Taking My Life Back Page 9

Could there be a more absolutely obvious hoaxer in this universe than the Boston Smoke Bombing Hoax’s Rebekah Gregory?

  There’s a phrase for you: “the Boston Smoke Bombing Hoax’s Rebekah Gregory.” Lovely. Think of the sort of emotional pain a person has to be in to put their energy behind baseless accusations directed at not just me but so many others who were there and who are strangers. A person who was at least clever enough to come up with such a nasty quip might also come up with a way out of their own painful situation, if only their energy were turned in a healthy direction.

  There is a toxic river of this online, a mile wide and a quarter inch deep. I realize the internet is a place where people are much more free to display their illness and rage. But I have to confess that the sheer ferocity of it was stunning. It knocked me back.

  Fortunately, my childhood had made me familiar with people who pronounce truths with cosmic certainty, eyes blazing with confidence. I recognize the essence of their fiery passion and the rock-solid “certainties” they represent. I already know that such people cling to their fantasies with white knuckles.

  So the haters were at my digital doorstep. What they couldn’t have known was that I’d been studying the topic since I was a child. It didn’t make it any easier to deal with, but it also didn’t make it as shocking to see people act in such a manner. And while nobody likes reading posts intended to inflame them, I feel that I can do it more easily when I remind myself that the media whirlwind doesn’t matter to the heart of my story anyway, whether it blows in my favor or not.

  I also know that I put myself out there for the people who may need it. Not the haters. Does this mean everyone will accept me with open arms? Definitely not. And that is one of the biggest things I’ve had to overcome. I have been a people pleaser all my life, after all. But I do believe that there are still far more good people in the world than there are bad.

  And after making a few futile attempts to defend myself, I quickly realized that trying to “dialogue” with the bad ones was a waste of time. I would much rather spend my energy focusing on the good.

  After all, so many more expressions of kindness were sent my way by complete strangers, people who wanted nothing more than to give me a mental boost and a thumbs-up. Their responses gave me a glimpse of how much good there really is and how much decency remains alive and well out there.

  My life had been quiet before the attacks. Nothing in my past prepared me to be on the public stage. While I was still in the hospital, I didn’t realize how well my single-patient room protected me from the problem of feeling overwhelmed in large spaces and among crowds. Even with the constant flow of orderlies, nurses, and doctors through my room, there were seldom more than two or three others with me at one time, including my mother.

  Now that I was home, I often referred back to the time I experienced my first true panic attack, which happened when my physical therapist took me outside the hospital for my first breath of fresh air since the bombing. Even though I knew the essential signs of a panic attack, the deceptive nature of my PTSD changed my thinking. It made everything I knew about anxiety seem completely wrong and not to be trusted, for reasons I wouldn’t have been able to explain.

  It was as if the disorder somehow distorted my thinking so that none of my usual defenses against personal fear were effective. They didn’t do a thing to immunize me once my heartbeat jumped up and I felt that powerful rush of tension go through all my muscles. When the first one hit, it caused my body to clench so tightly that I was vibrating in my wheelchair. My stomach twisted and the air suddenly felt as if it didn’t contain enough oxygen. I started pulling in great breaths of air but still didn’t feel I was taking a decent breath.

  Mom tried to tell me I was suffering from anxiety or panic disorder or whatever you want to call it. I didn’t think she was wrong about that, but I absolutely could not make myself take in the information. My anxiety blocked out logic and reason and just left me gasping until we were safely back inside and in my room.

  The public whirlwind, the glorious wedding venue, and the image of my new husband and me as the Happy Ending Couple came at us from all directions. He seemed to love the attention, but under the circumstances I was uncomfortable in the spotlight. The PTSD was starting to give me real anxieties, especially whenever I was around a lot of people.

  By then I had also begun to itch with traces of real concern over the state of our relationship. The problem for me was that when you’re in the story, you can’t see the story. That means you can’t guarantee the ending—in a situation where the guaranteed ending is of the essence.

  I held silent pep talks with my hesitant self, trying to work out the real cause of my concern. But blind spots being the way they are, the answer was in front of me and I looked right through it.

  Each time I began to openly doubt this marriage, a flood of guilt washed over me for being so ungrateful. Why, not only had I survived the bombing but so had he. Beyond all of this good fortune, we had been so generously provided with this unbelievable wedding in return for nothing more than the photo rights. This was a fairy tale come true for a fairy-tale relationship and a fairy-tale wedding. Did I just use the term fairy tale three times in a row? Oops, that was four . . .

  Of course, I was dazzled by everything that was done for us. I struggled to avoid letting the experience get poisoned by my own old issues or old memories. They contained those old lies that assured me I didn’t deserve any of what was happening. I thought this internal struggle was the reason for my persistent sense of dread. It felt like a faint stomachache that sat just on the borderline of my perception.

  Up to a point, I was able to use plain logic to find my way out of these judgment traps. Most times, I could remind myself that getting blown up doesn’t mean you “deserve” public affection or support. So what you do, then, is find the grace to accept such blessings when they do come and be glad for them.

  That worked, on the plain self-talk level. But where my spirit got stuck was on that faint stomachache, that nagging sense of dis-ease within all the public attention. It was so well intended, by such sincere and generous people, but I got stuck on the concern over its potential effect on our marriage. My very good-looking new husband was idolized by many lovely young women who were all openly fascinated with his status as a terrorism survivor.

  In truth, I saw everything I needed to see in order to predict the weather on this. I knew everything I needed to know to recognize that the setting was fabulous but the play was wrong.

  Missed it.

  I felt somehow that I owed this fairy-tale wedding and the happy ending it represented to my family and friends and to all of our support system. Nobody is guilty of telling me that whopper either. I bought into it on my own.

  How symmetrical it was; we were public darlings because our dream wedding was the perfect antidote to the awfulness everyone felt in the aftermath of the attacks. How ungrateful was I to question all that? An internal voice asked me that again and again.

  The torment drove my choices more strongly than I realized, and I failed to truly, honestly place my trust in God and stayed in the fearful place instead. Had I been in a clearer state of mind, free from pain medication, constant surgery, and of course the media, I would have been able to accept the possibility that this marriage was already deeply threatened.

  I used logic to tell myself that lightning wasn’t going to strike me again so soon. How could it? I was safe enough for the time being, right? I later learned this is called “magical thinking,” and it includes any idea that pretends misfortune is on some sort of timetable or that evil is subject to principles of fairness.

  So my failing was that instead of bringing the real situation to light, I dusted off the old mask of Obedient Preacher’s Daughter. She could smile at her own execution.

  −12−

  Losing Weight on the Wax Fruit Diet

  After the glow of the public spotlight, my husband and I moved into our new home together and
life was supposed to be fine. It was as photogenic as a beautiful bowl of wax fruit, the kind that makes your mouth water because it is so perfectly made. It was everything you could ever want in a bowl of fruit—except for actual fruit.

  My mother sensed my restlessness but kindly withheld her observations. Instead, she focused her attention on my life outside the home. She pointed out that I needed to carefully consider the best way to respond to the spiritual hunger that people began to show around me in public. There were certain to be more encounters with people who were genuine and sincere in wanting to learn something from me. They deserved more than whatever I could come up with off the top of my head when we encountered each other. And there were so many times when I was in too much pain from moving around to be able to calmly consider a compelling question right there on the spot. I needed to think things through and be ready when the time came to articulate my thoughts so I could do it whether or not I was in the right mood at any given time for encountering a questioning stranger.

  So many people ask me “how” one survives such trauma. Maybe they are looking for a way to immunize themselves or learn that one piece of information they might use to save themselves if they ever get caught in a brutal public attack. As you see, that’s dicey territory for a casual conversation. Though I want to extend a sincere and well-considered reply in such a situation, I know better than to presume to solve other people’s inner problems through a single public encounter. I can’t solve anything, anyway. I can only point them in the direction of the One who can. So the question became: How much detail does such a moment need?

  On occasions when I have time to talk to someone on a deeper level, I can describe the awareness that allows me to experience God’s grace and find peace. But in those encounters I am also honest about the times when I was offered grace and simply didn’t see it. Or when I got caught up in worldly struggles to the point that I lost sight of what I can only describe as the bigness underneath all the smallness.

  My prosthetic leg often draws attention in public, and sometimes people then recognize my face from news photos. I’m glad to say there have been some wonderful and deeply moving encounters that have spontaneously come up in this way.

  When I meet people in this fashion, I never know what they believe about the big picture, unless they bring it up, but I often sense the spiritual hunger in their stories. In those moments, I do my best to relate to them as one who knows my own flaws. I let them know that I live in gratitude for the love of Christ, because it guides me away from hurtful thoughts, whether those thoughts are my own or from others.

  Each of these encounters sets off a spark inside me, an urge to do more for others and to always be as kind to the people I meet as these strangers have been to me. That constant reminder allows me to see the bigger picture, no matter how grim the weather might be at the time.

  The fairy-tale marriage didn’t work from the beginning. Blunt people have asked me why two Christians dedicated to their spiritual well-being could allow that to happen. After all, we made such a pretty package. Here it is: for two people to be married, they both have to be married. The marriage turned out to not be functional, and I will spare readers further details.

  My part in the dysfunction was to sit in my imaginary backyard tree and keep my head down because I couldn’t find the strength to trust God to get me through my failed “dream marriage.” I had no idea what to tell people when they asked how everything was going. It took awhile before I could piece out a reasonable answer.

  At those times, I was so grateful for the accepting nature of some people online. They may have been strangers, but I believe their positive effect on me and on the situation was real. They are the opposite of the internet trolls.

  My sense of failure in that brief marriage made my recovery seem to drag on. I felt life passing me by. In dark moments, I sometimes found myself wondering why I had survived. Here I was, home for recovery and many months past the bombing, but it certainly didn’t feel as if I was doing much with this second chance of mine. I surely wasn’t contributing to society.

  The response to my prayers for purpose was not a blinding light of revelation. It was the simple realization that nobody said I had to wait until I was walking again to do something for others and boost my self-esteem in the bargain.

  Interest in my Facebook page, which I had started in September 2013, quickly expanded and spread. When I saw the scope of outreach that was suddenly available through that platform, it was plain to me that I was able to shine a light for others there, in spite of operating the page with only a semimobile body.

  It felt like a cloud passing away from the sun. I wondered what had taken me so long to do this.

  This is how I came to know Kylee, who also lived in Texas, a couple hundred miles from my mom’s home. Kylee’s mother reached out to me on Facebook because she was feeling desperate for a source of hope for her struggling daughter. She was searching for answers on the girl’s behalf, because Kylee had recently been in a critical ATV accident. She had suffered devastating injuries to her leg, and it was so mangled that she had to endure many surgeries in the attempt to save it. The results were not good. And so now, at the age of fourteen, Kylee and her mom were facing tough decisions about the course of her medical treatment.

  Her story touched my heart. Not only did I understand her medical dilemma and her fight to save her leg but I also thought of myself in high school at the age of fourteen. I remembered wanting so badly to blend in while instead my frequent dizzy spells made me stick out in embarrassing ways. Kylee only wanted to be accepted and live a normal teenage life.

  Her biggest obstacle was trying to get her head around the medical transition from staying strong and fighting the good fight to keep her leg to facing the reality of her situation. There simply had not been anywhere near the level of recuperation necessary to heal her leg or to regain natural movement.

  That first night I spoke with her mom on the phone for hours. She told me what they were going through with Kylee’s emotional struggle to recuperate, and I described my version of the same struggle. I could see how hard they were trying to manage Kylee’s situation, but they had fewer support resources than those available to me and felt overwhelmed by the choices ahead of them.

  There is a terrible burden of false guilt that I believe many people suffer from when they are trying to recover from grievous wounds, or when they love someone who is. They carry a certain sense of obligation after being spared from something worse. But in spite of it, they feel ashamed of how difficult it is to remain grateful simply because the damage done to them weighs heavily on them.

  Gratitude tells us to accept, accept. Meanwhile, pain demands that we do something, do something. Pain can be a real gratitude killer.

  Then Kylee’s mom mentioned that her daughter was having a birthday in a few weeks. I asked her if I could surprise Kylee with a visit. Her mom was overjoyed, and her happiness did me good. I can assure you that after so many months of having to be self-centered all the time, it felt wonderful to be giving back a small fraction of what had been given to me. I felt the truth of a gift’s value to the giver.

  A second external fixator had just been removed from my leg when I went to see her. This was fortuitous, since Kylee was currently deciding between getting her own “medieval” fixator device or enduring yet another operation, which her doctor didn’t want her to do.

  So I found myself wheeling through the airport with a left leg still too weak to walk on, even after the second fixator, boarding a plane on crutches and pain meds, and setting off to Dallas. Her family had arranged to pick me up at the airport and drive me to their little town.

  It took a leap of faith to set out on this trip, since these people were complete strangers to me. The idea made my mom extremely nervous. But I believe that when God’s hand is in something, you will just feel that it’s the right direction for you to take. And, of course, Kylee’s mother also had to take the same leap of faith, s
ince they didn’t know me either.

  When we all finally met, Kylee and I both cried. There were a lot of tears over those few days. I opened up to her about the fears and insecurities I faced in my early recovery, as well as my ongoing struggle with those same things. I opened up about my physical pain and emotional anxieties for the future.

  I think Kylee may have been expecting me to preach at her as an “expert” on this treatment. She seemed so relieved to find a sister in suffering, not a lecturer who came to tell her what she was supposed to feel and think and do. A strong sense of rapport quickly grew between us, and a beautiful relationship blossomed.

  Kylee saw firsthand what the fixator did, with no sugarcoating over the ordeal for the patient, but she also got a clear picture of the potential outcome and was able to discuss it with me at length. I don’t doubt that the descriptions of long screws sticking out of my leg gave my words extra force with her.

  Naturally, she still looked upon the procedure with a healthy amount of dread, but now she had seen a pathway to potential healing. I was still there visiting with her when I saw her make the mental leap necessary to take on the long and difficult process.

  The final ingredient was her love of the game. Kylee was an avid soccer player, and despite her injuries she desperately wanted to get back out on the field. So while I was still with her that weekend, I made her a promise that if she would try the fixator as her doctor wanted her to, I would make it a point to be there, cheering her on from the front row, once she had recovered enough to play soccer again. And I assured her that I felt certain this would happen for her, sooner than she thought.

  With that image in mind, Kylee agreed and scheduled the operation to attach the painful device. She understood there would be a mountain of discomfort ahead before the fixator could be removed.

  But once she was into it, she stayed with the process. Two years after our first meeting, I went back to Hallsville, Texas, to cheer Kylee on in the soccer game we had both envisioned for her. (It also happened to fall on her seventeenth birthday.)