa. They cheer for all of us. Steve wanted you to feel his joy (hence his strong advice),
“Beth, you have the best trails behind your house. Get out and see them.”
Melissa generously offered that I publicly share as many Steve photos as I want.
“If it helps lessen the pain,” she said, “then I say do it.”
So I will.
First, it is important to note that I overflow with a paralyzing amount of empathy. I want to help people. I always have. I am incredibly clumsy when it comes to the juncture between following my dreams and my huge impulse not to step on your toes. Yet, as lame as I can be to myself (like not following dreams), I am really good at helping others fulfill their own (dreams, that is). Ask Dave, I am a most excellent second-hand-dream-fulfiller, unifier, matchmaker and cheerleader. It gives me impossible joy to bring people together. When it comes to my family or my friends (even in those times when I am uncomfortable or afraid), I am devoted. I am loyal. I will step aside for their needs. When you need something, I love to find it. I will apologize (even when I don’t need to). When I know you are hurting, I am there. I will stand by your side.
Mostly, with those I love, I will NOT remain neutral. I will NOT stand on the sidelines. I will always take a risk. And I always have. Being a good friend has always been my super power, or at least, I think it has. Ok. Wait. This is not a post to tell you how awesome I am. I am not, awesome, that is. I am no saint. I do hurt feelings (often). Ask Dave and the boys. For starters, I swear (and swear more when I am trying to stop). I yell and I am often late to pick-up. Nevertheless, I remain solid.
Us, Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, December, 2015
This week, a week, when I am full of reflection, and in a world where life is brief, and bright stars burn out, I have concluded that I would rather be an outspoken Steve Jones, or a generous Melissa, than someone who stands aside. I admire how Steve and Melissa treat those they love. And through them, I have been reminded that I would rather be someone who unconventionally goes out of her way, rather than someone who refuses. I would rather be what Steve was for me and Melissa still is: a friend who persistently tries to push me out of my Seasonal-Affected-Disorder blues, a friend who pays attention, and a friend who generously allows me to share because it helps me heal. In the end, (yes, the real end), I want to be remembered as someone who gave a shit, someone who was not afraid to speak up, someone who cared deeply, and someone who was not afraid to get involved.
But to be remembered that way, I must actually be that way.
Steve and his son a few years back on a school field with Kyle and Eli.
Forward: This has been week filled with heartbreaking news. Monday evening, February 1, I began this post. At the time I did not know that our most awesome friend Steve had died, or about the sudden illness and passing of my mom’s and Harvey’s sweet and beloved, grandson, Nick.
Dave, Kyle, Eli and I wish both of their families much peace now as they move through their grief.
…I also want to thank Melissa, Steve’s wife. You have graciously allowed us all to share our feelings, photos and thoughts. Thank you, my friend!
xo Jeff
Melissa’s words: “I say share away if it makes you feel any less pain.”
—
Rob’s Trail, the back side of the canyons Ski Resort, Park City, Utah
The following was written Monday, February 1, 2016:
Right now my thoughts are an anxiety-induced brain-coma of disconnects, intentional denials and lost trains of thoughts. I am certain my brain coma is a result of our current living reality: Our new home is covered in a mish-mash of unpacked boxes, unfinished construction, doors that need paint and door hardware and a toilet that need installing. I am certain my circuits persist in shorting because of things like the large, bright green, trash-filled dumpster in our driveway. Each and every time I go to back up, I literally forget how to back up.
“Do I turn the wheel to the left or to the right?” I ask and yes, out loud.
As I inch my way past that green monster, I am certain I will smash into it, or at least rip off my side mirror. Adding to my brain dumpster-PTSD is the part where I feel completely and totally emotionally exposed. Of course we are in a new neighborhood. It is a place where houses are close together and there are new people to meet and new people who will judge me. Vulnerable indeed. Facilitating this exposed vulnerability is the fact that our giant windows need blinds! And here is why: Often it is only until I am well into our well-lit kitchen, which houses a very large, uncovered picture window, that I look out at the dark outside while standing in the bright inside that I connect the dots.
“Beth, run! Hide. YOU ARE IN YOUR UNDERWEAR!”
No. It never occurs to me to turn off the lights.
In truth, new-house living is a gift, and the fact that we have this giant trash can at our disposal is super cool. Why I think (know) my brain is in a painful fog is the reality that as each moment passes, my time raising these amazing boys is growing way too short.
Consequently, whether a moment is soul-crushing, over-exposing, disconnected, boring, or ultimate glee, I always, always, always want to push the pause button. I plead,
“Why can’t I hold all the moments a little longer? Why?”
Ok. I know the answer. If we stop time for me, we have to stop it for everyone, and if we stop time for people living now, it would not be fair to all those who have lived before us, (and yes) or those who will live after us, or some other inequity I have not considered.
Nevertheless, damn you, Time! I want you to stop, at least pause long enough for me to catch my breath (or back out of the driveway without smashing my car).
And Time, if you will not stop, or even pause, perhaps you will slow down long enough so I can find a way to hold on.
Kyle and our dinner 😉
Here is the moment I am now in: I need to go grocery shopping – bad. In fact, I just placed two bags of frozen corn in the microwave. Yes, I am calling two bags of frozen corn dinner. As I type, I am sitting at our new kitchen island. Music is playing. The boys are milling around me. I ask Dave about my new ski boots. I bought them earlier today.
“Are they in the car?” I say.
“No. I brought them into the garage.” Dave responds.
We eat our frozen corn (dinner). I read out loud what I have written so far. As I read, Dave walks to the refrigerator, pulls out a package of tortillas, grabs the cast iron pan, turns on a burner and says,
“Anyone want a burrito?”
The boys start watching YouTube. I say, “Is that a Fail video?”
In unison (and by unison I include Dave), they respond, “It’s a Win video.”
Eli does not want beans in his burrito.
Dave, Kyle and Eli eating dinner and watching YouTube
As the boys watch their video, Eli says,
“I want to do that,” followed by Kyle, “I so want to do that.” (Because I am writing this, I have no idea what “that” is.)
They turn down the volume so I can listen to my music on my new…
“What kind of speaker is it?” I ask Dave.
Both Kyle and Dave answer,
“It’s a UE Boom.”
Kyle sings along with the Avett Brothers, “January Wedding.”
Dave affirms, “Ok, Eli, I am giving you a minimal amount of beans.”
Eli protests, “I want zero amount of beans!”
To which Dave insists, “You won’t even notice the beans.”
All this bean talk takes place as Kyle sings,
“In January, we’re getting married.”
Then he flips his burrito-dilla.
Dave asks, “Eli, do you want tomatoes on yours?”
Eli demands, “No, I want cheese!”
Quesadilla-crisis averted, I hear Dave say something. It takes a few seconds to realize that he is actually talking to me:
“Do you want to go to the grocery store tonight?” He repeats himself — this time talking a little louder, “Beth, do you want to go to the grocery store tonight?”
Before I can answer, Kyle looks at Dave and says,
“Ok. Dad. I am going to make the ultimate, ultimate burrito.”
Delighted Dave responds,
“Maybe it’s the penultimate burrito. Maybe it is the last before the last.”
Instead of giving Dave an answer about the grocery store I say,
“A penultimate burrito? What? What? What?”
Because Eli is still watching YouTube “win” videos, he offers this most excellent non sequitur,
“He duct-taped it to his feet.”
Dave follows with an equally non-connected response,
“mmmm.”
Kyle’s penultimate burrito
Kyle is finishes cooking what is now a burrito, walks over to Dave and says,
“Dad. Dad. Look. Cheese in between.”
Eli walks to the freezer and asks,
“Mom, can I have a fruit bar?”
Dave implores,
“Let me know if you want to go to the grocery store, Beth.”
I say,
“Let’s go now. I want to be back to put the boys to bed.”
Now at the store, together, we walk the aisles. Then we separate — me, for butter and yogurt, and Dave for ice cream. We reconnect, pay and leave.
Dave and me, The Canyons Ski Resort. One of the last times I went skiing.
On the way home we talk about my new ski boots. I am certain Dave does not realize how terrified I am to ski now.
Ok here is the background: Years ago I tore (nearly severed) this muscle in my leg/foot called the Peronus Longus. The muscle runs down the calf, wraps around your foot and connects in between the big toe and whatever you call the toe next to the big toe. And if you ski, you know that you need to be able to work your big toe and that toe next to it to turn your boot in your ski. I healed and even got special ski boots that were supposed to make it easier.
I remember the moment. I was in my new ski boots, and was on the steepest part of Saddleback (Canyons Ski Resort Blue run). It was the end of the day and the run was hard ice. I kept slipping and sliding as my boys skied past me and urged,
“Mom, Mom, come on!”
It was then that I realized that in those slick conditions, I could only turn to the right. I was confused and trying to work out how I could get down the mountain on right-turns only. I made my way to the edge. I stopped and began taking my skis off. I was convinced that I could just walk down. When Dave realized what I was doing, he emphatically stated,
“Beth, you cannot walk down! It is not safe. You need to ski!”
I stood there — immobile. It was cold, dark and the mountain was closing for the day. My friend, Jodi, whisked by and offered to ski all the kids down, (her three and my two –yes, she is a saint). Dave remained, steadfast in his resolve.
“Dave, my foot will not turn my ski!” I cried (yes, real tears).
I was embarrassed. I was terrified. After many painful moments, Dave slowly coaxed me down that mountain.
I have not been back, skiing, that is.
Now years later, with my special ski boots stolen (which I have used as a reason not to ski), and my crazy foot rehabbed, Dave sensed it was time. So on Monday morning, February 1, Dave declared,
“I am taking you to buy new ski boots today!”
My new ski boots. I will call them Steve.
I will admit had no interest in buying new ski boots. Come on, I have better things to do, right? There is a house to unpack and a toilet to install!
Dave would not accept my excuses. We made our way to our local Level Nine Sports, spent hours trying on ski boots with Christian, the very cool former ski racer from New England. Apparently the Fishers with an insole stabilize my foot. It felt like a Christmas miracle. My fear washed away and my trust came back because as I stood in my new boots, I connected.
“Dave, I can turn my foot!” I exclaimed!
There is Steve hanging with the kids (like he always did). We love this photo because Eli is so excited to talk to him.
Afterward: Of course I did not know Steve was killed in an avalanche on Sunday, January 30. Search and Rescue would not find his body until Tuesday, February 2. It was not out of the ordinary that as I tried on my boots my thoughts and our conversation leaned in the direction of our friend, Stephen Jones. Steve impacted a lot of us. He was bold, outspoken and fearless. He loved the snow, winter and skiing. Most people had no idea that I was so afraid of the snow. Steve noticed. So way back when I injured my foot, he repeatedly insisted I contacted Alan, Miss Diane’s magic carpet guy so I could rehab my foot and “safely” get my confidence back. His caring was also married with a lot of opinion. Consequently, for years, Steve pestered me about not loving the snow. I honestly think he got a thrill out of harassing me. Mostly, I am certain he was convinced that he could win bring me to the snow-loving side.
On Monday, February 1, 2016, he came very close.
Today I struggle with how to articulate moments, time, loss, and the impact others have on us. Oddly I was struggling a lot Monday (before I knew about Steve or Nick). Loss, time-stopping, and moment catching consumed my thoughts. During the week, my friend Beth (who also knows Steve) and I were talking about the impact others have on us. She mentioned tapestries and threads; and how each of us are threads that are woven together. Once connected, we ripple through each other’s lives. These ripples create things like the need to buy new ski boots out of the blue. As we talked I started thinking that maybe these ripples are the way we stop time.
Monday, February 1, is the day I stopped worrying about boxes, giant dumpsters and uninstalled toilets. It was the day I took a break, spent hours talking the upside of snow, and gratefully found ski boots that fit properly. Mostly, Monday, February 1, is the day I stopped being afraid, afraid to ski, that is.
So right now, and after a very sad week, I would like to think that as Steve left this world, the moment he left me is February 1, 2016, the day I bought my new ski boots. Of course I am grateful!
“It never comes down this hard.” I hear someone say.
They sky is an ominous, medium grey. The wind is blowing. Inside, the air conditioner is freezing me out. They ask me where I will be. I respond as if they should already know,
“Here.” My gaze immediately moves toward the window. “I am not walking outside in this.”
We both laugh and the manager cheerfully responds, “You mean you don’t want to do a little Gene Kelly walk outside?”
Again we both laugh. I am also equally impressed that she actually knows who Gene Kelly is.
“No.” I say.
The Coliseum Rome in the rain
They give me an estimate. I agree, and we both assume they will find something else wrong (they do). I gather my things and find my way to the line of semi-comfortable, medium blue-colored upholstered seats. “The Young and The Restless” plays in the background. I pick up the remote, change the channel and turn the volume down. I hear the voice of an auto-shop customer on the phone. He is wearing a cowboy hat. It is black. His shirt is blue. I notice the words: “Cowboy” written across his chest. Eventually he sits down.
I unpack my laptop and listen while two women, one and employee, one a customer, talk about the people washed down the river.
“A women had twelve children in the van.” One says.
“They are FLDS (Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints). I can tell by the way they fix their hair and by the clothes they were wearing.” The other responds.
I want to tell the two women that it is actually two families, including three adults and ten children. It is not my place, and really, why do I know this? Here is why. It is easy. I read a lot of news — probably way too much news. Local news is my favorite. Instead of responding, I drift and think about images I have seen, pictures of FLDS women wearing long, puffy-shouldered, plain dresses of purples, grays and blues. I wondered what it would be like to be standing in a long dress as the brisk, muddy water raced by. It is heartbreaking and it is clear. Tragedy is tragedy, no matter who you are.
Driving back to Rome from the Amalfi Coast in a downpour
I look at my browser, type in KSL.com, and begin to read an article about the Zion National Park hikers who were swept away in another flood caused by the same storm. Three hikers and one FLDS child are still missing.
To drown out the noise I turn my music on. I am glad I did not forget my earbuds. The Head and the Heart’s song “Rivers and Roads” plays. (I do not expect you to know the song, yet selfishly I hope you do. I want you to feel the painful heartache only a mournful song can evoke.) I hear the crescendo(ed) phrase, “Rivers and roads, Rivers and roads, Rivers ’til I reach you.” My eyes tear up. I smile as I think about how these relevant lyrics,like a warm blanket on a rainy day, completely envelop my multi-media melancholy.
I stop to call Dave.
“Hey, they think we need back brake pads, rotors and hoses.”
He agrees. We already knew this is where we were headed. With Kyle nearly ready to inherit my car, I need my son to be safe. I stop to talk to the manager. We commiserate about our teenage drivers.
I have been thinking about my sons more than usual today. Maybe it is the sad, dark rain.
Southern Utah in the rainSouthern Utah in the rain
Consequently, I am feeling that kind of heartache that comes with knowledge that time does indeed move forward. I know the time I have with Kyle and Eli is less than the time I have already had. Kyle is talking college. Eli just discovered girls. And to hold onto as much of them as I can, I have been forcing Eli to go on a walk each night. He always begins the walk disgruntled and pissed off. Never fear, he always walks his way to happy. Soon, as we hoof our way down the city streets, he is filled with delightful chatter, stories of new friends, longboard rides, and hilarious homework woes. The other night he completely blew my mind (in the best of ways) when he paused and said,
“Mom, do you think I can get into Harvard for comedy writing? What do you think I should do to prepare?”
“Absolutely!” I exclaimed.
The fact that my son believes he can is something I always hoped for. Seeing it happen is beyond my wildest dreams. Go Eli!
Regardless of the rain, this evening I want to go for a walk with Kyle. He has been busy with school and Cross Country. I miss him and wanted to make sure I am not missing something.
Costa Rica in the water, not the rainThe Spanish Steps in the rain. Rome, Italy
The rain keeps falling. Now I think about snails. Utah has a lot of them and they come out in the rain. Just the other night (when Eli and I were walking), apparently (so says Eli) I kicked one (a snail) high into the air.
Thoughts or is it sounds of rain keep filling my brain. Now I think about the rain in Costa Rica. There is nothing better than sitting in a hot spring in the rain. Thoughts of Costa-Rican rain makes me think about all of our rainy travel (of course). I think about Rome. I often wish I could keep Rome safely tucked away for a rainy day, (just like this one). The first time we were in Rome it rained. It rained almost the entire time. It was a cold, wet and bone-chilling rain. Selfie-stick sellers quickly switched their pitch as soon as the drops began to fall. Step after rainy step, street vendors shoved umbrellas in our faces chanting,
“Five euro. Five euro.”
As we continued walking, the vendors would exclaim, “Wait! I sell it to you for three.”
Eventually, and when we were completely soaked, we bought two.
Dave and I recorded the following in an email and also in my journal.
September 16, 2001:
I live in the Washington DC area (Northern Virginia), but this week Dave, Kyle and I flew from the Washington Dulles Airport to Atlanta, Georgia so Dave could speak at trade show. The best part was that I got to spend time with my long time BFF, Melanie, who lives in Atlanta.
We realize that our personal experience pales in comparison to the loss or tragedy that so many experienced because of the tragedy (*note we as a society were not calling it 9/11 yet), this is what happened, where we were . . .
Tuesday Morning., September 11, 2001
My lifetime BFF, Melanie and I. Utah, 2003
I just dropped Davy off at the Subway Station and was eager to return to our hotel so I could put Kyle (almost two) back to bed. At seven and a half months pregnant (with Eli) I was feeling the great urge for some rest. I put Kyle in his port-a-crib. At about 8:55am the hotel phone rang. It was Melanie exclaiming,
“A plane just flew in to the World Trade Center.”
I thought, as most people initially did, that unfortunately, a small plane crashed into the World Trade Center. I was pretty out of it and Melanie said,
“Are you watching TV?”
I said “No.”
Then I asked if I could call her back after Kyle took a nap.
Instead of sleeping, I called Dave, who was now at Atlanta’s World Congress Center, which is across the street from the CNN building. As news left my mouth, I heard him relay it to the people around him at the trade show that,
“A plane just hit the World Trade Center.”
I was trying to connect the dots, and connect myself from being a pregnant lady trying to take a morning nap to the crazy that was happening around me. The dot I connected was my sister, Dominique, who introduced us to our friend, Bill. Bill had worked with my brother in law, George, Dominique’s husband at Cantor Fitzgerald. Kyle and his son, Quinn are toddler BFF’s (and yes, there is totally such a thing), and I adore Quinn’s mom, Stephanie. After working with Dave, Bill was back doing consulting work for World Trade Center-based, Cantor Fitzgerald.
Dave, Bill and Stephanie, Northern Virginia, 2010Eli, Max, Kyle and Quinn. Cabin John Park, Maryland, 2006. These kids are lifers!
In my hazy morning mind, I kept thinking, “Was Bill in NYC this week?”
See, on Friday, September 7, Bill called me to see if Dave had any work for him to do in DC the next week. I pressed Dave to make sure there was work for Bill. I called Bill back and said, “Yes, please come back to DC. We have work for you.” I wasn’t sure if Bill stayed in NYC or came back to DC. I wanted to stop worrying so I called him. Bill answered.
“Thank God you are not in NYC this week? Do you know what just happened Bill? Turn on your television. You have to turn on your TV. A plane just hit the WTC. I am so glad you are home.”
We hung up. I got settled when the phone rang again. It was Melanie.
“Do you have your TV on? Another plane hit the other tower of the World Trade Center.”
I turned on my TV and could not believe my eyes. I called Dave again. It took me a few times to reach him.
“Davy, another plane hit the other tower.”
I could hear his horror and disbelief as he telephone-game-style relayed the news. As he spoke, I heard the scared and confused responses of his co-workers in the background.
I called Bill again.
“Did you see the other plane hit? What about Cantor?”
Again, I said,
“Bill, I am so glad you are working with Davy this week. I could not bear to lose you. I can’t get through to Dominique and George. Will you email them and make sure they are ok?” (In truth, I knew Dominique and George were ok, yet in the space-time continuum that shocking disaster causes, in that moment, I was second guessing my reality.)
Bill told me he needed to get off the phone so he could try getting through to his NYC Cantor colleagues. Among the others he knew, his good friend and college mate, Doug Gardner, was in the building. He was with Doug at Cantor last week.
With no luck I tried getting through to my family in NYC. Watching television was the only thing I could do in this isolated hotel room. In the other room I heard Kyle chattering. I tried to remain still and watch this tragedy unfold so he would go back to sleep. Katie Couric was on the phone with a man at the Pentagon discussing the WTC when he said,
“I just heard the building shake.”
“Well, if it is safe can you go and see what happened?”
A few minutes later I hear this man’s voice again,
“A bomb has hit the Pentagon.”
Melanie and I are on a hamster wheel of calling each other.
I make one last call I can to Dave.
“Davy, a bomb has hit the Pentagon.”
At that moment I did not know it was a plane. I hear Davy as the spokesman, a spokesman to to all these isolated people — trade show presenters,
“A bomb has hit the Pentagon.”
I hear groans in the back ground of our call. Davy tells me that they have been trying to call out on cellphones and check news websites, but no one can get through. All the major news websites are down, overwhelmed with traffic. We talk about George, Bill and Cantor, I ask him to be safe, tell him I love him and then we hang up.
Kyle, October 2011, Herndon, Virginia. We went and met local fireman after 9/11.
Dave’s words:
About this time, the trade show opens. As people start entering the Red Hat (the company I work for) booth, everyone’s on auto pilot, doing demos and passing out literature. It seems, though, that everyone on the floor of the convention center has a cell phone glued to their ear. People huddle around computers trying to get web sites to come up. They see the first pictures of the tower on fire on some British newspaper’s site and read about the events on Slashdot, a technology news site that temporarily re-makes itself into the epicenter of geek news gathering and grief.
Beth’s words:
Kyle is crying. Comforting him is a distraction. I am stunned and hazy. Kyle cries out again. I pick him up, pace the room, with my eyes glued to the television. In this first hour of chaos I hear about planes, planes still in the air. (Later this week I hear a story from my friend who’s Dad’s friend was in the sky when he got the orders to land at a Municipal Airport. The man said his plane was too big and the air strip too short to land safely. The orders came back, “You either land or get shot down.” He landed.) By the time the buildings go down, everyone knows this was an attack. I hear on local news that they are evacuating the CNN building and the CDC. I think,
“If the terrorists are moving down the coast, will Atlanta be next?”
I’m a jumble of thoughts and emotions. I don’t know what to think. I want Davy out of the World Congress Center. I don’t want to be alone. I keep trying Davy and he does not answer. I am panic. I can’t get through to anyone. I dial Melanie’s number at least twenty times and hear a busy signal. I dial again and get through. I ask her to keep trying Dave’s cell. I hop in the shower and hear the phone ring. I run to answer and miss it. My body stiffens. I feel like I’m floating alone in the ocean. I see the message light light up and hope it was Davy. It was. I listen to his message:
“I am looking for you and I love you.”
Let’s be clear, everyone, I mean, everyone across the entire country was scared. No one knew what was next. I cannot state enough the fear and confusion people felt these first few hours. Consequently, as I watch the news, the nation’s fear manifests. I hear rumors of more planes in the air. It is all confusing, and the confused thought I had was this:
“Did I miss anything while I was in the shower? Is Davy ok?”
Dave’s words:
We’re desperate for information. With the concentration of cell phone users in the conference, the circuits become overloaded. I can no longer call out. I finally borrow a cell phone from another network and manage to call the hotel. No answer. One of my co-workers is an ex-special forces, ex-army intelligence guy. He starts calling his military friends, looking stern but not quite as shocked as the rest of us. He tells us the military is on high alert. We’re not paying much attention to the trade show attendees. We receive word from Red Hat that we’re to pack up and prepare to leave the conference. Several other companies’ booths in our area are already vacant. Don’t worry about the booth or the computers. We’ll figure that out later. I start handing out the T-shirts that we were going to use to lure people into my presentation. Suddenly a throng of people surrounds the booth. It seems as though the attendees know that this conference is about to be abandoned and they want to get at least one bit of free swag before they bug out.
Beth’s words:
Alone, I fret.
“Are my friends and family in NYC and DC safe? Is Atlanta next? Where is my husband?”
As I leave the hotel the phone rings. It’s Davy.
“I am ok. They are shutting down the trade show. Red Hat has hired a bus to take everyone back to Durham, NC (their headquarters). We have to leave in three hours. Do you want to go? Should we go?”
It began to sink in that in this remote hotel I was now part, an extremely small part, but a little ripple in this tragedy.
“I don’t know, Davy. I just want you back here. I need you here. I need to see you.”
“I think we should wait it out. I will take the Marta back. Pick me up where you dropped me off. I will be there in about an hour. I love you.”
Because cellphones were sketchy, I had to wing it and trust that Davy would be there.
Kyle in a New York Subway, June 2009.
Dave’s words:
On the train, everyone is stunned. Complete strangers are having intimate, emotional conversations about the tragedy, while usually you don’t even make eye contact. The guy sitting next to me strikes up a conversation about Palm Pilots. He seems to not want to talk about the attack, but has to talk about something, just to not feel alone. We all feel like we’re fleeing. There are still rumors of hijacked planes in the air.
Visiting my Staten Island, New York, sister, Thea and here family, June 2009.
Beth’s words:
Kyle and I left to pick up Melanie. Traffic to her house was slower than the previous night’s rush hour. I saw the parking lot of cars trying to get out of Atlanta. This was Atlanta not New York City. The ripple had moved so fast. At Melanie’s, Davy called again, despondent.
“I took the wrong train. My tracks split in a fork and my train went to the wrong terminal. I have to go back and get on the right train!”
“Just get on the right train and get back to me as soon as you can. I love you.”
At the Marta station there was no sign of Davy. I was nervous, scared, and alone with Melanie and Kyle. I tried calling several people. The only person I could get through to was Bill. We think it was because we share the same 202 phone exchange. Bill tells me that he thinks Cantor was hit hard. He warns me about biological warfare and riding on mass transit. He thinks we should drive back to DC. I still hear rumors of planes in the air.
“What the hell is going on?” I say.
I hang up with Bill. Kyle and I wait and wait. Still no Davy. Kyle is starving and thankfully Melanie feeds him his favorite, Bapple sauce (yes Apple sauce). From this desolate train station I finally see a tall man walking up the stairs in a black Red Hat shirt. It is Davy. He gets to the car, asks me to give him a hug and we both cry.
I know I am the lucky one. I am with my family, with people I love. I know others are not. I am beginning to process, and to realize how much people are going through. I also cannot take it in. I get that people surrounding the World Trade Center are seeing way more than I have. They have lost more than I can imagine. At this early moment in the tragedy, these people have no idea how much they have lost. My tears keep coming and my life seems so small.
Like everyone I know, we numbly remained attached to the twenty-four-hour news coverage. We can’t stop watching, but also realize we have a super active Kyle, who needs his mom and dad to be present. In our hotel room Kyle runs and sings, “la la la la Lola.” Thankfully Kyle finally took a long long nap. Dave and I sat in front of the television. We did not move. At about 3PM I finally got through to my home answering machine. Frantic, tearful messages from my sisters and brother.
“Are you ok? Call me and let me know you are ok.”
We all live so far apart that I knew they didn’t know the lay of the land in DC. They did not know I was in Atlanta. All they knew was that they couldn’t find me. I called them one by one to let them know we were ok. We were just here in Atlanta.
A man was sitting outside near where I stood. His eyes teary.
“My Sister in law is in the Pentagon. I can’t get through. We don’t know where she is.”
He continued, “My sister is in Miami in the marines. She was just called in and asked to bring three days of clothes with her.” He and I discuss the fact that how in these few short hours we are all united.
The word, “surreal,” is what I keep hearing. I finally get through to my sister, Dominique. In this moment I am so glad George is no longer working for Cantor Fitzgerald. He used to be a partner at that firm and and was in charge of their technological initiatives. My sister told me how he was not talking, just sitting there. I could not imagine his loss. She relayed stories of how the Cantor folks were having a conference call with the LA office when the plane hit. She told me how the people in LA helplessly listened to the horror.
“We are trapped. We have to wait for someone to come and get us. There is so much smoke.”
Then the line went dead… She told me about Howard, the CEO who was dropping his son off at school and was late that day. I cried as I relayed these stories to Davy. Then next day when I heard these same stories on the news, I felt eerily close to it all.
We decided we needed to get get home. The next day we drove our rental car back to DC. The Atlanta airport was still closed when we left. We were lucky we already had a rental car. On the trip back, it started to sink in how blessed we are. Davy and I listened to talk radio. In many areas, there was only right wing talk radio and call-in shows. It was a George Bush love-a-thon. They managed to blame the World Trade Center attacks on Bill Clinton, which we thought was funny. In thick southern accents we hear,
“This week George Bush brought this country to God. Thank God Bill Clinton wasn’t in Office because he is not a Christian.”
Another person spoke up,
“I didn’t think I was prejudiced, but them foreigners are ruining our country. We give these foreigners money and they take away my son’s scholarship.”
As we approach larger metropolitan areas, we take a deep cleansing breath as we hear NPR’s familiar voices of Noah Adams and Linda Wirtheimer.
We returned our rental car at 1AM Friday to Dulles airport. Like my sister, who took three hours to get home from Brooklyn on Tuesday, wiping the soot and ashes from her car, we have no complaints about the long drive. We are just glad to be home.
Me and Kyle, Northern Virginia, 2001
Epilogue:
As I continue to hear personal accounts, stories, watch my friends travel to funerals, and as we all experience the fallout of September 11, life somehow sadly and a bit disheveled goes on. I am grateful that Kyle calmly sat in a car so we could make it home. I am glad that George and Bill no longer work at Cantor Fitzgerald. I am glad than Bill stayed in DC this week. I am glad that even though some of my friends are homeless and some had to walk out of NYC, that they are alive. I am glad Neil had his bike so he could get out of DC. I am glad that many of the people I know made it out of the Pentagon and the World Trade Centers safely. I am devastated for those who did not. I feel for and relate to my friends who are so far away and feel completely fragmented, wanting to feel a part, and not quite sure how. I see pictures, but cannot wrap my head around the devastation.
I am sickened by the words of Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson reported in the Washington Post who said that we are being punished by God because of feminism, homosexuality and the ACLU. I guess it is good to have a reminder that America has its hate-filled religious extremists too. Nevertheless, I am grateful for to live in a country where we can say things, even things I do not like.
In the end, there many questions. There are so many things for us to deal with, to process and to say. I live in the Washington DC area. My sisters live in New York. I, like, many of you, feel close. I have been in the WTC. I have driven by the Pentagon. I remember my brother-in-law, George, taking me showing me around the Cantor Fitzgerald offices, showing me Bernie Cantor’s Rodin sculptures. I was blown away by these offices in the sky. I remember hearing the wind hit the building and asking George,
“does this ever freak you out?”
Now it is all gone.
Kyle and Quinn April, 2003, Northern, Virginia.
Later today.
Davy and I just got back from our walk to the bread store. As we strolled up we saw our next door neighbor, Mohammed pulling out of his driveway. I waved. I know he is from Pakistan. I was hoping to see him and was glad he stopped. It seemed as though he was hoping we would wave. We tiptoed around the issues and exchanged words of remorse. He knew we traveled a lot and was worried. We know he is from the middle east and were concerned about what he now had to face living here in America.
I hope we can all heal and I hope we will all heal together. . .
Take care wherever you are.
-Beth, Dave and Kyle (Eli would be here soon and thank God!)
PS After reading this, I realize (once again) how all of this is about family, connections, and the people you hold close. xo
Last week the best thing happened. After writing about bucket lists, people started talking to me about their own bucket lists. I am inspired and love what they had to say. I was touched and inspired to do the same when my friend Alicen stated that she would like to take “a long trip around the world doing humanitarian aid and living like locals.” I completely relaxed when my friend Tammy said, “I want a year at a Buddhist monastery.” Namaste, Tammy! And I giggle-snorted when my friend Denise wrote, “add to my list the Annual Running of the Reindeer in Alaska. Registration is now open. Shall we do it?” Yes, we shall.
It was my friend Robert’s words that literally took my breath away. Somehow those words took my crazy awesome bucket list and gave it beautiful purpose. Thank you for that, Robert! Here is what he wrote:
“To sail the Caribbean for a year on a 40-45′ sailboat is what makes my heart beat everyday.”
At that moment, I believe my own heart skipped a beat, and yes, I think it also sang.
Me and Easy E, Collier France
Fast forward to Saturday. As some folks now, Dave, the boys, and I decided to bed down in the more affordable Salt Lake City for the summer. We gypsies needed a little break. We also realize that bedding down here means Dave is commuting (once again) to San Francisco weekly. As cool as this summer respite has been, in our first-world-problems sort of way, we are still feeling unsettled and uncertain. As a result, I am sure you can imagine that Dave’s weekly family reengagement is not always smooth. And this additional task of weekly family reconfiguring sometimes feels like our breaking point.
Kyle, Salt Lake City, Utah
Last week was one of those humpty-dumpty moments. Even though my bucket was feeling, well, very bucket-list full, Dave and I were a little out of sorts. We both knew it was time to pick up our pieces, reconfigure and reset. So we did what we do and we went on a walk. While the boys slaved away Cinderella-ing their chores, Dave and I made our way to our local Starbucks. I ordered. Walked over to Dave, who was sitting in a super comfy chair. A tall, clumsy bar stool was the only chair next to him. Instead of breaking, I readjusted,
“Hey, Dave, come sit at this table with me so we can sit together.”
Happily he moved. And we sat long enough so I could drink my first drink, and then get a refill of my green-tea-unsweetened-no-water-light(ish)-ice. Of course we talked about our current and long limbo. We both agreed that this not-knowing-stuff is becoming a broken record and has been going on well beyond any reasonable expectation. We vented, running through a list of what we missed while we were apart. I talked about school. Dave talked work.
Dave and I, Collier, France
And then out of nowhere I thought of Robert’s words:
“What makes your heart beat?”
Tears filled my most frustrated eyes, and thought that maybe those words might help break my mind of our current in-between. At that I looked across the tiny table into Dave’s kind, blue eyes and said,
“You know what I would really like to do? I would like to live overseas. Thinking about living in another country makes my heart beat. As frustrated as I am with all of this not knowing, thinking about living in another country is what gives me breath. Right now I need that.”
With thoughts of beating hearts and overseas-living-dreams, we let the vents go and let the excitement fill the air.
Dave and the boys, Carcassonne, France
The next day as Dave and I were walking again, we landed once again on the topic of uncertainty.
“Hey, you totally connected, didn’t you?” I asked, and then connected. “You know what it is like to dream about something so much that it is what keeps you going?”
“Yes.” Dave said. Of course we both agreed that fact that our kids keep us going is just a given.
“You really would live overseas, because you know the idea of it makes my heart beat.”
“I would,” Dave responded.
Salt Lake City, Utah
Our full circle moment came this evening. Dave is back in San Francisco so Kyle offered to go on a walk with me. Tonight we took a different path. We walked and talked about tomorrow. He has his very first behind the wheel experience at driving school. I cannot believe my oldest son is about to drive. Wow! Pray for us!
“Mom, yes, I am both nervous and excited.” Kyle expressed.
“You will do great. I know you will.” I responded.
“I want to get enough sleep so I am ready.”
“You will.” I responded.
Our conversation carried on as we moved further down the path. Up ahead, and there on a sidewalk was a piece of dark orange chalk sitting next to the painted words:
“This is a community project. What makes you happy? Maybe it will inspire others?”
I wrote two words: my sons and travel. Kyle wrote one: Frisbee.
Salt Lake City, Utah
Yes, I am definitely inspired. And yes, life can seem limbo-y, and bucket lists can feel unfilled, but we all find ways of moving along.
