Stronger (17 page)
“How do I balance them?” I asked her.
“You work both of them harder.”
It was more of the same: leg lifts, sit-ups, push-ups. I was strong enough now to hold myself in a crunch position with my legs lifted, so Michelle gave me a medicine ball and made me turn side to side, working my abs. I rode the arm bicycle, a stationary bike with the pedals on the handlebars, to work on my cardio and endurance. I strapped weights to my thighs and lifted them in all directions. It was tough. Michelle had been working with amputees for years; she knew how to push. I couldn’t even walk after some of those workouts, I was so sore.
Just kidding. I couldn’t walk, anyway.
Seriously, though, I would leave so sore I couldn’t sit without pain. I’d grit my teeth and shift my weight the whole hour home, trying not to let Mom know how much it hurt.
When I wasn’t exercising, I was usually at Mom’s apartment, trying to sleep. My body craved rest. It was begging me to stop moving, to just lie down and heal. But for a month, I hadn’t been able to sleep. My mind was too lit up. The nurses gave me Xanax once, and I went to sleep, but half an hour later I was sitting bolt upright in bed with my eyes open, unresponsive but agitated. They never tried that again.
It was more of the same at home: lying in bed with my mind spinning, or snapping awake in a hot sweat, unsure of where I was. But at least at home, I had space. I could be alone, without anyone prodding me or asking questions. That first week, I’d lie in a semi-aware state for hours, trying to remain calm, trying to let my body recover. I was on a lot of pain medication. I was physically beat. I probably spent sixteen hours a day in bed, although I’d only sleep for three or four. I’d stare at the ceiling, thinking: You’re done with the hospital, Jeff. You’re free.
But I wasn’t done. And I wasn’t free.
I could see that as soon as the first light crept through my blinds every morning. My first thought was always to stand up and walk. No, I wouldn’t even think it. I’d just do it, like I had every morning for twenty-seven years. Then I’d realize there was nothing to swing over the edge of the bed, and no way to touch the ground.
I’d roll onto my back in my sweaty covers. I was always sweaty, no matter how cool it was in the apartment. I’d think, Go to sleep, Jeff. Just go to sleep and forget all this.
My room was a Hobbit hole, ten-by-ten, with only one small window. When I’d left for the marathon, it was mostly empty. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and my guitar was in the corner, but otherwise I had only a twin bed, a dresser, and one chair. Now I’d roll over in bed and see a room crammed full of guitars and a mandolin, a pile of stuffed animals and gear saying Bruins, Red Sox, Boston Strong. My dresser was covered with letters, photos, and cards. I had so many new shirts, they wouldn’t fit in my drawers. I piled them on my chair, since I couldn’t reach the hangers in my closet. It was shirts on top, shorts underneath, socks in a drawer. I had a system. I don’t want you to think I’m a slob.
I have to get up, I’d think. I have to keep going.
I couldn’t do crunches at home. It was hard to get down on the floor, and I’m not sure there was enough space anyway. But I could do arm exercises, stretches, and core work.
Eventually, I’d roll into the living room, and Mom would be there, sitting at the table where she displayed her photographs. Derek and me at a Sox game when I was six years old. Me in my junior hockey uniform. Forehead’s first-grade school picture. My high school portrait, one of those casual ones where I’m wearing jeans and my shirt is untucked. For some reason, I’m not wearing shoes or socks. It was a reminder that not so long ago, I had feet.
But now, behind the usual photos, was a huge framed “get well” photo signed by all the employees at my Costco. Cards were propped in every extra inch. The space under the table was packed with gifts, like hand-sewn blankets and orange guitar amps, and mementos, like the two wooden transfer boards I’d used to get into my wheelchair in the hospital. I hadn’t needed them for weeks, but Mom couldn’t part with them.
In one corner, three paper grocery bags were filled with cards and letters.
“That’s not all of them,” Mom told me. “There’s more at your aunt Jenn’s house. We’re sorting and keeping every one of them, for when you’re ready.”
Mom was still off work, still trying to care for me. I didn’t like to be cared for, but there were so many things I couldn’t do. I couldn’t reach the top half of the refrigerator; I couldn’t grab things on the stove. The corner outside my bedroom was tight, and sometimes I needed help getting my wheelchair through. The hospital sent occupational therapists to show me how to arrange the apartment and manage everyday functions, but after two visits I told them not to come back. It was a waste of money. Mom and I could figure things out on our own.
So Mom spent much of the day running errands for me or helping with simple tasks. We didn’t talk much, but that wasn’t new. I had always kept my emotions to myself. Instead of chatting—instead of working through things that way—Mom read my mail. She kept the special notes to show to me and took a few very special ones each day and stuck them on the refrigerator. Often, these were the notes that made her cry.
“Why do you do that to yourself, Mom?”
“Because they took the time, Jeffrey.”
And because they made her happy. Even when she cried.
I feel bad sometimes about not reading all the letters. They were an important part of my recovery. It was empowering to know that so many people cared. It motivated me.
But reading the letters overwhelmed me, too. People wrote to say they were naming workout routines after me, or that I helped them deal with their grief over a personal tragedy, or that their small city in Wisconsin felt safer because of me.
How could that be?
I
didn’t feel safer.
Elementary school children drew me pictures. Kindergarten classrooms wrote stories about me. Tim’s wife, Erika, was a kindergarten teacher in Lowell, and her class made a big banner, and each child wrote me a personal message. She said it helped the children understand the bombing and feel less afraid.
I wanted to send them all a PlayStation. I really did. I just wanted to give it all back. But I could see why, as Mom told me in the hospital, that wasn’t possible. There was no way to give back to everyone who had given to me.
So please know, especially if you wrote to me and never heard back, that I loved the letters. They motivated me when I didn’t want to get out of bed. But more than that, they helped my mom.
She had been through hell. She had seen her son with his legs blown off, and she had spent a day thinking I might die. She had sat for days in my hospital room, then driven home and sat for hours alone in her apartment, exhausted and afraid. But she was strong. She never gave in to despair. She cried, and she worried, but she always believed the fighter in me would win through.
I’m not saying Mom didn’t deserve the concern of her brother and sisters. Mom was fragile. She struggled. She drank, sometimes too much. When she was sober, I loved her. She was a good person.
Even when she had been drinking too much, she was never mean. She was
emotional
. It was like she couldn’t contain her disappointments, and she had to talk them out, with anger and tears. She had to give me advice and tell me what to do. She wasn’t insulting me. She was nagging. She so desperately wanted me to be happy, to be successful, that she couldn’t stop herself. To be honest, even though we lived together, we hadn’t seen much of each other in years. Mom worked during the day, and I tried to stay out with friends or family at night.
But in the weeks after my injury, Mom stayed away from the wine. She stayed away from pity. Small setbacks can be unbearable, but big disasters… a lot of people, like Mom, find strength in those moments.
And she had the letters.
They weren’t for her. If Mom ever received a thank-you or a note of encouragement, she didn’t share it with me. She didn’t care. Through this whole ordeal, she has never asked for anything. People in Concord, New Hampshire, donated supplies and labor to remodel my dad’s house. They built a new wheelchair-accessible deck, a new first-floor bedroom, even a new kitchen. Mom got a two-foot ramp and a wider bathroom door.
Anything else, I think, she would have found insulting. What? Are you saying the apartment I’ve spent twenty years waitressing double-shifts to pay for isn’t good enough?
When I told her I wanted to buy her something with the donations, she refused. I said it again and again, and she always refused. “That money is for you and Erin,” she said. “For your medical bills. And your children. As long as you’re taken care of, Jeffrey, I don’t care if I live in a paper bag.”
I went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Cavit wine. “Here you go,” I said, handing her the paper bag she always kept her wine in.
Don’t get me wrong, Mom drove me crazy. She worried, and she treated me like a child. She knocked on my door every half hour, it seemed. “Jeff, are you all right?”
“Yes, Mom.”
I’m lying on my bed, massaging my thigh, hoping this mind-shattering pain will work its way out of my muscles, but I’m fine.
I guess what I’m trying to say is… when I needed her, Mom was there. All my life, she is the one who has been there for me. And I don’t know if I ever tell her, but I love her for it. I love her for who she is.
So thank you, Mom.
We made it. Together.
T
he Red Sox had called me weeks ahead of time to discuss throwing out the first pitch. Say what you will about the franchise, all you haters, but they had embraced their role as Boston’s team, and they had dedicated their season to honoring first responders and victims of the bombing. Heather Abbott, who was injured in the bombing, was the first to throw a pitch in early May. Seven family members of Sean Collier, the police officer killed on the Thursday after the bombing, would end the tributes in late August.
I was in the middle. I needed to be healed enough to throw without pain, so we settled on May 28—a little more than six weeks after the bombing. At that time, the bullpen was in trouble. Two players were hurt, and they had just elevated a thirty-eight-year-old Japanese dude to be the closer. I think we were all anticipating a dive in the standings, but May 28 turned out to be the day the Sox moved ahead of the Yankees for good.
Big D and I went out the morning of the game to practice pitching in the parking lot outside Mom’s apartment. Throwing out the first pitch is a great baseball tradition. I mean, United States presidents do it. I’d seen enough people botch it, though, to know it wasn’t as easy as it seemed. Especially from a wheelchair. Fortunately, I figured out how to turn myself at an angle for maximum velocity just before we lost the baseball in the poison ivy.
Yo, Big D. I have a limited catching area. Don’t make me jump for a high throw.
The Sox said I could invite as many people as I wanted, so we had eight people waiting outside Mom’s when the team limousine pulled up. They had a personalized jersey for me with “Bauman” on the back. I immediately put it on. Underneath, where no one could see it, I had on a Captain America shirt that someone had given me.
We hit traffic on the way in, so we arrived late. The Red Sox rushed us straight from the players’ parking lot to the groundskeeper’s area along the first base line. I could hear cameras clicking, and I saw fans getting their hot dogs and beers stop in their tracks. Some of them started clapping.
“Way to go, Jeff,” someone said.
“Thank you,” others yelled.
I waved back as we hustled along. At the edge of the field, Carlos was waiting in his trademark cowboy hat, along with a security detail. He smiled when he saw me and gave me a hug. It was our first public appearance together, although I’d seen him several times at the hospital. He looked good in his “Arredondo” jersey—smiling, friendly, shaking everyone’s hand. He had taken some flak from the press because he’d been making a lot of public appearances since the bombing, but as his wife, Mel, pointed out, he had been making public appearances on behalf of the troops for years. That was what he did with his life. There was just more press covering those appearances now.
This was only my second time in public, and my first with Carlos, so the Sox were making a big deal out of it—“the hero and his hero.” They had asked me if there was anyone I wanted to pitch to, so of course I chose my personal hero, the greatest pitcher in Red Sox history, Roger “The Rocket”…
Nah. Come on.
I wanted Pedro, the greatest Red Sox pitcher of all time. Back in the late 1990s and early 2000s, when I was a teenager, Pedro Martinez was the undisputed best pitcher in the world. He was the star of some lean years, and he was still a star when the Sox won the World Series for the first time in eighty-six years in 2004. Uncle Bob had season tickets that year, and Big D and I were there for Game 4, when the Sox tied it in the ninth, and Big Papi hit the game-winning homer in the twelfth to start the greatest series comeback in baseball history.
Pedro was retired, but he still worked for the Sox. Unfortunately, he was out of town that day, so I had to go with my second choice, Jarrod “Salty” Saltalamacchia, the Red Sox starting catcher. Salty wasn’t one of the best players on the team. In fact, at that point, he was hanging on to his starting job primarily because David Ross was hurt. He was a dirt dog, though, a scrapper, always hustling and studying. He was my kind of player, but he’d never been my favorite.