Lisa Hickey, at a dinner for victims injured in the Boston Marathon bombings, realizes once again the importance of the stories we tell.

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When I first received the invitation to the dinner put on by the Mayor of Boston for the Boston Marathon bomb victim survivors, I was afraid of bumping into the people whose legs had been amputated. Not afraid of bumping into them socially, mind you, not afraid of seeing them or dining with them or talking with them — but I was afraid that in a dinner with 200 survivors of the Boston Marathon bombings I would literally bump against someone with an injury and cause them more pain and angst than they had already been through. When I thought about it logically, I saw that my worry about something tangible actually might have been a metaphor for wanting to distance myself from others less fortunate. I refused to give into it. I will not distance myself from things that are difficult. I will be in a room with injuries unimaginable. That needs to be okay. So last night, I went to the dinner, and it was a wow. I’m so grateful I did.

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What a unique experience, a dinner to which only those injured in the Boston Marathon bombings were invited. Shannon and I drive to the Drydock restaurant, by the waterfront, not knowing what to expect. A valet attendant asks if either of us needs a wheelchair. We politely decline, and walk in holding onto each others arm, the same stance we took in the seconds after the first bomb went off.

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A host seats us at a table in a crowded room. There are lobster rolls and shrimp cocktail on the table. Already seated are two gentlemen who had been at the bombing solo, and were at the dinner by themselves. We introduce ourselves, and almost as soon as we state our names, the question of “where were you when the bombs went off?” gets asked. A family of three soon joins us. If you look at the main photo above, six of the seven of us at the table were somewhere in that cloud of smoke caused by the second bomb. The other person at the table had been running the race and was just passing the first bomb when it went off.

Our entire conversation consists of re-living the event over, in the most animated conversation imaginable. It’s great to talk to people who want to talk about it. But not only that, it was as if we had instant replays with multiple camera angles at a football game. We get to see things from new angles. Every day since the bombing occurred, all of us involved have been adding new bits of information so that we can better comprehend the incomprehensible. Tonight is no exception.

What we went through on the day of the bombing, was, on one hand, unique – only a small percentage of people can call themselves “bomb victim survivors” after all. But at the table, as we shared stories, we realized just how strikingly similar our collective stories were.

We laughed a lot. We talked loudly. In fact, we had to talk loudly — of the seven of us at the table, all seven of us had experienced some sort of hearing problems from the explosion. Two guys at the table were still experiencing actual hearing loss; conversations, they said, were muffled, as if always underwater. The two of them bump fists at the exactness of their symptoms. Another deadpans: “I’ll just be sitting somewhere, and all of a sudden it will start. The ringing.” Shannon and I burst into loud laughs “Exactly!” we shout. We know the ringing. We talk about the BOOM, and each of us nods solemnly, knowing precisely what that BOOM of the second bomb was like. We can all re-create it in our heads, yet we know it’s indescribable to anyone who wasn’t there. Yes, it’s kind of like a firework. But a firework is “up there”, it doesn’t envelop you the way this boom did, shaking the ground and the buildings around us. It was a deeper, lower sound than I had ever heard before. The collective hearing deficits barely cause us to miss a beat in conversing. “So, how much shrapnel did they pull out of your leg?” turns out to be an even better icebreaker for the guys than, “So, how about them Bruins?” We compare where on our bodies the nails had pierced us, the size of our bruises, the clothing that was torn to shreds. Two other guys at our table had fallen when hit by bomb debris, just as I had — and just like me the two of them had jumped up and didn’t realize until afterwards that they had been hurt. It wasn’t just me, I thought, thankfully. We talked emergency rooms and the questioning by the FBI. We talked about interviews we had with other media, and realized we all must have talked to the same reporters. “I was in The Globe!” I mention. “Me too, and the Herald,” said the guy to my right, sounding for all the world like he was raising me in a poker game.

We compared notes about our inability to process the information at the time the bombing was happening. It had been surreal, literally. We all experienced the way space and time expanded. Days after the bombings, all of us, on separate journeys, had gone back to the scene as soon as we could – found the exact spot we were standing in, paced off our distance from the bomb, re-walked our exact path. We found it interesting that in each case, our perception of distance had been completely distorted. We thought we had been further away. We didn’t realize it was all so close.

We raised our glasses in a toast. To us, we said. To us.

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The seven of us seemed to have randomly ended up at the “minor injury” table. We soberly realized the severity of our injuries could be measured in inches and seconds. “What if’s” abounded. “What if I had been five steps to my right, started walking five seconds earlier, walked five paces quicker?” Yet the “what if’s” were never about how unlucky we were – it was always how incredibly lucky we all were. All around us, we were reminded acutely of the people not as lucky as we. Those who had arrived at the front door for tonight’s dinner not by car, but by chair van or ambulance. There was the woman with one leg who was already on crutches, and I watched in awe as she made here way through the crowd, keeping perfect balance. There were others who were wheeled in, freshly bandaged. A girl Shannon’s age had intact legs, but they didn’t move. Others were in casts. Several wore hearing aids. There were crutches parked by every table.

On our way out, Shannon and I talked with Adrianne Haslet, the ballroom dancer who lost her foot and vows to dance again. She was there with her husband Adam, himself in a large cast, along with Adrianne’s mother. They greeted us warmly, held onto our hands as we talked. Jeff Bauman, the poster boy of Boston Strong, showed up smiling. Reports have said that fifteen people have required amputations of one or both limbs as a result of the bombings. Many of them had come to the dinner to be a part of this unique club of survivors. The amazing thing is how lucky they all seemed to feel as well.

Heapings of strength and resilience were served with the grilled fish and rice. Together, it was clear: we will not be terrorized. Despite a tragedy, we forged a common bond, we shared stories and became a stronger community.

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More on my experience at the bombings, here:

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photo credits: (main) Reuters/Dan Lamparillo, (inset) author

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