Navy Yard. September 16, 2013: our daughter’s birthday. Another day at work. My husband in building 197 and I in Rockville, Maryland. At 10:30 a.m. I got a text from him, “I’m safe.” He had survived for an hour under his desk while hearing 12 of his colleagues murdered and three injured. He was forced to open his door — assuming it was the gunman — to stare down the barrel of an FBI’s rifle and be whisked out in the stairwell while shots continued to fire.
The Washington Nationals canceled their game and offered the stadium for reunification. Buses brought employees to meet up with their families, but after the last bus, some families realized the horrible truth. Today, a beautiful memorial stands in the stadium as a reminder of that horrible day.
I tell my husband that he’s a survivor, but he doesn’t agree. He just feels lucky. When the shooting began, and it registered in his brain what it was, he turned right and ran. If he had turned left, he believes, he’d be dead.