Unprocessed Grief and Celebration
On April 19, 1995 at around 9:10 a.m., I was in my office on the sixth floor of the Oklahoma State Department of Health, when one of my colleagues came rushing into my office and asked me if I felt the blast. I had not. My colleague explained that something had “exploded” in downtown Oklahoma City, and even as she talked, we rushed to the offices across the hall that had a clear view of downtown. As we entered those offices, several people had already crowded around the windows, but we could see the plume of smoke ascending skyward.
People began to turn on their radios to try to find out what had happened. That office had a small television stashed on a shelf. The television may have had a 13-inch screen, if that large, but I grabbed it off the shelf and turned on the power. Remember, this was 1995, so there were no smart phones and no streaming services. When I turned the television on, the only channel that was even remotely viewable was KWTV. They already had a helicopter with a reporter and camera onboard heading to downtown Oklahoma City. Seconds after I turned on the television, the helicopter flew around the north side of the building. As it did so, the reporter gasped, “Oh my God, the entire front of the building is gone.” The audio from that recording is part of the permanent exhibit at the Oklahoma City National Memorial, and I still get chills every time I hear it when I visit the Memorial.
For whatever the reason, and I’m not sure I understand my reaction to this day, but I announced to my colleagues that I was going to the Oklahoma Blood Institute (OBI) to give blood. A couple of my colleagues decided to go with me. The Blood Institute was less than a mile away from our building, but by the time we got to OBI (which was probably around 9:45 a.m.), there was already a line of people circling the building. One of my colleagues suggested that we drive to the Salvation Army to see if we could volunteer there. The staff at the Salvation Army immediately assessed which of the volunteers had medical training and scurried them off to another location. Those of us without any clinical skills were assigned to phone duty to answer the hundreds of calls. We were given a standard reply – Thank you for calling. We have no information at this time, but please give me your name and phone number, and we will call you back as soon as we have information.”
I spent the remainder of that Wednesday in April 1995 answering phone calls and taking the callers’ information. It wasn’t until I left around 5 p.m. that day to drive the 30 miles to the babysitter’s house in Cashion, Oklahoma to retrieve my 6 ½ -year-old daughter, that I realized the extent of the devastation. Yet, on Thursday, I was back at my office where my colleagues at the Injury Prevention Service were already mobilizing to begin data collection to assess the deaths and injuries associated with the bombing. Friday was no different. I didn’t take the time to process what had happened. The fact that blocks around the perimeter of the Murrah Building looked like a war zone or that national media were swarming didn’t really faze me. Like my colleagues, we just kept working with a focused intensity.
We were all acutely aware of what had happened; it couldn’t be ignored. Even though media from around the country had descended on Oklahoma City, the local television affiliates (ABC, NBC, and CBS) had pre-empted national news. So, during that week in Oklahoma City, coverage of the bombing was 24-hours a day.
But I hadn’t spent much time watching television. My husband was a high school teacher and coach in Cashion, a small community north of Oklahoma City. The end of the school year was near, which meant there was a school activity each evening. I was engrossed with my job during the day, while trying to manage other commitments in the evenings.
While the bombing was the at the forefront of all conversations, and I was justifiably horrified that it had happened in Oklahoma City, it felt surreal. In those first few days, we learned that a member of our community was in the building and had not been located. What I remember about those days was being consumed with the bombing, yet I felt unaffected. I just kept plugging along.
A televised memorial service was scheduled the Sunday following the bombing, and our family skipped church so that I could watch the memorial. At that point, I had shed no tears. My heart was heavy, but I remember thinking that the words of unity spoken at the memorial service were uplifting. They began to read the names of the individuals who were known at the time to have died. Then three names I recognized were mentioned, and suddenly without warning, I began to sob. I didn’t know the three individuals. It was a couple who had business at the Social Security Office, which was housed in the building. They were babysitting their young granddaughter and had taken her with them to the Social Security Office. One of the callers that I had assisted on the 19th was their daughter who had called the Salvation Army seeking information about the whereabouts of her parents and her daughter. She was understandably upset; the emotion and worry visible in her voice. I tried to calm her by telling her that I felt certain that her family was safe. We spoke for only a few minutes while I took her contact information. I had talked to dozens of people that day, but those were the only three names I remembered. When I heard their names spoken during the memorial service, I broke down from the emotions and stress that I didn’t realize I was harboring.
Twenty-six years later with more wisdom and life experiences, I’ve gotten a little better at paying attention to my body and the stress cues. I’ve also finally learned to lean in to the uncomfortable, gut wrenching, “suckiness” that those life experiences may bring, and to let the cleansing tears flow.
Last night, I watched the memorial service at the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool for the 400,000+ U.S. lives lost to COVID-19. And I sobbed. I’ve heard several people talk about “unprocessed grief,” the importance of feeling the pain, and the need to mourn. It has taken me a very long time to learn to process grief. It has taken me years to understand that tears, empathy and compassion are a sign of strength and leadership.
Today, 1,461 long, long, long days since January 20, 2017, I again, unashamedly, let the tears flow. The stunning photos from the memorial last night and during the Inauguration of President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris today, as well as the music, prayers, speeches, and poem from Amanda Gorman moved me in unexpected ways. I stood alone in my apartment today beginning with Father Leo J. O’Donovan’s invocation until Rev. Silvester Beaman’s benediction, my hand on my heart and singing off-key along with Garth Brooks as tears streamed down my face.
I’m sorry that there are so many people in this country that don’t share my optimism. I have felt that pain for 1,461 days. But, today, there is no room in my heart for anger.
To be honest, President Biden was not my first choice early in the 2020 Presidential Primary season, but now I think he may be the person to lead us through the healing process. As one commentator said, he has a “gaping hole in his heart” because he understands and has experienced unimaginable loss. I want leaders who have the strength to be empathetic.
I’ve been holding my breath for 4 years, worried and mired in toxicity. Today I’m pausing to breathe again. I’m celebrating the shattering of another glass ceiling with all of my female friends of color who graduated from historically black colleges and universities (HBCUs) and are finally seeing themselves represented at the highest level of our government!
Today I am grateful. And hopeful.
