This week's story comes in the form of his debut post on The Fisch Tank - Max, Penny and Cici's dad and my husband, Matt himself! (He is present on the rest of the blog as he is usually the photographer - except for the bad photos, those are probably me taken on my camera-phone). How refreshing to have a dad's point of view here!
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Two and half years have passed since Cici’s accident and I have rarely spoken of it to anyone except Jenny and have never written about it. It would be easy for me to say that it has been a cold and lonely two years, but it’s really not true. There have been friends that have distanced themselves from the tragedy, people who have made well intentioned but hurtful comments, and even a few outright insults, but I’ve spent the last few years surrounded by my wonderful family and people who don’t let sadness get in the way of friendship. My family and I have been the recipient of some astounding acts of kindness.
The truth is these acts of kindness began the very day of the accident. I’ve been known to say that even on the unluckiest day of my life, I was very lucky in the sense that Cici survived. And on the loneliest day of my life, a day on which I thought only Jenny understood what I was feeling, some people reached out in extraordinary ways. I can remember clearly standing just outside the room in which a large number of people were working on Cici, stunned and bewildered by what I had just seen, an emotion I had never before felt creeping through every part of me when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. It was one of the paramedics that had gotten Cici to the hospital alive, someone I’ve come to know a little better over the last couple of years and someone who has remained a part of Cici’s life. There was something he wanted me to tell Jenny, but I’m sure I never delivered that message. Though I know exactly how that hand felt on my shoulder and could point out to you exactly where we were standing at that moment, I can’t remember what he said. I’m not sure the message was the point anyway.
As Jenny wrote on our blog a couple of weeks ago, I’m standing outside that room a lot. Even two and a half years later, I’m standing outside that room at least a couple of times a day. I don’t like it, but even all this time later, I can still feel that hand on my shoulder and it gives me a small amount of comfort. I know now that he was having one of the worst days of his professional career, that we was surely running his own gauntlet of emotions, and he took a moment to reach out to me.
I’ve come to know that compassion is common among these paramedics and firefighters. Many months after Cici’s accident, the fire crew that had responded that day was returning from a call and saw Max and Penny and me playing in the yard. They stopped to say hello even though they had been told that Cici hadn’t made it and they were probably in for an awkward and depressing conversation. (I’ll also never forget the looks on their faces when I told them that Cici was inside and asked if they’d like to come in and see her.) They’ve stopped on the street after seeing me walking with the girls to the library. They’ve had us over to the station. It means a lot that they’ve continued to care about Cici and her family. I’ve learned not to let those acts of kindness be lost in a terrible day, to carry them with me just as I carry the painful memories. I’ve also learned how important it can be to take a moment to offer kindness to another.
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http://bensbells.org
http://bekindcolorado.blogspot.com
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