As I visited my favorite blogs today, I couldn’t help but notice that no one wrote about the bombings in Boston. I understand that completely, but somehow I can’t not say anything. I feel sort of lost, “rudderless” as Michael would say. I think I suffer from survivor’s guilt, yet I was 3,000 miles away from the horror and carnage. I wasn’t there. I didn’t survive it. Why do I feel guilty?
I wish there was something I could do. The nurse in me wishes I could have been there to help, to stop the bleeding, to comfort and support the wounded. I was always good in an emergency. I was the one to stay calm and take charge. I can’t do anything now. I can’t donate blood but I can, make a donation to the Boston Children’s Hospital.
The images of the children will, and should haunt us. Martin Richard, just eight years old, should be alive and well today. But he is not. He is dead, his little sister an amputee and his mother brain damaged. Why? He has become the face that symbolizes the horror of what happened in Boston.
“No more hurting people. Peace.”
I can’t not say something.