Stronger (15 page)

I didn’t have a way to get to the game.

I hadn’t been outside a hospital since the bombing.

That was all true. But really, it all came down to something else: I was scared. I didn’t like the idea of being out in public. I felt vulnerable. If another terrorist attack occurred, or if someone targeted me, there was no way I could run. I’d be a sitting target.

And I didn’t want anyone to see me. As long as they didn’t see me, they could think whatever they wanted about me: that I was a hero, or whatever. I wasn’t a hero, though. I was a guy in a wheelchair with no legs. Why would anyone want to see that?

It was one thing to be in Spaulding with other victims. They understood. We could joke about it. But what did the public know? They had legs. They could walk wherever they wanted.

I wasn’t like them anymore. And I wasn’t like those soldiers at Spaulding. I couldn’t walk into a room. I couldn’t even stand up. How could I inspire anyone?

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Jeff,” Erin said. She always told me that:
You don’t owe anyone anything. You need to do what’s best for your recovery.

I wanted to be at the game. I wanted to see the Bruins in the playoffs. They were offering me a seat in a luxury box.

And not going… in the end, it felt like chickening out. I didn’t want to hide. I had to go out eventually, I told myself, so why not now?

“Will you come with me?” I asked Erin.

“Of course.”

That was important, to be with people I trusted. So I talked to the Bruins. They let me bring six people, and that convinced me I could do this. I invited my dad, who was the biggest hockey fan I knew. And his son—my youngest half brother, Alan, who had a weekend off from boot camp. I hadn’t seen Alan since the bombing; he’d been in Air Force boot camp when it happened. Because of the strict rules of boot camp, we’d barely even talked on the phone. Big D came, too, of course, and Sully, Erin, and my cousin Mary Kate, Uncle Bob’s daughter.

We received a police escort from Spaulding to the TD Garden. It was only a mile, but the traffic was thick. I sat in my wheelchair, in my Bruins jersey, staring out the window at all the other fans in black and gold. I could see a few drivers craning their necks as the police escort nudged them onto the shoulder, and a few more cursing at us. Typical Boston. Even though I was in a handicapped van, they probably thought I was a politician.

“I’m not going on the ice,” I said.

“Come on, son,” my dad said.

Erin squeezed my hand. “It’s all right,” she whispered.

I had told the Bruins this might happen.
I haven’t been outside since the bombing
, I’d explained.
I’m screwed up. I can’t guarantee anything.

They said they understood, but I knew I was letting them down. I tried to think my way through my fear, but the more I thought about the crowded arena, the more I felt trapped. It was like being on the high dive… in front of a crowd… in my wheelchair. Staring down at the water wasn’t going to help. I wasn’t even comfortable with the idea of sitting in a private box.

I probably should have practiced being outside, I thought. I probably should have spent time around people I didn’t know to see how it felt. But there was no way I could back out now.

“I can’t do it,” I said again. “I’ll watch the game, but I can’t go out there.”

We reached the arena and pulled into the loading dock next to the ambulances. There was a short ramp, and then we were so close to the ice you could feel the chill. The public relations people for the Bruins were waiting. I had told them no media and no interviews, so it was a small group.

“Are you ready?” they asked me.

“Let’s do this thing,” I said.

I still don’t know why. It was just… when I got into the arena, I suddenly felt like I could do it. No, that I
should
do it. And most important, that I
wanted
to do it.

They handed me a huge flag, about six feet across. Erin pushed me to the mouth of the tunnel. I chatted with the Bruins people, trying not to look at the crowd across the ice. Breathe, Jeff, I told myself. You can do this.

Then the lights went out completely, and the music started pumping. I couldn’t see a thing as Erin rolled me along a carpet over the ice. It was pitch-black, until words started appearing on the Jumbotron overhead:

By now you all know his inspirational story

His perseverance in the face of great adversity represents all that is…

BOSTON

(flash, flash)

STRONG

The arena lights came on, and I started waving the flag like crazy. I just kept waving and waving, trying not to look around. It felt like I was at the bottom of the ocean. The crowd rose up and up, climbing away from me into the shadows, but their enthusiasm wasn’t scary. It was contagious. I pumped a fist, and a huge cheer rolled over me. It was like being onstage at a concert. I swung the flag as high as I could. It tangled around the pole, and Erin stepped up to untangle it for me. The crowd didn’t stop. They cheered louder. I pumped my fist for them, a huge smile on my face. Usually, the flag says Bruins. This one said Boston Strong.

They weren’t just cheering for the team. They were cheering for our city.

People kept coming up to me in the private box afterward, wanting to shake my hand. The whole game, people kept slapping me on the back, telling me how proud they were. In the van on the way over, that would have terrified me: strangers, backslapping, a screaming crowd. But in the moment, it felt right. These people weren’t staring at me. They weren’t expecting anything. They just wanted to let me know they cared.

20.

A
few days after the game, Kevin took me out to lunch. He was back at Costco, but he still checked in with me every day and often came by. This was only my second time out of the hospital; I think Kevin had to talk the nurses into letting me go. Kevin is good at talking people into things.

We went to Flour, one of the restaurants that had given my family and me free meals when I was at BMC. I transferred from the car to the wheelchair with ease, and the owner treated us to a cart full of food. Afterward, Kevin took me for a haircut. Ever since the shower, I had hated my hair. The ’fro had to go. I was allowed to be away for only two hours, but that was enough. I hadn’t brought any pain medicine with me. By the time we got back to Spaulding, my legs and back were sore from sitting so long in my wheelchair.

By then, I knew I would be discharged. Most patients stayed in Spaulding for at least two weeks after receiving their artificial legs, but I had already been in hospitals for a month. I badgered my doctors to send me home, and I even enlisted the help of my physical therapist, Carlyn. Behind the scenes, Erin was working just as hard to get me home. She knew how much the Island of Misfit Toys affected me. Even in Spaulding, with my fellow survivors, I felt like I was on display. My doctors finally agreed that as soon as my stomach incision healed, I could transition to outpatient care, as long as I agreed to come in for physical therapy four times a week.

On my last day, Carlyn asked if I wanted to try a special workout. Spaulding had several boats and kayaks that could be launched from behind the building, and Carlyn thought the kayak would be perfect for me.

So around 10:00 in the morning, Carlyn and I slipped into two kayaks, then into the Mystic River. Boat therapy is common in Boston, and I can see why. Uncle Bob had often taken me out in his bass boat on the Concord River, sometimes floating all the way to the Old North Bridge, where the first battle of the Revolutionary War was fought, but there was nothing like being in a kayak in the middle of the city. The boat just glides along the water beneath you as the warehouses slip past, and with no need for legs, it was almost possible to stop missing mine. It wasn’t long before we were rounding the point into the harbor. I was hoping to paddle next to a freighter, but there were only small boats on the water that morning.

Once in the harbor, we headed south, toward downtown. Before long, I could see the three spires and sails of the USS
Constitution
, the oldest ship in the United States Navy. Commissioned in 1794 and named by George Washington, it had been a symbol of Boston for almost a hundred years. We paddled toward it until it towered over us, and although we couldn’t get close enough to touch it, because of barriers in the water to protect it from people like me, it still felt like I was touching Boston history.

I slipped out of Spaulding a few days later, on May 17, 2013, one month and two days after the bombing. My family had argued for weeks about where I would go. My dad wanted me with him in New Hampshire. Uncle Bob and Aunt Jenn wanted me to move in with them. They never said it outright, but they were worried about Mom. She had been handling herself well, but what if a crisis occurred? What if I fell, or needed quick medical attention? Mom wasn’t good in a crisis. And everyone was worried about her stress.

Erin couldn’t believe that I was caught in the middle of it. “This drama isn’t good for you,” she’d say.

I didn’t think anything of it. My family had always been like that. They cared for each other so much that they couldn’t help but argue, and they tried to help so much that they always got in each other’s way.

“What does Jeff want?” Erin always said, whenever they asked her opinion. “That’s the only thing that matters. It’s his life.”

If I had my choice, and my legs, I’d have moved in with Erin. But she lived on the second floor of a classic Boston triple decker—a three-story house with an apartment on each floor. The stairs were rickety and uneven, and they curved around a corner. I knew there was no way I’d ever go in that apartment again.

In the end, there was no drama at all. I decided to go back to Mom’s for a few weeks, as I always knew I would, while Erin and I looked into getting an apartment together. The media loved reporting when survivors left the hospital, but I kept my leaving quiet. There was no media coverage, no party, and no sad good-byes, especially since I’d be back four days a week for therapy. Uncle Bob and Aunt Cathleen pulled up to the door, threw my wheelchair in the trunk, and we were gone, just the three of us, with Tim Rohan and Josh Haner from the
New York Times
following in their own car.

About ten miles down the road, Uncle Bob noticed we were being followed. I wasn’t listed in any directories, and we were keeping my home address a secret. I didn’t like the idea of media waiting for me, as they had been in Aunt Jenn’s driveway once when she came home from visiting me in the hospital. I didn’t want to worry that some nut-jobs would be outside my front door with a rifle, saying, “This guy is a symbol. If we take him out, we send a message.”

So Uncle Bob called a friend in the Chelmsford police department about our dilemma, and I have to admit, he seemed to enjoy the conversation.

“It’s taken care of,” he said.

And he was right. Just outside Chelmsford, there was a huge banner hanging from the highway overpass: WELCOME HOME JEFF. BAUMAN STRONG.

“Your aunt Cathleen never could keep a secret.” Uncle Bob laughed.

And just beyond the sign was a police cruiser. As soon as we passed, the sirens came on, and the car following us was pulled over. Apparently, the occupants were from a national news organization, and the officer had a nice time interrogating them, especially when Tim and Josh went cruising past.

“But that’s the
New York Times
,” one of them complained.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’d like to help you, but I can’t pull someone over just because they work for the
New York Times
.”

He delayed them for only a minute, but it was enough to get us home.

21.

T
here was a fund-raiser for me that night at the Chelmsford Radisson, organized by Sully and his sister. It was a raffle and dance, with a pay bar, in the big banquet room at the hotel. It was a coincidence that it fell on the night I arrived home; Sully and Brooke had been planning it for a month. No one, including my doctors, expected me home so soon.

I intended to make an appearance. People kept calling me, and I kept telling them I would be there. But I didn’t want to go. I’d been pushing myself hard to get home; it was a huge moment when I rolled through the door and into our living room–kitchen. (It’s a three-room apartment.) After spending a month trying to get home, the last thing I wanted to do was leave.

I was tired. Really tired. And in that condition, or maybe any condition, I had no desire to see everyone I’d ever known. There were four hundred people at the fund-raiser, Sully told me. They were serving Bauman Bionic Brew. I had to see it. The label was a picture of my face on the body of Iron Man. People wanted to toast me. They wanted to say hi. But the more excited they were to see me, home and well, the less excited I became.

“Just say no,” Erin said when I called her for advice. “They never planned for you to come, anyway.”