Taking My Life Back Read online

  This visit taught me something about my own strength. In my worst moments of fear and insecurity, I can know that I am strong enough to help someone else. My fears might be real, but so is my strength.

  I’m certain the clincher for this woman was when I told her that this new normal of hers, of life as an amputee, isn’t a noble Hollywood story with a happy ending. There is no sunset to ride off into, just more life. There will be dark days when discouragement seems to ooze from the walls, dismaying confrontations with inconsiderate people occur, and reminders are everywhere that the old normal is gone, along with the capabilities she once knew. But if she could find it within herself to allow her audacity to come out and get some fresh air, then all that time spent outside the house would allow independent experiences and opportunities to pile up. Getting outside the security of home would become easier with repetition. It was time for her to go back to mixing it up with life on the come-and-get-me level.

  And since I knew this was the truth of my own life, I could speak confidently to her. I’m certain we both went home stronger.

  I consider myself fortunate to be able to travel. I can appreciate the irony of the fact that, if not for the bombing, I wouldn’t be meeting these people and hearing their stories. All that fellowship would have been lost. It isn’t an even trade, but it’s a testimony of God’s grace in the aftermath.

  It’s not all sunshine and roses. My tap dancing career was extinguished even before it started, but I get to meet some wonderful people I would otherwise never have encountered.

  On days when things go well, I get to connect with another soul. These moments are gifts I am always grateful to accept. We both walk away stronger.

  One day I was walking through an airport and, as always, the artificial leg was beginning to grate on my skin after hours of use. I can tell you that those long airport corridors or endless walkways in front of the terminals are not friendly to amputees. Although I had become much better at using the leg, after a maximum of two hours the socket would start to feel like it was lined with rocks and pressure pains would begin to spark with hot stabs throughout my left side.

  So you can understand how my spirit might tend to flag during the tedium of an airport hike. It isn’t a big deal, and it isn’t enough to make me forget how close I came to not being around at all or that others were hit worse, with double amputations and giant doses of shrapnel throughout their bodies.

  Nevertheless, a sore place on the skin can be a persistent source of torment when all the pressure of standing up is transferred to a small point on the artificial leg. On this day at the airport, I was feeling exhausted and ready to get the thing off and sit down.

  But that’s when I was waved down by a male amputee who happened to be about my age. I suppose any amputee can spot another at a distance. He also recognized my face from media stories and called me by name. He wanted to let me know that he had lost his leg several years before, and he’d had time to adjust to his prosthesis.

  He had even run the 2014 Boston Marathon on his prosthetic leg in honor of all those who had lost life and limb to those two terrorists. On this day, all he wanted to do was greet me, shake hands, and tell me he was inspired by my spiritual message. He also assured me that the feel of my artificial leg would grow more natural over time, as it had with him.

  In that moment, with the stump of my leg throbbing away, this was wonderful news to hear. So it turned out we each had affirmation to offer the other, even in such a brief encounter. I got to see the power of faith at work in the life of someone I would otherwise never meet, with whom I would have no connection, and he got to see the effect his reassurance had on me.

  This new normal has shown itself to have an unlimited capacity to be harsh and cold but it also has its moments of joy, beautiful little surprises that pop up even on a routine day.

  The challenges that arrived with my new normal and remain with me today can seem endless, but the feeling of joy remains the same.

  −16−

  The Terrorists’ Leftovers

  For the first couple months of 2015, my life was filled by time at home and time on the road for speaking events. I was especially glad for my busy schedule because it was a handy distraction that allowed me to keep my head up and my spirits high. The trial date for the surviving Boston bomber was just around the corner.

  Noah didn’t like the news that I was going back to Boston with my mom and without him. But at age seven he was perfectly able to understand the issue of justice along with the fact that his mother had to go help out with it. I explained to him that it had to be done in order to make certain the man who had done this to us could never do it again to anyone else. You can bet he understood.

  The prosecutor’s office flew my mother and me to Boston a day before the trial to give me some time to acclimate. They were as thoughtful and supportive as they could be. They even arranged for me to go into the empty courtroom before the trial began so I could see what I would walk into when the bailiff called my name.

  The first thing that struck me was that the entire space was smaller than I pictured. Then they showed me where everyone would be seated. The witness stand where I would be giving my testimony was only a few feet from the defendant’s chair.

  I blanched at the thought of being so close to him and having to testify with his gaze on me. The prosecutor kindly offered to move the witness stand farther away. I agreed with several other witnesses in our group who also wanted it moved.

  By that point I had done all the preliminary work in my mind to visualize successfully going through this. I clearly pictured myself helping the prosecutors, testifying without faltering or allowing emotion to choke me, and then returning home in the knowledge that I had been strong. (Spoiler alert: not that easy.)

  I wish I could say I struck some sort of brave pose as I went through the bomber’s trial in federal court, but from the time the day of my testimony began, I felt like a giant fist had its fingers around me and was slowly tightening its grip throughout the morning. The police brought us to the courthouse from the hotel at around nine a.m., and media vans were all over the place.

  The reporters were congregated like a murder of crows. I knew the story had powerful national and international implications, but it was hard to have to run the gauntlet through all of those heated and competitive journalists on top of everything else. Their amped-up state of tension and the urgency of their questions definitely put a strain on my fragile state of calm. I don’t know how movie stars and politicians can stand that sort of attention all the time.

  I could feel the little girl in me wanting to run away and hide up in the safety of that backyard tree and wait for this all to go away, but she was only a memory now. The only way I could send her any love was to do the sort of standing up now that I had never been able to do back then.

  The thought of the bomber’s close presence repulsed me, but I didn’t fear that he could attack me or anyone else. This time the demon only existed in my mind. The shackled defendant hauled in for this trial was nothing more than a powerless captive.

  Once we were inside, it took about an hour or so for the trial to get to me. I was one of the first witnesses to testify, and we all waited together in a tiny room right outside the courtroom. It wasn’t much larger than a storage closet and was extremely hot and stuffy, a feeling emphasized by what we were getting ready to do.

  The trial was closed to the public, leaving the reporters and media sitting to one side while the rest of the seating went to victims and their families. The judge had instructed the bailiffs to make sure any of the victims who wanted to attend got first choice on the limited seating. They also had an overflow room with video and audio, so no one missed anything.

  About five minutes before I was to be called in, an agent came in to say that the stand was still pretty close to the defendant, and did I want to have it moved? I swallowed and told him not to bother. Asking for special protection from that man felt to me like givin
g him power he truly did not have.

  I had come to a simple realization that there were two ways to look at this thing. One, I could wonder if he was far enough away for me to be safe, or two, I could ask why I should give him the comfort of having more distance from me. He was the one with something to fear this time. It was important to me to let him know I was not afraid of him.

  I walked in wearing a dress short enough to give Felicia, my prosthesis, a full viewing. I kept my head up while I was sworn in, and I walked straight over to take my place on the stand. I later learned that certain reporters on Twitter said I walked with a slight limp. Maybe that was supposed to make me seem more sympathetic or something, but I can assure you it wasn’t the case.

  The questions were simple, all of them things I had been asked many times before. I doubt I was able to offer anything of value in proving the prosecutor’s case, except to represent myself and Noah simply by being there. If that was all I did, it was good enough for me.

  I’ve noticed that stage fright tends to go away once you start speaking and get involved with what you’re doing, and I found that all the nerves I had built up dissolved while I was on the stand, although I couldn’t help but cry when talking about my little boy’s injuries. They kept me up there for less than half an hour, verifying photos, describing little details of what I had seen that day. There wasn’t any drama to my testimony, and things were kept clinical and precise.

  And then it was done. I heard, “Thank you, that is all, you may step down.” The infamous Boston bomber never looked at me. Never met my eyes. Pretended not to see me.

  That was fine, actually. Because I know for a fact that he heard me. Not only was the witness stand close enough for him to hear every word but I made it a point to speak clearly and in a strong voice. He heard me, all right.

  My adrenaline carried me out of the courthouse, and Mom and I were soon back at the hotel. But once I was back in the room, I was completely drained. Who knew you could expend so much energy just keeping calm? I felt as if I had spent the morning walking a pack of very large dogs.

  I think I left everything I had in the courtroom. But it still wasn’t enough. Something didn’t feel complete. My testimony was only one piece of a much larger strategy, and it hadn’t offered any room for personal expression. Just the facts, ma’am.

  And did I ever need to go beyond the plain facts. Many of us did. In response to any sympathetic social media version of that terrorist, or any other murderous attacker, we offered the shattered bones of dozens of innocents and blood pooled on the Boston streets.

  In my heart I will always be grateful for Christ’s mercy. He has stayed by my side and kept me strong, allowing me to remain a mother to my little boy and a member of a loving family, in spite of those two poisonous brothers and their lingering dark cloud. But I still hadn’t said what I needed to say to this man.

  So once in the hotel room, I went to my Facebook page and composed a letter to the surviving bomber. My intention was to cleanse myself of so many things I wanted to say or shout or scream at him.

  As soon as I began to write, I felt a sense of quiet determination. I’m certain many hear about terror attacks, just as I do, and feel powerless to make a meaningful response. But like me, they also feel the need to hear truth spoken to the powers of hate. Indeed, as soon as I posted my letter, it seemed to touch a nerve with the public. I had hoped there would be others who took heart in it, but I didn’t expect it to go viral the way it did.

  My name is Rebekah Gregory. We don’t really know each other and never will. But over the last two years, I have seen your face not only in pictures but in almost every one of my nightmares. Moments before the first blast, your stupid backpack even brushed up against my arm, but I doubt you remember because I am no one to you. A complete stranger. And although I was merely just a blip on your radar (someone that happened to be standing three feet from your designated “good spot” for a bomb), you have been so much more to me. Because you have undoubtedly been my source of fear since April 15th, 2013. (After all, you are one of the men responsible for nearly taking my child, and for the permanent image embedded in my brain of watching someone die.) Up until now, I have been truly scared of you and, because of this, fearful of everything else people might be capable of.

  But today all that changed. Because this afternoon I got to walk into a courtroom and take my place at the witness stand, just a few feet away from where you were sitting. (I was WALKING. Did you get that?) And today I explained all the horrific details of how you changed my life to the people that literally hold YOURS in their hands. That’s a little scary, right? And this afternoon before going in, I’m not going to lie . . . my palms were sweaty. And sitting up there talking to the prosecution did make me cry. But today, do you know what else happened? TODAY . . . I looked at you right in the face . . . and realized I wasn’t afraid anymore. And today I realized that sitting across from you was somehow the crazy kind of step forward that I needed all along.

  And I think that’s the ironic thing that happens when someone intends something for evil. Because somehow, some way, it always ends up good. But you are a coward. A little boy who wouldn’t even look me in the eyes to see that. Because you can’t handle the fact that what you tried to destroy, you only made stronger. And if your eyes would’ve met mine for just one second, you would’ve also seen that what you “blew up” really did BLOW UP. Because now you have given me (and the other survivors) a tremendous platform to help others, and essentially do our parts in changing the world for the better.

  So yes . . . you did take a part of me. Congratulations, you now have a leg up . . . literally. But in so many ways, you saved my life. Because now I am so much more appreciative of every new day I am given. And now I get to hug my son even tighter than before, blessed that he is THRIVING, despite everything that has happened.

  So now . . . while you are sitting in solitary confinement (awaiting the verdict on your life), I will be actually ENJOYING everything this beautiful world has to offer. And guess what else? I will do so without fear . . . of YOU. Because now to me you’re a nobody, and it is official that you have lost. I truly hope it was worth it.

  Sincerely,

  Someone you shouldn’t have messed with.

  I’m willing to admit to some anger there. But coming from the Obedient Preacher’s Daughter, I can’t tell you how liberating it was to speak my mind about this man and his attack. The little girl in me who would have wanted to run away or pretend there was nothing wrong needed to see the grown version of me stand up to this terrorist.

  I can’t prove that what I felt was truly righteous anger, but it certainly felt like it to me. I was angry on behalf of every human being placed at risk by those homemade bombs. I was even angry that I would never look at any stovetop pressure cooker the same way again, a simple object of domestic tranquility that had been transformed into a device of domestic terrorism.

  The surviving Boston bomber was sentenced to death on May 15, 2015, but his formal sentencing hearing wasn’t until June. As that date approached, the US Attorney’s office called me again and asked me to prepare a victim impact statement. I agreed but let them know that part of my process of taking my life back and building a new normal that I can live with is to reject the role of victim.

  I told them I would make a statement, all right, but I refused to come in and cry about what this had done to me. So I wrote a draft of what I had in mind and sent it to the US Attorney’s office for review. They okayed it, so it was back to Boston one more time.

  This time my mom needed to stay home with my youngest sister, Allie, so I made the trip alone. Or I should say it was just me and Felicia. In Boston, I met up with two of my dearest former nurses, Naomi and Tracy. Naomi came and stayed with me at the hotel. I can tell you that even though I was prepared to be strong for this, it was so comforting to have a friendly hand extended that way. Naomi softened and humanized the visit and did a great job of giving me better thin
gs to talk about than terrorism.

  The prosecutor had arranged for all the testifying blast victims to stay in the same hotel. A large group of us decided to have dinner together so we could get acquainted in a more comfortable environment than the courtroom. That turned out to be wise, but it was still the strangest kind of reunion I’ve ever seen.

  The nature of the occasion had everyone in an especially kind and cooperative mood. We wanted to get through this necessary obligation as smoothly as we could. I believe we shared a greatly increased sense of empathy because of the evil that had done us so much harm. We called each other our “Boylston Street Family,” and I came to be thankful for each one of us.

  My heart went out the most to those who were there to speak because their loved one, whether a child or an adult, had been killed in the blast. Who can doubt that they felt, most deeply of all, the frustration of speaking out against evil that can’t be undone on behalf of someone they’ll never see again? What an awful thing for any parent to have to do, at any age.

  Happily, when it came time to make the trip to court this time, I was mostly free of nervous anxiety. It was easier the second time, and in the hearing room I felt no intimidation whatsoever from the presence of the convicted killer.

  Some of the impact statements were delivered by people who walked forward on prosthetic legs. Some were delivered by people whole of body but there to speak for the dead. It went on and on. The testimony was so raw and gut-wrenching that everyone in the courtroom paid rapt attention.

  I was the last one called forward to speak, and I read the statement I had prepared. By this point I knew it well enough that I could have probably delivered it from memory, but I read it to be certain not to hesitate or fumble. Nothing I had to say was worthy of attention if I didn’t maintain clarity.