by Jeff Bauman
“Don’t get frustrated,” she’d tell me. “You’re doing great.”
We ordered takeout a lot, since neither of us were comfortable cooking in Mom’s kitchen. Sometimes, we ordered takeout three times a day, an admission that still makes Erin almost sick. She was never a fan of takeout, but I found short trips to restaurants even more difficult than longer outings.
The first time Mom and I went to Zesty’s, for instance, it was horrible, and not just because it took five minutes to get out of the car. Mom struggled with the wheelchair, and I was still figuring out how to grip the doorframe and lift myself out.
It was horrible because I’d been going to Zesty’s forever, and I had known the people there for most of my life. They knew me in sixth grade, when all the kids would come to Mom’s apartment complex to play manhunt, because the complex was huge and Mom always let us stay up late. They knew me when I was an expert on every free playground in Chelmsford, and when Sully spun a one-eighty trying to drag race a Saturn down a winding road. One time, Mom took me to Zesty’s to buy chicken fingers. Mom didn’t have enough money, and her credit card was declined. They gave me the chicken fingers anyway.
“You can pay us later,” they told Mom. They didn’t have to do that for us, but they did, and that’s why I’ll never forget it.
And now, after all those years, Zesty’s felt different. They were incredibly nice. They all wanted to talk. They wanted to tell me how proud they were of my bravery, my attitude, my helping catch the bombers.
Terrible. Those animals. Boston Strong.
I smiled and laughed, but inside I was dying. It wasn’t the same. It was like… I wasn’t one of them anymore. I was a freak. It was a homecoming, but I just wanted to go home.
Mom didn’t understand. She was upset that I hadn’t been more social. “They care about you, Jeff.” She made me feel guilty. Or maybe I should say more guilty than I already felt.
It wasn’t just that everyone was nice; they gave me stuff, too. Free food. Free beer. Restaurants had pictures of me on the walls, alongside their Boston Strong banners. I don’t see that as much now, but that summer, when the bombing was fresh, Boston Strong and I were everywhere. The Brickhouse even had a huge framed photo of me throwing the first pitch at the Sox game. It’s still there. I love it. It’s in the men’s bathroom, though, and that makes it awkward. Public bathrooms are tough enough in a wheelchair. It doesn’t help when you’re staring at yourself from the wall.
Thank God the Hong Kong had three steps outside the front door. I never had to worry about accidently ending up in there.
Erin understood my frustration. “You don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with,” she told me. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”
She always told me that: You don’t owe anyone, not friends, not the media, not Boston. You need to focus on yourself.
But I wasn’t so sure.
A few days before Erin quit her job, the Boston Bruins had called again. The team had made an unexpected run to the Stanley Cup Finals against the Chicago Blackhawks. It was a best-of-seven series, and the two teams had split the first four games. Win or lose the next one, they would be back in Boston on Monday for a pivotal Game 6.
My last appearance as flag captain had gone well. The crowd loved it. “We got so many e-mails and tweets,” the media rep said. “It was the most inspirational flag ceremony we’ve ever done.” The Bruins wanted me to come back and recapture the magic. But with one twist: they wanted me to walk.
Not a chance.
I mean, I was doing pretty well with the walker. I hadn’t fallen once. But that had been for only a week, and only at the Spaulding gym and around the apartment. I still had to concentrate on every step. Ten steps still crushed me.
There was no way I could walk out in front of thirty thousand people. No way.
I had to tell the Bruins no, but I felt so badly about it. I felt like I was letting everyone down. This was Game 6! A championship was on the line! Obviously, people thought I could walk. They just assumed it. Maybe that’s because they knew people who had lost both their legs and walked two months later?
Maybe, I thought, that’s because I’m behind.
The Bruins called back. They had changed the plan: now they just wanted me to stand.
That night, Erin, Mom, and I argued. Or more precisely, Erin and Mom argued. Erin said what she always said: that I shouldn’t feel pressured to do something I wasn’t comfortable with, and that standing in front of a crowd, on television, was clearly too much. She was angry, I think, at the Bruins. She felt they were pushing me too hard.
Mom said I had to do it. I was a symbol of hope and courage. I had to do everything I could, not just for the Bruins, but for the city.
I didn’t say anything. I just listened. After a while, I rolled myself into my room and picked up my guitar. After a few minutes, Erin came in and sat with me. She rubbed my back.
“It’s your decision, Jeff,” she said.
Mom must have been upset, because she started drinking. By midnight, she was outside my locked bedroom door, yelling that I couldn’t let this opportunity pass, that I had to help while I could. People care now, she said, but it wasn’t always going to be this way.
She’d leave for a while, then come back. Sometimes she was crying. Sometimes she was yelling. Sometimes she’d start out talking, then switch to yelling, then end up in tears. “Something special is happening, Jeff. You are inspiring people. How can you turn them down? How can you say no after what everyone has done for you? You owe them.
“This will be over soon,” she said. “This attention. But your recovery won’t be. It will go on and on. So take the good while you can, Jeff, because the world doesn’t give for long.”
It went on like that for three hours, until Erin and I were exhausted, and Mom had worn herself out.
“Is it like this often?” Erin asked, when the apartment was finally quiet.
I shrugged. It didn’t seem like a big deal. “It’s been like this all my life,” I said.
She hugged me, although I didn’t need it.
“You’re right,” I said. “We should get our own place.”
31.
Actually, both Mom and Erin were right. That was what kept me up all night thinking about the Boston Bruins. That and the pain.
I really did need to take care of myself first. That began with my rehabilitation. I needed to work out harder and longer, with even more focus. The first few steps on my artificial legs had been a revelation, but also a false hope. If I can walk ten feet, I thought, then walking a thousand won’t be that hard.
It was harder than I imagined. There were so many things that could go wrong: weakness in my thighs, my upper body being off balance, my leg locking because I stepped on a sloped surface, or, say, a letter that had fallen on the floor. I had given myself a year to learn to walk. To try to walk after only two and a half months, almost ten months before everyone told me it would be possible… it wasn’t realistic.
I needed to be at peace with that. I needed to accept my limitations. Otherwise, I would always be frustrated. Already, I was frustrated every day by what I couldn’t do, by my fear of being in a crowd and my discomfort with people staring at me. It was depressing. When I failed at simple tasks, it made me feel not only different, but less than what I had been.
Did I really need to go in front of thirty thousand people with the sole purpose of standing up, when standing up was so… so nothing to them? And when there was a pretty good chance I couldn’t do it?
On the other hand, the city of Boston had given me so much. Those thirty thousand people at the hockey game had watched my struggles and supported me. They had sent me gifts. If I was a symbol of hope and courage, like so many people said, didn’t I need to embrace that role? Wasn’t it my responsibility to be courageous? To stand up for the city when it called on me?
If I really could make people feel better, how could I refuse?
No, it
wasn’t the city calling. It was only a hockey team. But this was Boston’s hockey team. And it was the Stanley Cup. How could I pass on a chance to help the Bruins win a championship?
You can make a difference. That’s what Mom had said to me. The way you act, Jeff, makes a difference in people’s lives. That’s what they are responding to, your kindness and strength. Maybe you didn’t ask for this, but it’s yours. For now. Show them that no matter what happens in their lives, they can overcome it.
Show us that we matter. That tragedy can make us strong.
I talked about it with my physical therapist, Michelle, at my workout the next day. I could tell she wasn’t for it, and I knew she was right. I wasn’t ready.
But was waiting the best option? Wasn’t she always saying I needed to push myself?
“If I do it, will you come with me?”
This was a big request. I loved Michelle. A lot of people thought she was a hard-ass, especially when they first met her. And she was. She’d push me past my breaking point, and then she’d turn to the next exercise and say, “Keep going. No breaks.” But once you warmed up to her, she was funny. We laughed a lot. She was only trying to help.
But she wasn’t my friend. She was someone I paid to spend time with me. And now I was asking her to give me a whole evening, free of charge.
She didn’t hesitate. “If you want to do this, Jeff, I’ll be there for you.”
This time, I was prepared for the quiet and darkness as Carlos rolled me to the middle of the arena. I was prepared for the flashing lights playing across the ice, the booming announcer, and the sea of people that roared around me as the houselights came on. Michelle was beside me, but I didn’t need her. I grabbed my walker with two hands and pulled myself to a standing position. Carlos waved the Boston Strong flag as I raised my right hand and waved to the crowd.
They went bah-nanas. They were ready. I had given as much as I could.
The Bruins had offered me a luxury box, but I told them I wanted to sit in the crowd this time. We ended up a few rows back, close enough to hear the rattling of the boards and yell at the Blackhawks. Some Watertown cops happened to be sitting a few seats down from us, including their chief of police, Ed Deveau. These guys were in the late-night shoot-out that killed Tamerlan. They were there when the FBI captured Dzhokhar. We were swapping stories the whole time. They were some of the cops who told me, “Don’t ever doubt what you did for the investigation, Jeff. You’re a hero.” But these guys were the heroes. They risked their lives to capture the bombers. By the third period, we were hugging each other. It was an honor to be in the same story as those guys.
Afterward, Big D pulled his car into the handicap-accessible area outside the arena to pick me up. The Bruins had lost a lead in the final period, surrendering two quick goals, and the Blackhawks had just celebrated a championship on our ice. We were bummed as I swung myself into the car.
“Let’s hit it, Big D,” I said, strapping up.
Someone knocked on my window. I looked out. A guy in a Bruins jersey was standing there, signaling to me. I rolled down my window.
“Jeff Bauman,” he said. I’m pretty sure he was drunk. “I just wanted to shake your hand, bro.”
“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand.
As he left, someone else stepped forward. “Great to see you tonight, Jeff.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you.”
Another person stepped forward. Then another one.
“We have to go,” Big D said.
“It’s cool,” I said, shaking another hand. “We got time.” I went through five or six more people, some of them talking with me, some of the women kissing me on the cheek. They said I inspired them. I told them they inspired me, too.
“We really need to go, Jeff,” Big D said again.
“Chill,” I said, “one more minute.”
“Dude… it’s not going to be one more minute. There’s a line down the block.”
I looked out the window. There must have been a hundred people waiting to shake my hand, and more were piling into the back of the line.
A few minutes later, we pulled away. I waved to the line as we left, and the whole line waved back. It was one of the most memorable moments of my summer. I hadn’t been sure I wanted to be at the game. I was never sure I wanted to go anywhere, honestly. It was always a struggle. Always.
But it always ended the same way: I was so happy I’d come.
A few days later, I sat down for my one national television interview, with Brian Williams of NBC. He had called Kat personally, which impressed me so much I stuck with him, despite a last-minute call from Oprah’s people. Mom was devastated. She loved Oprah. But I’d made a promise. I couldn’t go back on my word.
That interview was the first time I used the word stronger. Mr. Williams asked me, “How are you different from before the marathon?”
“I’m stronger,” I replied. “Way stronger.”
I meant physically. At Spaulding, they called me Wolverine, after the X-Man, because of the way my wounds healed. I could do a hundred push-ups, no problem, when I had never even attempted that before. I had mastered the one-leg bridge. I was physically strong.
But I was stronger in other ways, too. I just hadn’t realized it yet.
32.
We went to Uncle Bob’s house on the South Shore of Maine in mid-July. Our family went every summer. It was as much a tradition as Aunt Jenn’s barbecue in June and Cole’s birthday party in August. Uncle Bob’s house was pimped out, and it was right on the beach. I’ve never been a beach person—so much sand—but it was nice to swim in the ocean on a hot July day.
As it turned out, that was the week of the Rolling Stone controversy. The magazine had released an issue with a huge close-up of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the younger bomber, on the cover. It was sort of a glamour shot. It wasn’t from a photo shoot, but it was a photo that made him look about as handsome and “rock star” as he could ever look.
People were upset, especially in Boston. There had been a protest against the magazine, and a Massachusetts State Police sergeant named Sean Murphy had, without authorization, given photos of the manhunt to Boston magazine. The photos showed cops in riot gear, and Dzhokhar covered with blood, trying to exit the boat where he was found. One showed the red dot of a rifle target on his bloody face. This is what the magazine should have published, he said.
That, of course, created its own controversy.
Sergeant Murphy, who had initially been suspended from the force, happened to be at his summer place in the same small Maine town. Uncle Bob’s friend Gerry Callahan, the radio personality, said the sergeant wanted to meet me. I said sure, tell him to come by. I met cops all the time. I loved meeting cops.
We had lunch, chatted, and took a picture afterward. Soon after, Aunt Jenn uploaded the photo to Facebook. The next morning, there was a big article in the newspaper, featuring the photo, claiming that I supported Sergeant Murphy. Before long, it was national news. I didn’t feel anyone had done anything wrong, but other people started to feel like I was being manipulated. That maybe Mr. Callahan, who was outspoken on the issue, was using me to help Sergeant Murphy.
“I don’t want to make a statement,” I told Kat, when she advised me to clear up the misperception. “I just want it to go away.”
I wasn’t against Sergeant Murphy. I don’t think he should have released the photos. And I also don’t think he should have been reassigned to the graveyard shift, which was what eventually happened. It was an emotional time. Very emotional. We should all have second chances.
I was just worried that everything would get blown out of proportion. And it did. With the photo circulating, the press dug up something I had said on my radio interview with Gerry Callahan on WEEI, a minor controversy at the time. Mr. Callahan asked what I thought of Tamerlan Tsarnaev, and I responded, “He’s dead, and I’m still here.”
It wasn’t meant to be vengeful. I wasn’t saying I wanted him dead, or th
at I was happy he had died. It was a statement of fact. Who came out better because of the bombing? Nobody. But that coward got it worse than me.
Now the press was putting that statement and the photo together, implying that I was offended by the Rolling Stone cover, and violently angry toward the Tsarnaev brothers.
This was crazy.
And wrong.
I don’t have vengeance in my heart against the bombers. I don’t want to see the surviving brother tortured or executed or taken out vigilante style. I don’t necessarily want him dead. I don’t want him walking free, able to hurt other people, but I don’t see how his death accomplishes anything. It’s not closure for me. What they did is part of my life, whether the bombers are alive or not.
I respect people who think differently. Aunt Jenn and Mom hate the bombers for what they’ve put us through. They call them monsters and animals.
“They don’t deserve to be on this planet,” Aunt Jenn says.
Mom keeps it simple. “They killed people, Jeff,” she says. “They killed a child. Martin’s parents had to watch their son die. Only a monster would do that.”
No, I thought, they were people. No matter what they did, they were people.
I never thought about them beyond that. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it’s part of my healing. Maybe I’ll go through an angry phase one day, like the psychologist at Spaulding said I might. But the people I think about, when it’s quiet and I have to think about the bombing, are the Odoms, who were with my family in the hospital; Ms. Corcoran, who lost her legs and almost lost her daughter; Pat and Jess, the newlyweds; Martin, Krystle, and Lingzi Lu, who stood near me, but whom I never got to meet.
I think about Carlos.
All those friends inspire me.
It didn’t bother me that Rolling Stone wrote about Dzhokhar Tsarnaev. I didn’t want to read the article, and I never have, but I wasn’t upset that they tried to understand why he would bomb a marathon and kill innocent people. It’s important to know, because he wasn’t a monster. He was a kid.
