Patriots Day, a Bostonian’s Story
By: Kathleen McLean
Patriots Day to Bostonians means the Boston Marathon. For as long as I can remember, I was under the impression we had the day off from school because the Boston Marathon was taking place. As small children living in Boston we heard all about the race, how many people were flying in, what the best time last year was, is a Kenyan going to win, and Heartbreak Hill; an awful hill the marathon runners loathe. In elementary school the class would go over all of the details, in middle school we would look forward to the holiday to spend with friends, in high school it was a great excuse to smoke some weed and get on the train to go downtown, and in college we looked for keg parties all along the marathon route.
On April 15, 2013, I was vacationing in Palm Springs with my family. They flew out west so we could all meet during our children’s spring break. For years, my brother in law has timed the Boston Marathon. He’s usually stationed at the finish line with all of the other timers contracted for the race. My nephew always accompanied him to make some extra cash while getting to enjoy the festivities. However, this particular Patriots Day they were with myself and my family in Palm Springs.
We were sitting at the pool when all of our phones went off. And the texts were all the same, someone had detonated bombs at the Boston Marathon. We frantically grabbed our children from the pool and immediately started calling friends, coworkers, and family to make sure everyone was safe. I called my best childhood friend. Her dad had been training for the marathon, and he was running that day. She answered in tears. I asked her where she was and she was just leaving her hiding spot. Allison, always up for a fun day, had offered to take her daughter, son and three teenage friends into Boston to cheer on her dad and the other runners. She had heard the first bomb go off and had seen the blood, she immediately grabbed the kids and took refuge under a stairwell in a nearby apartment building. I had called just as she was making a plan to get back to the T with all five kids. Through many tears, she explained after the first bomb had gone off she was screaming for her group to go, but when they were running the second bomb went off, and she didn’t know where to seek safety. She was grateful the apartment building had its main door unlocked.
My brother in law called his coworkers and family members, and thankfully they were all ok. The next few hours were mixed emotions for us. We all went back to our rooms to check out the news. As I was sitting there feeling secure and thankful that I didn’t know anyone that was injured my phone began to ring. It was Allison, and that was the call that changed everything for me. Our group of highschool friends were standing outside of a popular bar called the Forum when the second bomb went off. It was a group of five guys from my hometown of Stoneham, a suburb right outside of the city of Boston. Like Allison, after the first bomb went off they were all rushing to safety. JP, one of the guys yelled to get into the street. As he was helping his brother’s girlfriend over the guard rails, the second bomb went off. Three of my friends each lost a leg. His girlfriend was spared her leg. The exact moment she was hopping over the guardrail was the exact moment the second bomb went off. She was injured badly but, still had her limbs. She was so close to the backpack that held the pressure cooker that the zipper of the backpack had to be surgically removed from her leg.
I was devastated. My tears didn’t stop for months. I had always wondered if anyone I had ever known would end up on the AOL or Yahoo news feed, they did. One, friend, in particular, was injured worst than the others, his name is Marc Fucerile. He was the last bombing survivor to leave the hospital that year, and he was one of my closest childhood friends. He had hung out with myself and my twin brother since he was 12. He was either at my house, or we were at his. I knew his whole family and even went as his date to his dad’s wedding. When I heard he had lost a leg and may not make it, I was crushed. I wasn’t just sad for the pain and suffering for him and his family I was terrified. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that someone had set up bombs at the Boston Marathon. I was stressed, uneasy, depressed, and helpless. I donated to their Go Fund Me pages and encouraged everyone also to give. I sent cards, talked to their family members, and stayed in the know as best as I could. I am grateful that each friend survived. They have had to rebuild their lives and learn how to walk with prosthetics. Marc, has now become a speaker, going all over the US to talk about his trials, tribulations, and how he conquered them.
This hitting so close to home for me has affected me in a way that I wish it hadn’t. I get extremely nervous going to crowded places. I’m apprehensive of going to events and that includes the recent Women’s March. I was nervous about someone doing something awful to the groups of women. I wonder if I’m being aware of my surroundings. Am I doing the right thing bringing my children to events? Are we at risk? Is there enough security? Where are the exits?
At the end of the day are the terrorists winning, I don’t think so. Am I afraid? I would be lying if I said I wasn’t.
