I went to Zumba class tonight. Glad to have motivation to get out the door and work out, I strapped on my workout shoes and left Oliver and Charlie at home with Michael. In the gym, I was half-heartedly dancing some Samba and thinking that the playlist tonight was quite boring- I mean, come on, lady, a re-mix of the 50's song "Rock Around the Clock" does not make me want to kick it up a notch. About 15 minutes to the long-awaited end of class, I noticed a group of kids wearing tie-dyed shirts that said "Zumba!" sitting in the corner of the gym. At the beginning of the next song, the kids, led by their dance instructor, trotted out to the front of the room and led us all in the next song. I smiled, half-entertained and glad for the diversion of a rather unmotivating class. But then I realized something that took all reasons to dance out of me. There were about 15 or so kids. They were elementary-school-aged. I was looking at a class of elementary students.
I got back into my car and sobbed into the steering wheel, just as I had on Friday. People ask me all the time how I can do my job. How on earth can I work with kids who are suffering? I get asked. I answer them that one of my many reasons is that I can do something about it. I specialize in pain and symptom management and psychosocial support. I help them. Friday's unspeakable tragedy has brought me, along with the rest of the human race, to my knees in despair and sadness. Amidst the thousands and thousands of ways that this event is incredibly horrific, the one that I cannot get past is that these kids were without their parents. They weren't comforted. They weren't assured of their safety. They died suffering, and it makes me sick, absolutely sick, with sadness.
Most days of the week I drop my sons off at daycare. And while I don't worry every day about their safety, I do overall struggle with not being there with them, and then I go through soul-searching all over again about where I'm supposed to be. I want to be the one they look to for comfort and safety. When they are afraid or hurting, I have a desparate need to be with them. Just about any injury, real or perceived, that Oliver has is solved with a kiss. "Kiss my owie, Mommy!" he pouts, then goes about his happy way after said injury is met with a gentle smooch.
In the Lifetime parking lot this evening, I wiped my nose on my sleeve after several minutes and drove home, knowing that there was no solution but to go back to my boys and love, love, love. Michael was reading Oliver a book. "Mommy!" Oliver called to me. "I want to see Mommy," he said to Michael.
"How was your workout?" Michael asked me. I turned away. "Why do you look extremely..."
Despite what I wanted to do, I cried again, and briefly explained to Michael what I had seen.
"I want Mommy to read this," Oliver said, holding up his book. Then, looking carefully at me, he asked, "That make you feel better?"
I nodded and plunked him on my lap. "Mommy's just a little sad today," I explained through the tears. He still looked concerned. "I kiss it, Mommy?" I nodded again. "Where?" he asked, and I pointed to my cheek because he wouldn't understand the concept of a broken heart.
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