Boston: We Must Be Optimistic

Here I am: Another blogger sharing her thoughts regarding the tragedy that unfolded on Monday at the Boston Marathon. I've had a couple of days to take in, process, and begin to mentally recover from what transpired. I'm not going to wax poetic or denounce humanity. I'm just going to walk you through my perspective.

Monday, April 15th. It didn't occur to me at all in the morning that the race was underway. I went about my day then around 3:30 got into my car to drive home, but not without first checking Facebook. A post from the Rite Aid Cleveland Marathon read, "Our thoughts are with those injured at The Boston Marathon, as well as the race organizers and first responders working at the scene." Was it another blazing hot Boston Marathon like in 2012 resulting in runners needing medical attention? Before I put away my phone, similar posts appeared from news outlets. Still, I wasn't sure of what was happening.

I put down my phone, hit the road, and turned the XM to MSNBC. I quickly learned that not much earlier there had been two explosions near the finish of the race. Details were understandably scarce and in retrospect I'm thankful for that; had I known during my drive home what the extent of the damage was, I would have been a mess in the car. When I got home around 4:00, it was all over the television: Two explosions near the finish of the Boston Marathon, about 20 injured, and the same footage over and over of marathoners triumphantly nearing the finish of the coveted Boston Marathon, one of whom was knocked to the ground by the concussion of the first blast. This was serious.

I took to the internet to get more details. In my face were raw photos of the sidewalk along Boylston Street spattered with blood and laden with faces of people visibly experiencing shock and horror. My emotions swung back and forth from sad to terrified. One image in particular made me feel physically ill: A young man being pushed in a wheel chair toward help, his lower limbs gone and his femoral artery being squeezed closed by the bare hand of a complete stranger and civilian alongside him. As Monday evening went on, the number of those injured rose. By Tuesday, the death toll was three and nearly 200 were injured, far too many of which lost limbs. The carnage was, to me, only comparable to what soldiers witness in combat.

But it was just a race.

Some may read this and say, "Just a race?" I know, the The Boston Marathon is not "just" a race. I think that what I mean is clear, though. I can't imagine that runners or spectators were thinking on Monday morning that any kind of tragedy was likely to take place that day. They were going to run and watch the mack daddy of all marathons; to watch a bunch of bad-asses run what many only dream of doing, or to run as one of those bad-asses. But now, a few lives are gone and so many are changed forever.

I know, I said that I wouldn't wax poetic.

I've never been to The Boston Marathon. Honestly, I didn't even care about it until last year. Nevertheless, what happened on Monday afternoon has hit me really, really hard. Maybe I'm turning into a sap as I get older. Maybe I just can't stomach such incomprehensible events. Maybe I'm especially touched because I'm a runner and I know how it should feel to cross that finish line after 26.2 miles and how it should feel to watch a loved one do accomplish the same. Thousands of people didn't get to experience those feelings on Monday afternoon.

I remain optimistic. Moments ago, I saw a photo on the news of a shirtless runner (you know, one of those aforementioned bad-asses) elevating a spectator's wounded leg, which was tied in a makeshift tourniquet that was presumably that runner's shirt. In all of the event footage, my attention is drawn not to those scattering in terror, but to those running toward the wounded. And inside me, I want to run Boston exponentially more than I did prior to Monday afternoon.

We must be optimists.

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