Author: Winslow Townson

“If I had run aimlessly around the perimeter of the blast sites, I would have wasted my time and a chance to really contribute to the story…”

Patriots Day. This Massachusetts holiday celebrates the battles of Lexington and Concord, which were the first battles of the American Revolutionary War in 1775. The day always begins with battle re-enactments. Then the Red Sox play an 11AM game, and during and after the game there is the running of the Boston Marathon, a race that first ran in 1897.

There are always lots of photojournalists working in and around Boston on Patriots Day.  This year it fell on Monday April 15, 2013, and it also included celebrating Jackie Robinson Day at Fenway Park and ballparks across the country, with every player wearing number 42.  The Red Sox celebrated a bottom of the ninth walk-off win just eight blocks from the finish line of the Boston Marathon. The real story of the game was not so much the walk-off-win by the home team, but the celebration of the first African American man to play in the Major Leagues. Being assigned to the baseball game that day I knew that being sure to photograph multiple players in one frame wearing the number 42 became the most important picture of the game, and combining it with something patriotic to commemorate Patriots Day would be a bonus.  Well before I even got to the ballpark, I knew that was the picture I needed to make that day.  It was a sunny day, so I did all my cropping and toning underneath my GriffGear laptop screen shade- a quality, durable and compact screen shade made in Australia.

Boston Red Sox players wearing number 42 (2013). Source: Winslow Townson.

Forty-five minutes after the game ended, I was just finishing filing the last of 48 pictures from the game, which included 22 for the wire and 26 out takes which go directly into the archive.

Then, my phone rang.

The Boston Photo Editor told me that “people were maimed” at the finish line of the Marathon and I was directed to head there right away. He said nothing about a bomb, two bombs, or anything else, because initial information was sparse. That is all the information or direction I received from my editor all day. Cell phone’s didn’t work around the ballpark due to the shear volume of calling and texting about the bombings, and around the finish line all cell phone communication was cut for fear of them being used to trigger another bomb.

As I was leaving the ballpark, word on the street began spreading that bombs went off at the finish line. That information, combined with the never-ending sound of the sirens of emergency vehicles, started to paint the picture for me.

The five minutes it took for me to get from Fenway Park to the area of the finish line was enough time to formulate a plan in my mind before I got out of the car. So, just like the baseball game, I arrived near the bombing scene already knowing the kind of picture I needed to look for. Considering the technology of cameras we use today, knowing what the picture is can often be the bigger challenge than actually making the picture.

Without being able to communicate with any editors or photographers, this was the way I thought out what I needed to do: I knew my wire service had several people covering the finish line and I knew that, considering the scope of what had happened, that getting anywhere near the blast sites was not going to happen. But that did not frustrate me. I knew those extremely experienced photographers we had at the finish line were going to take the responsibility for the pictures in and around the blast sites (the scene, the injured, the rescuers, and the responders).

So, instead of running around wildly all over the area taking pictures, my plan was to locate the spot where runners who had finished or who were taken off the course before they finished were meeting up with their loved ones. Surviving the incident was now part of the story.

I left my car with two EOS 1D X’s, with a 400mm lens on one and a 20mm lens on the other (I also carried a flash and several other zoom lenses with me). I was either going to be able to get right amongst the runners or I was going to be kept a ways away, so I planned for both.

As I suspected, the block and a half away from the blast sites were completely off limits to everyone- and the cops were not screwing around. They were very concerned about more secondary explosions, which are a common terrorist tactic. Here was my first chance at a picture, the police directing people away from the blast sites.

One block further away on Boylston Street (which is the street the finish line is on), I found the busses that all the runners were to get on after they finished the race. This was the spot I was looking for. Here I found people holding signs with the names of runners they were looking for, runners being reunited with others they had run with, runners being reunited with family and friends and people basically walking around with that blank, lost look on their face. There were potential pictures everywhere.

Two thoughts crossed my mind at this point: One was that, with pictures everywhere, it kind of reminded me in a weird way of the moment a team wins a championship. In that case there are pictures with different emotions all over the court, field or rink. The problem now was where to find that one storytelling picture that we all look for at the end of any emotional or championship event. My second thought was that this was an obvious place for a secondary explosion, and I needed to be aware of the surroundings. A long row of porta-johns caught my attention as an area to avoid, and I made myself aware of the locations of mailboxes and trashcans. It seemed sad that in this country, I was in a place where I had to be concerned about these things. And it’s just my own belief, but I’ve always felt that no picture is worth dying for.

It was at this point that I was now basically using two lenses; a 20mm and a 70-200mm zoom. I have stopped using a wide-angle zoom because of trouble with edges of the frame or even sides of the frame not being sharp when other parts of the frame were sharp.

Trying to be respectful of the situation and not just shoving my camera in everybody’s face, I spent a large amount of time just looking and listening for a picture. That’s when I heard it–a faint crying, a kind of quiet whimpering. A young, female runner all by herself, walking towards me wrapped up in a foil blanket and crying as she wrapped her arms around to comfort herself. Instead of walking towards her, I let her just walk past me. I shot about 10 frames (and with the EOS 1D X that doesn’t take long) with a 20mm lens as she passed right by me.

Sometimes you don’t know how a picture will feel until you bring it up on your laptop. So, working for a wire service and knowing that a deadline is passing every second, I headed back to my car to transmit with a wireless card.  The picture of the female runner crying on this page just worked, and I’m not ashamed to say that some luck was involved. It worked for me because other runners are walking around in different directions.  An ambulance is leaving the scene, and the man in the red coat is holding flowers that are obviously for a loved one when the marathon was finished.

Woman crying after the Boston bombing (2013). Source: Winslow Townson.

This picture was just one moment in a day of thousands of moments in Boston, but it appeared on over 75 front pages of newspapers around the world the next day, and it was a double truck in “Leading Off” in Sports Illustrated.

As I said before, there was some luck involved when the different features within the picture all lined up at the same .005 of a second. But I also believe that my thought process on approaching this tragedy got me pictures on this day, just as much as my eye or the camera did. Whether you have a whole day or just a few minutes to come up with a plan, it is a necessity to think clearly, assess the situation, and approach a scene at the place where you best fit into the big picture. If I had run aimlessly around the perimeter of the blast sites, I would have wasted my time and a chance to really contribute to the story.

With over 25 years of experience as a photojournalist, this approach has become second nature.

Winslow can be reached for questions or comments at wwtownson@aol.com; Visit his web site here. 

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[Text] Photojournalist on Capturing Mass Tragedy in a Moment’s Notice appeared first on Witnify.

Author: Jennifer Dranoff

Marathon Monday:
The energy that comes from the starting Village at Hopkinton is infectious and indescribable. Excitement. Anxiety. Every runner doing their pre-race rituals, whether that is carefully preparing an unusual breakfast that is certain to keep them going, taking a nap, saying a prayer, or going to the bathroom every 25 minutes. 27,000 runners are all together, waiting anxiously for the first gun to go off. Every runner has a different story and a different ritual. Every runner, however, has the same goal: to cross the finish line of Boston Marathon. Whether it is for the first time, or the 23rd, every runner has trained hard, and earned that opportunity.

As the gun goes off, it is hard not to feel every possible emotion. I was so excited that I was about to start my first Marathon in the city I loved so much, on the day that means so much to me. As the gun went off, and the marathon officially began, I could not wait to cross that finish line. I was told by Ron to not run faster than an 11 minute mile for the first 6 miles, advice I will take with me to every future marathon. He explained that “the first six miles determine your last six miles.” And even though this was close to impossible, as the excitement made me want to run as fast as I could, I kept my pace slow, and focused on enjoying everything around me. This was easy. I was so overwhelmed with emotion that crying was inevitable as people I had never met before told me how proud they were of me, and how I was an inspiration. They gave me high fives and encouraging words. I couldn’t believe how quickly the miles passed me by. I was so excited and distracted by the millions of people cheering me on that I barely noticed how far I was running. I hydrated regularly, and ate the “shot blocks” I brought to keep me going. I needed to bring nothing, however, as Boston had me covered. I took advantage of the generosity these people gave. I ate licorice, gummy bears, a jolly rancher, and took every orange slice that was offered to me. I gave as many people as I could high fives, but focused mainly on the children cheering me on. They were so excited to be there! Some were counting how many high fives they could receive on this beautiful day, others screamed with excitement when I chose their hands, as though I was a famous rock star. They did not understand why today was so important, but they knew it was.

The miles kept passing, and I kept running. Miles 1-3 were a breeze physically, while miles 4 and 5 left my already injured foot in pain. I kept running, however, and my body worked itself out leaving me pain free around mile 6. Nothing could stop me on this beautiful day. The conditions for running were perfect. Not too hot, not too cold.

Mile 13 came along, and I knew that I could finish this race. This was another emotional moment for me, as until that moment 13.1 meant I had finished the race, not reached the halfway point. I kept going, my “fans” continued cheering me on, and I knew my family was tracking me so they would know the perfect time to head to the finish.

Around mile 15, my foot hurt again. I had to slow down and attempt to stretch out my foot in between strides. It gave me trouble for almost a mile. I stopped to stretch my foot, and when I started up again, I had a round of applause suited for a football player who just gave a “thumbs up” while walking off the field from an injury.

Mile 18 became very cold. My arms went numb, but nothing would stop me. Other than my arms, my body felt great. To be sure nothing bad would happen, I quickly stopped in the Medical tent to make sure my numb and tingling arms were strictly from being cold, and nothing more. They checked all my vitals, told me I had the blood pressure of “a choir girl”, which is pretty impressive after running 19 miles, and sent me on my way. Coming out of the tent, another round of applause ensued, this time from spectators and runners.

At Mile 21, I knew something had gone wrong. I passed several spectators on their phones who were crying. I quickly pushed it to the back of my mind, convincing myself nothing had happened, and continued to run toward the goal that I had worked so hard for. Around mile 22.5 I passed the Hoyts, which was the most inspirational 30 seconds of my life. If they could do this, so could I. They will never know the impact they had on me in that moment—as a runner and a person, and will continue to have on me for the rest of my life.

Mile 23 came, and it became hard to keep the fear to the back of my mind as I continued to see more people on their phones, yelling in fear and crying. Several runners passed me talking about “what happened,” but I still could not figure it out. I did not want to figure it out. It was not until mile 24, when a runner passed me after sharing that she “heard the news” to a spectator, that I gathered the courage to ask what had happened. Hearing the words “two bombs went off on Boylston at the finish line” almost stopped me in my tracks. Anyone who has ever learned that their loved ones might be in danger can empathize with the fear I felt in that moment. I knew my entire family was waiting for me at the finish line. My husband, my parents, my parents-in-law, my cousin, and my aunt and uncle. I began sprinting. Suddenly the marathon, what I had worked so hard to complete, no longer mattered. What mattered was that my family was waiting for me at the finish line, and they were in danger. I had to run to them. I sprinted for about half of a mile before I could not take it any longer. I did not realize I was crying until I begged a spectator to let me borrow her phone. Begging was unnecessary, as she was handing me her phone before I could say anything coherent. Even though she handed me an iPhone, the same phone I own, I stared at it in horror, not knowing what buttons to press. She kindly rubbed my back, asked me to give her the number I wanted to contact so she could text them, as phone calls were not going through. I managed to give her my Mom’s phone number, and she sent her a text message asking if she was OK. My Mom quickly responded that she and my Dad were OK, but she did not know about my husband or the rest of my family. Not knowing what to do, I let out a “thank you” to this wonderful stranger and began my sprint again.

I passed the “Mile 25” marker, but did not realize it until I noticed the “one mile left!” sign. This sign should have made me thrilled, but instead it reminded me of what happened only a mile away. This sign should have been surrounded by screaming spectators, but instead, thousands of people were quietly walking away from the finish line, paying no attention to us. I continued sobbing as I continued running, noticing spectators trying to stop me from running in the direction of danger, and trying to give me comfort. Less than a mile away, I finally asked a group of Boston Police if I would be able to look for my family at the finish line. They told me the finish line was now a crime scene, and the race was over. I wish I could say I kept myself composed, but it was impossible. On a day-to-day basis, I take pride my ability to keep calm and collected in times of need, especially around my students. But today, in this moment, I needed others to help me. In the midst of Kenmore square, a place I had grown so familiar with, I found myself more lost than ever.

I will never forget the kindness Boston gave me in that moment. A mother, searching for her own husband and 2 children, gave me a hug and tearfully promised me it would be OK. A medic gave me a trash bag for warmth and brought me into his tent to help calm me down. Three girls came over to me immediately after seeing me. One of them sacrificed their coat for me to wear. The second, without hesitation, told me she would come up with a plan for me to meet up with my family. She asked for my Mom’s and husband’s phone number, then texted them that I would be in Bertucci’s around the corner and to come find me there. As I handed the first girl her jacket, she gave me 20 dollars to buy food in the restaurant while I waited for my family. I only accepted this money because she told me she knew I would pay it forward.

Walking into Bertucci’s, Boston continued to prove to me what I already knew: this was the greatest city in America. As I was crying in the bar after watching the bombs go off over and over on the bar’s 4 televisions, a man came over and gave me his jacket and bought me a much-needed beer. A family, who saw me, came over and gave me a hug. They sat me down at their table, ordered me bread, and helped distract me from the horror I was feeling. They lent me their phone so I could try to check my email, while the man who lent me his jacket offered to call my husband again. It was then that we heard each other’s voices for the first time since 5:00 that morning. Never have I heard anything so wonderful. Though my husband and my Mom had told me they were safe, calming down was not an option. I would not believe they were all safe until I got to see them, and feel them for myself. I do not know how much time that amazing family stayed with me as I anxiously waited to see someone I knew, but I will forever remember their kindness. Finally my parents walked through the door of the restaurant, and the moment was surreal. I could not run fast enough to jump into my Mother’s arms, where we stood, embracing each other and crying for several minutes. I hugged my Dad, sobbing, just so happy to be reunited. We all went over to thank the family that had so wonderfully taken me in. I embraced one of the women at the table, who cried in my arms apologetically. Now all I needed was my husband and his family. I knew he was coming, but there was no telling if he was safe on the streets of Boston. As I sat, crying with my parents at a table in Bertucci’s, he ran by our table yelling my name. Another embrace drowned in tears and relief. His father was not far behind. When you hug someone after fearing that you had lost them, there is no comparable feeling in the world. I did not want to let any of them out of my sight. Ever.

I forced some food down my throat because I knew my body needed to eat, but I was still in shock from the event. We stepped out of the restaurant onto the streets of Boston to begin looking for a cab. We went much farther than the mile I had left of my run in order to do so. I had to buy sweatpants at Boston University in order to keep warm, and we made it all the way back to my parents’ hotel, a block from the finish line, before we were able to catch a cab. Looking down at Boylston street, seeing the signs for the “Family Meeting Area” where I had planned to triumphantly stand as I met up with my family, which was now covered in debris, was unbearable to see. Leaving my parents at the hotel for the night was horrible. I never wanted them out of my sight again. But the hotel assured us they were ID-ing everyone who entered the building, and would keep their guests safe.

We finally made it back to our hotel, crying the entire way, where I was able to run into the arms of the rest of my family. I cannot tell you how grateful and relieved I felt embracing them. Even now as I write this, reliving the feeling I had when I heard the words “a bomb went off on Boylston” I wish I was back in their embrace. We were all together, we were all safe. Truly, there was nothing more important.

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[Text] As Though Running 25 Miles Was Not Hard Enough appeared first on Witnify.

In this photo you can see I’m one of the only people standing after the 1st bomb went off on April 15th. I am looking on the ground at my wife. All you can see through the smoke is her blonde hair. Photo By: Michael Bourgault

Author: Michael Bourgault

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[Image] Seconds After the First Bomb Went Off appeared first on Witnify.

This is a picture of me relaxing in Boston Commons following the 2012 Boston Marathon, run under extremely hot conditions compared to nearly perfect weather of the 2013 race.

It was an otherwise perfect day for running the Boston Marathon–my eighth, a race I first ran in 1987. I ran the first 13 miles with two friends from my home town–Holly and Mike. Both of them were running their first Boston. Despite likely running in scores of the same races, they did not know each other. Independently, they told me they hoped to run 3:35. So I put them together just a few minutes before the race and decided to run with them, even though I had qualified with a faster time and would have otherwise been in a different corral. After 13 miles, I needed to use the porta-potty, and left them–and both finished ahead of me, but not together.

I finished in 3:49, having started in the second wave, about 24 minutes slower than my qualifying time from the 2011 Atlanta Marathon. After crossing the finish line, I received my medal, space blanket, food goodie bag, and was chatting with Holly, who had waited for me at the finish line before a planned meeting with her family in the family reunion area around the corner from the race on St. James Avenue. We were discussing how wonderful the sports drink was that was handed to us–raspberry flavored. She decided to walk back toward the finish line and retrieve another bottle. I heard a loud explosion, that sounded like a cannon.

White smoke was drifting from north to south, and I knew that this was not something good. My immediate thought was that this was a pipe bomb, and it had exploded on the second-story of a building somewhere near the finish line. I instinctively looked down at my watch, thinking that there was a strong possibility that a second bomb might be detonated in about 10 minutes, targeted at first responders. The time on my digital watch was 2:50. I turned around and started walking east toward the Commons. Then, after what I had estimated to be more than a minute (and which turned out to be about 14 seconds), I heard the second blast. At that point, I began to doubt my theory about two bombs, and started worrying that it might be a series of them, and that they may be making their way down Boyleston Street, possibly putting me in the path. I picked up my pace.

There were lots of police around, but no one I asked appeared to know anything was out of the ordinary. It was a really long time before I heard the first sirens, and I glanced again at my watch, which registered 2:58. I thought this was really strange, because it would not have been unusual to hear sirens of some kind in that area even if there had been no bomb. And then, the sirens were constant for hours, and I saw scores of emergency and other official (both marked and unmarked) vehicles going south on Arlington Street and turning left (west) on St. James–a block south of Boyleston. My wife called me on my cell at about 2:59, and I told her to turn on the television–that “something bad just happened, but I don’t know what it was.” She did, but couldn’t find anything. I checked the news on my cell phone and couldn’t find anything either.

I decided to pick up my checked gear from the school bus on a side street off of Boyleston, and then leave the area. It was somewhat windy, and I was feeling chilly, so after wandering aimlessly for a few blocks, I looked for shelter. I ended up in the Back Bay Amtrak and commuter train station–probably not the best place to be with the risk of a potential widespread terrorist attack. I began getting calls from local media–many of our local TV and radio stations were calling all of the runners they could find, and my wife had given them my cell number. I did several live interviews, but I did not know much, other than that by then, I learned that there indeed had been two bombs. The first reports were that six people had been injured. And there were reports that other bombs had been discovered in various places. This was not true, but added to the anxiety I had that I was possibly in an exposed position sitting in a train station.

There were rumors in the train station that the subway system had been shut down, but the Amtrak and commuter rail appeared to be still operating. Not knowing the full extent of the tragedy, I thought about whether I wanted to stick around for the post race party–I had attended the previous year and found it entertaining. This year, I did not feel like going, and worried a bit about the report of transportation being disrupted. Based on that, I decided to get to the Amtrak South Station as soon as I could, and leave town as planned by bus. I did not learn that this party had been cancelled until the next day.
Bracing for the possibility that I might be trapped for a long time in Boston without a way to get to South Station and back home, I approached the information desk in the Back Bay station. I learned that if I purchased a ticket and left immediately for the platform, there was a commuter train leaving Back Bay for South Station in less than five minutes.
I was on it. I later learned that many others weren’t so lucky being able to leave town as planned.

I ended up taking an overnight bus from South Station to 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, where I arrived around 5:30 a.m., and had a conversation with a K-9 police officer, with his dog on a leash, about my experience. There was a television crew from a local TV station that requested to interview me live, but I thought that I could get a train back to my hometown of Harrisburg that was leaving in just a few minutes–I could arrive several hours faster than if I used my bus ticket from Philadelphia to Harrisburg. During the train ride, I did live telephone interview with a commercial radio station from State College, PA, where my son had an internship as a radio producer. I remember expressing some anger that whatever motivated this, I found it appalling that the target was such a spirit-lifting event such as the Boston Marathon.

By the time I arrived home, I was beginning to get a sense of the magnitude of the tragedy, and realized that there were two previous Bostons I had completed where I would have been crossing the finish line at almost the exact time that the bomb had hit–the last one in 2011. It would not have been surprising for me to have been crossing the finish line at around 2:50 in the 2013 race–except that unlike most years, I needed a Boston-qualifying race for 2014, so I ran much faster than I would have otherwise.

I also learned that Mike’s wife, Becky, had been unable to finish the race. She was on Boyleston Street, seeing the finish line just a couple of blocks ahead of her, when the bombs went off. And another friend, Gary, who had been waiting for his wife to finish, was only a few feet from the first blast, and was blown into a barricade by the shock wave, but was otherwise unhurt.

Author: Gary Grobman

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
[Text] A Day in the Life – April 15 appeared first on Witnify.

I was there.

I should write something.

I was there at the start when the air was alive with energy and anticipation. I was there when runners who prepared for months nervously counted down to the start of the race. I was there when it was a perfect day for running 26.2 miles, fueled by the energy of the volunteers and spectators lining the route. I was there when it was uplifting and exhilarating. I was there when it was a fantastic day to run the 117th Boston Marathon.

I was there when the bombs went off, a few minutes after I crossed the finish line, just a few dozen yards away. I was there when cheers of celebration and joy transformed into screams of pain and terror, as emergency personnel and volunteers protected only by their bright yellow jackets ran into the smoke and carnage as they simultaneously screamed for us to evacuate.

I was there for nearly two hours, stumbling dazed around Boston as runners and family members desperately searched for each other, comforted each other, helped each other. And I was there when all but one of our friends made contact with her family, her glazed and wet eyes foretelling the unimaginable reality to come.

I see the faces of those killed, their photos capturing random, happy moments from their short lives. I was there, in their final minutes. I wonder if they cheered for me, or caught my eye for just a moment. I try to understand why some of us are protected by guardian angels, while others are called to become angels. I question endlessly how an event to celebrate running could leave spectators without limbs. How an event to celebrate the human spirit could be a target for violence, hatred and death. I wonder how the historic Boston Marathon is now followed by the words “Bombing”, “Massacre” and “Tragedy”.

I didn’t watch the unending hours of news. I didn’t have to. I was there, and replay that moment daily. My chest feels like it is being crushed by the combined weight of guilt, disgust, helplessness and sadness; so much sadness.

I didn’t save newspapers about the event. I didn’t attend the remembrance, memorial service or group run I was invited to. I should have, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because I’m trying the best I can to be here, not there.

But I was there, and I should write something.

Author: bethogrady

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[Text] Boston Marathon–I Was There appeared first on Witnify.

I took this image at 2:19pm April 15th 2013, 30 minutes before the 1st bomb exploded just behind me at the Marathon Sports store.

I was standing much closer to the explosion’s site earlier, but a craving for some ice cream on that beautiful day (that’s how it started out) made me go inside Sugar Heaven. I think that saved me from more serious injuries; when I got outside again eating my ice-cream, I was just slightly further away and never went all the way back into the crowd in front of Marathon Sport again, placing me a bit further from the bomb when it went off.

I don’t remember the blast. I do remember the heat, the smell, the panic, my ears ringing… the blood…

I wanted to post this picture to show what beautiful day it was, just before…

Author: Anton Spaans

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[Image] Before It All Happened, It Was a Beautiful Day appeared first on Witnify.

Author: Sydney Corcoran

Everyone was so happy as we cheered on the complete strangers that were running by while waiting for our loved one to cross over the finish line and come back to us. I was trying to see a familiar face on any of the runners but I couldn’t find my aunt just yet. My mother was eager to see her as well; she was using my shoulders for balance as she was trying to pull herself up so she could balance on her tiptoes. My father was right behind us, our family friends were scattered around us. It had the allusion of a beautiful day.

It’s amazing how everything can change from ecstatic and jubilant, to horrifying and gruesome in the matter of mere seconds. The first bomb goes off and everyone is immersed in smoke. Every one of my senses is in use and working in overdrive. I can smell smoke and blood. I can taste the smoke going down my throat and into my lungs. I can see people on the ground but I can’t make out their faces. I can hear screams coming from every angle; each scream being muffled by my perforated eardrums.

I felt the force of the first of two bombs, but I was left standing. I wasn’t lucky enough to walk away unscathed. I felt like half of my right foot was gone. I managed to limp away to a rail. I was clutching onto that rail trying to comprehend what had just happened.

The next thing I know, I’m on the ground laying flat on my back. Men are putting massive amounts of pressure to my thigh and they’re taking off my shoes because they are covered in blood. I lift my head up to look at my thigh and I see something protruding. It’s hard for me to breath. When I speak, it’s barely above a whisper.

There’s a man with a friendly face that’s holding my hand and telling me to squeeze it. He keeps calling me buddy and tells me I’ll be okay. I’m not sure I believe him. I’m about to be wheeled away on a gurney when he asks if I would like him to stay with me; I say yes. As the people are carrying me towards the medical tent, I think in my head that we’ll be killed by another bomb.

Once in the medical tent, they begin tearing away my clothes and strap an oxygen mask over my face. My entire body feels tingly. I can hear one of the medics say how I’m going white and my lips are purple. I begin to shiver because all warmth is leaving my body. I can hear the medics frantically yelling, “She has a femoral artery break! She has to leave now! There’s no time!”

Once I’m in the ambulance I intermittently close my eyes because the urge to sleep has grown stronger and my will is deteriorating. The ambulance was cut off and the EMT in the back with me is thrown to the front of the vehicle. I was jostled around from the abrupt stop and I feel my warm blood rushing out of my thigh. I don’t think I’ll make it.

In the emergency room, everyone is asking my name and where I’m from and they want me to give them a number they can contact for me. I speak with enormous effort. I ask them when they’re going to put me under, I just want to sleep and not feel the pain. I ask them while on the brink of sobbing if I’ll be able to keep my leg. I also tell them that both of my parents were in the explosion and I don’t know if they are all right.

I could be an orphan. The only person I think I have left is my brother. I want to sob thinking about how my parents could have been violently ripped away from this earth leaving me all alone on this operating table bleeding to death.

When I wake up, I’m intubated and tired. I see my dad and want to ask questions but the tubes prevent me from doing so. I ask for paper and a pen and try to ask him if my mother is alive. He tells me she is alive and in critical condition, he tells me that she no longer has her legs. I feel myself start to cry as I try to write and tell him that I thought that I was an orphan. After he reads what I wrote he begins to sob and kiss my face.

The hospital wanted to bring my mother and I together so they wheeled her bed into my room and next to me. Once we were next to each other we both began to cry and we held each other’s hands.

I didn’t care that my mom had lost both her legs, I wish that I could take away the pain she feels, but I’m just glad she’s alive and that I can still look at her and call her my mother. I know that we both have a long road to recovery.

I now have a hollow hole in my right foot; the bottom of my foot has a crack in it like the sidewalk does. My right calve has two incision’s that were made to alleviate pressure because I had suffered from Compartment Syndrome. I have two massive shrapnel wounds where a piece of shrapnel entered my thigh and severed my femoral artery. I have two incisions on both of my thighs from the surgeons taking a vein from one thigh and putting it in the other thigh to repair my broken artery. I have one other shrapnel wound located on the bottom of my shin on my left leg.

Today is Thursday, August 1st, 2013 and I still have shrapnel trying to leave my body. I have a BB pellet that’s trying to work its way out of my right thigh where the major artery was severed. It reminds me every day of the bombings; but it also reminds me that I’m still alive despite those two murderers.

My mother may not have her legs but she’s got new legs now. She and I are proof that those boys almost took our lives, and failed.

I’m just glad I’m alive and that I got to go to my senior prom on crutches without my Wound Vac and I managed walk across the stage at graduation with nothing to aid me except for the boot on my healing foot. I still get to see my parents and my brother and be able to tell them, “I love you”. In my eyes, every day is a good day to be alive.

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
[Text] April 15th, 2013 appeared first on Witnify.

Author: Gracey Watson

“Father and Daughter”

With the Boston Marathon approaching in a couple of weeks, I thought I’d share my own little story about how last year’s tragic events affected our family. The marathon bombings came close to home for us in that my husband was running in it as a representative for a local homeless shelter. Also, our daughter (ten years old at the time) had joined him for the final three miles as (kind of, but not really) a kid “bandit,” intending to cross the finish line together with him. You can read her personal memoir describing her own experience below.

The next day, much of Greater Boston was under lockdown as the authorities pursued the remaining suspect, who was eventually isolated and captured in the town of Watertown, where my husband happened to be the high school principal at the time. As we checked the news obsessively throughout the day, Steve started planning out in his mind how he was going to help his students process and work through such a traumatic event having transpired quite literally in their backyards, many of whom had had their homes searched by police SWAT teams.

Prior to the Boston Marathon, Steve had been nursing an achilles tendonitis injury for several months, but chose to run the marathon anyway, especially given his commitment to the Pine Street Inn. Ironically, if he had been in full health for the race, his usual running time would have brought him to the finish line around when the bombs were detonated. So, despite the setback of having to participate with an injury, his protracted journey ultimately protected him, as well as our daughter, from imminent danger.

The Day of the Race

After sending my daughter off with Steve at mile 23, I hopped on the subway to pick them up at the finish line with warm clothes in hand. As the train approached the St. Mary’s stop, right before the tunnel entrance to Kenmore, I looked out the window and saw an intimidating group of national guardsmen approaching the train. They had stern expressions on their faces and declared, “there was an accident,” so the subway was shutdown indefinitely. As the other passengers exited the train and slowly dispersed, I asked the soldier when service might start running again, but he didn’t know. Just then, I received a New York Times email alert declaring that two bombs had been detonated at the finish line. Utter terror began to overtake me as I confronted the man in uniform with this information, surmising my husband and daughter could have been there at the time. He didn’t deny the report, but wouldn’t reveal anything else. So, I finally asked if I could start walking toward the finish line to find them, but he insisted everything was blocked off and I probably wouldn’t be able to get very far.

I wandered around in a befuddled daze for a few minutes and pressed into a crowd hovering around a radio on the sidewalk. The announcer reported that victims had died in the blast, and that some were children. What if Steve and our daughter were among those killed? In that moment, all I could think of was walking toward the finish line to find them, while simultaneously visualizing our two little boys waiting at home with their grandparents. What if other bombs had been planted along the way? What if I was the only parent left for our sons? If so, was it responsible of me to walk toward the danger? Yet, I was desperate to know whether or not my husband and daughter were safe. I confronted another soldier, and he insisted I turn around and walk home. Following orders, I wandered home on side roads, avoiding the main street, weeping helplessly while calling my mom and in-laws on my cell phone to no avail. The networks were down.

About halfway home, I received a text message from an unrecognized phone number. Apparently, my husband had asked a random stranger to let him borrow her phone. “It’s Steve. We’re okay. Walking home.”

THANK GOD!!!!!!! A flood of relief washed over me.

I finally got home, walked into my yard and just sat for a moment in silent shock, only to be found by my mother-in-law. We embraced tightly, recounted the sequence of events and wept together for a long time.

Eventually, Steve called me from a different person’s phone, and I picked them up a half mile away. What a glorious sight to find my limping husband and courageous daughter by the side of the road, both sweaty and shivering. We were all so grateful to be reunited.

My family was one of the fortunate ones. I know this full well.

My husband’s running the Boston Marathon again in a couple of weeks, even though his achilles isn’t fully recovered yet. Of course, the kids will hold their customary lemonade stand until it’s time to walk down to the sidelines. We’ll cheer the runners on and look out for Steve, as we did last year.

I pray for continued healing and restoration for the victims of the bombings, as well as their loved ones. I pray for protection over this upcoming race.

I also hope for the following promise to come to pass in our complicated, conflict-riddled world:

Isaiah 2:4: “He (God) will judge between the nations and will settle disputes for many peoples. They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore.”

Almost There by Julianna (age 11)

“Mom,” I whispered. “I don’t think I’ll be able to eat all this.” I stared down at my food, feeling as if I was about to puke. My dad was running the Boston Marathon right now with achilles tendonitis, an injury in his ankle, and I was really worried for him. He was a great runner, and this was his second marathon, but his foot was really hurting him.

My mom’s phone buzzed with a text update about my dad. “Well, he’s in Ashland now. I hope he’ll be okay.”

I could just imagine my dad up there, straining his poor hurt ankle. “You think? I wish he hadn’t volunteered for the Pine Street Inn.” The Pine Street Inn was a homeless shelter my dad’s friend helped out with. He had asked my dad to run with him to support the shelter, and of course the answer was yes.

“Yeah, well it’s too late now.” my grandmother, Neena commented.

“I don’t think I should eat much if I’m going to run the last three miles of the race.” I plonked my burrito back on its plate.

“Well, you’ve gotta eat something.” Neena caringly looked into my eyes, stroking my long brown hair. “Just one or two bites might make you feel better.”

I took a few bites, then slouched down in my seat, not feeling any better. “Maybe I shouldn’t run after all.” I definitely was able to run three miles, but this was the Boston Marathon.

“You’re not going to run?” one of my younger brothers, John asked before my other brother, Zeke tossed a chunk of greasy chicken in his lemonade. “Mom! Look what Zeke did!”

“But John put his rice and beans on my lap!”

“Boys, we’re in a public place! Be respectful, or you’ll both have to give me a dollar.” my mom warned, handing Zeke a napkin to wipe off his shorts.

Meanwhile, Neena patted my arm. “You’ll regret it if you don’t go.”

I knew I would regret it, but I was still so nervous.

We left the restaurant and walked down the street. Zeke was still whining about his damp shorts. “I hate John!”

“Mom, Zeke said he hates me!”

“Uh oh, Zeke, do you have to give me a quarter?”

“I don’t care! I hate John and I mean it!” Zeke’s face was starting to turn beet red.

John mischievously giggled, finding his brother’s rage amusing. I just stared across the train tracks at the hundreds of marathon runners, wondering when my dad would be joining them.

We headed back up Beacon Street to Washington Square; then to Star Market, where we would be meeting my dad. Right in front of us were the runners, dashing down the gatorade- coated street.

“I have to go to the bathroom.” I nervously informed Neena, sprinting to the entrance of Star Market, my heart racing. My stomach felt hard as a rock, weighing me down. I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous now, my dad was fine and would be here soon. I came back to where my family and friends were standing, then ran back to the bathroom. This happened four more times before Neena peered at me. “You just went. You don’t have to go again.”

I anxiously stood by my mom, hugging my shivering legs and waiting for my dad to arrive. Then, about five minutes later, a light blue blur sped down the street. Instantly I knew it had to be him. He looked up, as if he was scouring the large crowd of spectators on the sidewalk, searching for us. My heart stopped. He was here. Finally. A rush of relief and happiness rushed all throughout myself like a calm, gentle waterfall pouring down on me. But even though I had that great feeling swelling inside of me, the big, heavy rock in my stomach still hadn’t left yet.

“Steve!” my mom called. “Steve!”

He was walking over to us, smiling. I could see his slight limp, but that didn’t stop him. My dad was a brave, kind, amazing father and I loved him. He rushed over with arms wide open, embracing all of us. My friend Helen from church and her dad, Cliff, who had been standing next to us, raced over to him.

“Steve my man!” Cliff shouted, laughter in his eyes. “Leave Robby all by himself?”

“Yeah,” my dad panted, bending over to stretch his sore body. “In around West Newton he couldn’t catch up, but he’s coming.”

The two dads shared a laugh. I smiled slightly even though I had no idea what they found so amusing. Then, after talking to my mom for a second, he turned to me. “Ready to go?”

I tied my sneakers as tight as they would go without cutting off my circulation, then nodded nervously; and we took off. I started to go a little fast, but my dad stopped me.

“With my achilles, I can’t run as fast as usual.” Sadly, I slowed down my pace a little.

Running in the Boston Marathon was astounding. Sure, I had walked down these streets many times before, but it felt as if right now I was running down a totally different road I had never been on before. The course seemed to be filled with some kind of wonderful iridescent light, glowing all around the spectators faces.

They were all cheering. Cheering for the runners. Cheering for my dad. Even cheering for me, it seemed. Wow, was all I could think. This was amazing. This was awesome. This was too breathtaking for words. I felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted off of my back. Everyone all around me was smiling warmly and cheering, waving posters and banners with encouraging phrases. I was overjoyed as we continued to run down the streets I had seen so many times. I was pretty sure this was going to be the best day of my life.

We kept running. My dad and some others lifted their arms to signal the spectators to keep cheering, as if to say, “Bring it on! I love this!”

My dad and I talked a little on the way, mainly about our days. “The whole time I was running, I just kept thinking, when I get to mile twenty three I can run with my Julianna, and that’s what kept me motivated.” he admitted.

My heart was full. We were almost there. The fact that this was such a wonderful community had never crossed my mind before, but now my eyes were opened to how all these people had got up early and devoted their time to come and cheer for runners, to make this the best day of so many people’s lives.

Then, suddenly all the runners stopped. In front of us all I could see was the large mass of commotion. Some spectators we dashing wildly away from the direction of the finish line. Hundreds of ambulances, it seemed, were speeding back and forth all around us, the alarms and sirens sounding. Panic, it seemed, was flying all around us and spreading like a highly contagious disease. As if on cue, all the marathon runners pulled out their phones and started dialing hastily. I turned to my dad. “What’s going on?”

He just turned to a woman with long blonde hair in front of us.

“Excuse me, do you know what’s going on?”

She looked up from her phone. “Apparently there was some explosion at the finish line and they won’t let us go on.”

I turned to her. “But, are you sure?”

She nodded and went back to being frustrated with her screen. I looked to my dad. “This is some joke, right?”

“I’m not sure. I hope it is.” then back to the woman. “Would you mind if we use your phone?”

“It’s not working. It must be because everyone’s trying to call people at the same time.” She handed her device to my dad anyway, seeing if maybe it would work for him. Thankfully, he was able to send a text to my mom, informing her of what had happened. Then the woman left.

A huge wave of disappointment washed over me. “But, this can’t be happening! I mean-”

My dad grasped my hand. “Let’s go.”

I trembled. We were almost at the finish line. Almost. Maybe if we stayed longer and waited, the police would let us keep running. My dad turned to one of the nearby cops. “Excuse me, officer, but do you know what we should do?”

He let out a long sigh. “I would just go home.”

“So basically the marathon is cancelled?”

“Yeah, we’re trying to work on it, but yes, it is.”

My eyes welled up with tears. All that happiness, all that bliss was gone now.

“Sorry, Jujubean.” My dad put his arm around my shoulder. He didn’t smell that lovely, but I didn’t mind. I took one last glance at the commotion before me, then walked away with my dad.

As we walked back, all I felt was disappointment. We informed other runners of what had happened, then kept walking. Some people were lying on the ground crying, upset they would never be able to finish. I could now feel the bitter cold of the day, see the cloudy gray sky up above. Some day. Since I was only wearing a T-shirt and shorts, the effect of the cold was unbearable. The people at the emergency stands had no more blankets, there were only four thousand blankets at each stand. The walk home was only two miles, but it seemed more like billions of miles in the icy frost. My dad leaned on me for some of the time, using me as a crutch after running twenty five hilly miles. I felt like I was trapped in an ice cube.

“Well, I just hope that whoever needs to be brought to justice is brought to justice,” my dad began, leaning on my arm. “And whoever that has been hurt gets healed.”

Source: graceywatsonblog

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[Text] A Family Memoir appeared first on Witnify.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EC-b9661y14

A Boston Marathon bombing survivor explains his journey from Massachusetts General Hospital to 55 days in rehab to finally returning home to his son.

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
Boston Bombing Survivor: ‘I Just Want to be Home’ appeared first on Witnify.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NAMnOBqQgls

A newly engaged couple tells the story of how the Boston Marathon Bombing helped them realize they were in love with each other after one of them nearly loses their life from the tragedy.

The post Boston Marathon Bombings
Boston Marathon Bombing Unites a Couple appeared first on Witnify.