For My Son

This young mother survived the Boston Marathon bombing, but could she survive the aftermath?

- Rebekah Gregory

The van was waiting right outside the hospital doors. Mom and Dad lifted me from the wheelchair, careful not to jostle my left leg, and hoisted me into the backseat. I’d been hospitalized for 56 days, first in Boston, then here in Houston. Finally, I was ready to go home.

But the moment we pulled into traffic, cars all around us, I started to panic. My heart pounded. My mind raced. I was leaving the hospital, the teams of doctors and nurses and physical therapists…for what? I’d be confined to my bed, still unable to walk on my shattered legs, the left one needing to be kept elevated 24/7. Mom and Dad would hover, doing their best to care for me. I didn’t want to be an invalid. I was only 26!

And my little man, Noah, my five year-old son, needed a mom. A strong, active, fully functioning mom. I’d missed him so much. He too had been injured by the bombs that tore through the crowd at the finish line of the Boston Marathon that April. We’d gone there to cheer on a friend running in the race. I’d been standing, with Noah sitting on the curb, leaning against me. My legs had shielded him from the worst of the blast. It was a miracle that his only physical injuries were a deep gash and some gastrointestinal bleeding. I worried about the emotional scars, though.

By the time we pulled into my parents’ driveway, I was a wreck. I looked to the house. Noah came bounding out, beaming with joy.

The van door opened. Mom and Dad prepared to lift me out. Noah wedged between them and wrapped his arms around me. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he whispered in my ear. “We’re never leaving this house again.”