Everything about that day is so clear in my mind and so blurry, all at the same time. I was six days away from leaving for graduate school. I was down in Maryland, visiting my friends from college before making the move to Ohio. At the time, Ohio was the equivalent to middle earth to me. I was a Jersey girl whose reality consisted of all things south of New York, north of DC and east of Philly. So, moving to the midwest was a big step, but one I was excited about, nonetheless. I woke up that morning at my friend Yonot's house. When I woke up, the first thing I thought of was my high school friends. I couldn't wait to jump into my car, head up 95 and get ready for a fun night with my oldest and dearest friends. This would be our last night together for a while since we were all heading off for the next chapter in life, so I was definitely excited. I assumed this was why they were on my mind when I awoke. Later, I would believe differently.
Before trekking to Jersey, I stopped in Baltimore to have lunch with Jess and Ben. It was a good and leisurely lunch, and I was happy to have some time with them. When I climbed into the Jetta, still so new to my life, I began heading north. The ride was so familiar to me. I had driven it so many times during my four years at Maryland, not to mention the years of my childhood when Philip and I would wait for our mom to point out our favorite landmarks along the way. Along Route 40, we would seek out the large rocking chair in front of the furniture store, the giant cowboy and bull in front of the rodeo yards and the large cow that sat on top of the diner. These were such silly things, but brought such joy to our boring trip through the farmlands of Jersey. I took in these sights as I had so many times before. I didn't know then that I would never look at them the same again.
When I pulled up in front of my house, I parked on the street facing in the wrong direction, as is so common along the roads of Zion Park. As I turned off the ignition, I looked up to see my dad walking toward me to greet me. He gave me a big hug and grabbed my suitcase. It only occurred to me for a second that this was strange because he had never done this before, but I shrugged it off to a mere coincidence. It's funny now thinking back on all of these little things that were off about my day that had no meaning to me until after the fact. But then, I just happily walked up the front steps and into the front door of my childhood home. There stood my mom waiting for me with open arms.
I immediately starting chattering about needing to get showered and get ready for the night's events. I even tried to walk past my mom into the kitchen to grab something to drink, but she pulled me into another hug. When I pulled away, I looked up at her eyes and saw the tears already forming. Before I could even comprehend why they were there, she muttered the brief sentence that would change my world:
"Honey, John Elliott was killed in a car accident last night."
Though it took only a few seconds for the words to fall from her lips, it seemed like minutes went by in my head. Things went silent. It almost seemed like the world went dark. All I said was, "no." I looked again in her eyes and realized in a heart beat that this was real. I have no idea what happened in the next few minutes. I remember suddenly being seated in the recliner crying and screaming in a way that I can no longer feel, but only see as if watching the situation as an observer. I remember looking up from that recliner and my dad kneeling in front of me holding my knee. He had tears streaming down his face. It was only the third time I had ever seen him cry. Once when his father died. Once when my mother's father died. And now. Now. What was happening now?
Without knowing how much time passed, I remember Shannon all of a sudden being there. Out of nowhere, she appeared. She had had hours to process this nightmare, but for me, it was just beginning. I remember looking at her trying to be so strong for me. But I had no strength left. In order to get a moment of peace, even though I was the one creating all of the chaos, I excused myself to take a shower. In the shower, I let the hot water burn my skin just to feel something other than reality. But as the drops washed over me, I began to drown in memories.
I thought of the boy who went to Space Camp in fifth grade and came back with a video to share with the entire class. I thought of the boy who asked me to dance at a sixth grade dance, and then didn't look me in the eyes for weeks. I thought of the seventh grade dance when that same boy asked me to dance again, and before we knew it, our peers had pushed us in the center of a circle, and we were dancing to "Going to the Chapel." Because we were both mortified, neither of us looked each other in the eyes again for weeks. Not until the day I dropped my books in the hallway at school, and when I bent down to pick them up, there he was by my side, helping me recollect my things. I thought of boy who sang "Baby Got Back" in front of everyone at Abbie's 8th grade graduation party, who later danced up the aisles of high school Spanish class to the theme of "I Dream of Jeanie."
I thought of the guy who held my hand in the back of Steve Malia's mom's mini van on the way home from some party, who was also the same guy who was the first to ever tell me my hair smelled good. I thought of the guy who had perfected playing "Parappa the Rapper" before anyone else and was the first to show me how to download a sound clip from the internet. I thought of the guy who threw up on my shoes in Evan's front yard before riding the "Moped to the 90's." I thought of the guy who rented a cane for the prom. And a guy who ran around the middle of the Somers Point circle with me, Phil and Rosanna after some school event to stay warm because it was such a cold winter. I thought of the guy who took me to see "Heat" after driving around listening to music in Longport so we wouldn't have to go ice skating with our friends. I thought of the guy who sat on the front porch with me on that hot summer night when for some reason I was afraid to grow old. He hugged me as I cried and reminded me of how great getting older would be. This is the same guy who hugged me the day before we graduated from high school because I was all choked up during speech practice at the idea of our days in EHT coming to an end.
I thought of the young man who we rushed home to see after the Stone Temple Pilots concert the night before Thanksgiving because we hadn't seen him since he left for the Academy. The same man who showed up at the Thanksgiving Day football game the next day in his Navy dress uniform looking more handsome than ever. The same man who would send me emails at college and instruct me to watch an episode of "The Simpsons" when I was having a bad day. The same man who was waiting for me just beyond the marine at Gate 8 when I came to pick him up for his first free weekend away from the Academy. The man that laughed at me and Rosanna the entire way back to my campus for thinking the marine at Gate 8 was so cute. The man who let me lean against him as we sat on the beach watching a meteor shower with our friends. The same man who I would drive to Annapolis to see, even when he dragged me to see "The Matrix" and buy Hawaiian shirts at the Gap. The same man who would call me during our senior year to make sure his little sister was doing well at Maryland. The same man who promised me on that terrible night in April, when our siblings had just lost one of their friends to a drunken driver, that I shouldn't worry about what it would be like if we ever lost one of our circle of friends because he wasn't going anywhere. The same man who one week earlier, promised to make me a mixed CD to keep me company on my trek to Ohio.
I stood there in the shower, and I played back more than a decade of memories, love, laughter, friendship and tears. He was one of my best friends, and by far my best guy friend. He held my heart. There was no way any of this could be real.
I quickly realized that I needed to be by Jenny's side. It was the only thought that got me out of the shower and dressed. I had no desire to ever be behind the wheel of a car again, but my mom knew that without me saying a word. As we pulled up in front of the Elliott home, there were cars everywhere. I saw Mikey, Evan, Phil, Erica. I know there were more faces, but they were the only ones I was looking for. With Shannon by my side, we climbed the driveway. Within seconds, Jenny appeared and threw herself in my arms. In tears, she said, "Nanas...I don't know how to be a little sister without my big brother." With that, I never wanted to let go.
I walked into their house and couldn't even focus on all of the people. I was so afraid to see Mr. and Mrs. Elliott because I knew the pain in their eyes would finalize what I was refusing to believe. But there it was. The looks on their faces that to this day, I can't find words to describe. Again, my world went dark.
The next few days are a blur. I remember sleeping in the leather chair in the Elliott's living room that night surrounded by my oldest friends. My brother was asleep on the floor next to me, but he never let go of my hand. I sat in that chair, unable to sleep, looking at the faces and bodies of the people who knew me best, and I tried to make sense of our reality. But sense never came. And after a week of collage-making, viewings, a funeral and a hospital visit, I woke up on Friday morning realizing that I was supposed to leave for graduate school on that day, and I had done nothing to prepare. After a lot of tears and more support from my parents than I can describe, I somehow eventually (days later) found myself in Ohio burying myself in Harry Potter books to avoid my mind from wandering.
That was the hell that began exactly ten years ago today.
This story is so personal to me. So many personal details and memories that I have rarely shared with people before. Therefore, I asked myself, why write this all out? Why share such a personal account of such a sad day? Well, I don't have a perfect answer, but what I do know is that sharing can help in many ways.
The first lesson I learned after John's death was that it was not healthy to keep everything inside. I spent my entire life, until this point, carrying around emotions and thoughts that I never felt allowed to share. I carried them with me, twirling with the thoughts until I made myself spin. When I arrived in Ohio, I didn't know a soul. But for weeks, every person with whom I came into contact heard a detailed account of John's story. His life. His death. His legacy. They knew the about the drunk driver who hit him and his friend who gave him the keys before it happened. They knew he was on his way home to celebrate his mother's birthday with his family and friends. They knew about the Hero Campaign and its grassroots efforts. Sometimes I would go back to my apartment and wonder why I had just shared so much with strangers, and the thing I finally realized was that I was not physically able to keep this story inside of me. The pain was like poison eating at my heart, and the only way to release it was to share, talk, cry. So I share, talk, cry now (and have been for ten years) as a way to help others know that it's okay. That you don't have to sit in pain alone.
The second lesson I learned was to never take any moment for granted. This is a lesson we hear about all of the time, but I didn't fully learn it until that day. I pictured John's laugh....the way his shoulders shook with his whole body. I pictured his smile and how it could heal all things. These are memories, brief moments in time, that I cherish. I wish I could conjure up hundreds more of these moments, but I am eternally grateful to hold on to the pieces of the past that I have. These are visions that come to me when I sleep or when I daydream. They are the same memories that I see when I turn a corner in EHT and bump into a spot where we once hung out. They are the memories that I cling to when I pull up in front of 37 Evergreen Ave., and I have to fight the vision of pulling up that day and walking in to the hardest piece of news my parents have ever had to share with me.
Now, I try to take in all moments like the treasures of time that they are. It explains so much of who I am and how I function. I know there are times that others might look at me like I'm crazy. When I tell a friend that I love them or drop them an email to say I'm thinking of them. When I push my friends, staff and students to not wait until tomorrow to do something they can do today. To strive to be the best versions of themselves. This is because I know regret is useless and that time is precious. And I desperately would love to save all of them from the pain that comes from learning this too late.
And while I could probably go on about additional lessons I've taken from this tragedy, the biggest is I've learned to love better...deeper. I love with my whole heart, and even when it's difficult, I try to never be afraid to be honest about my love. I know I am more than fortunate to have in my life my family and friends, and to be open with them about my care for them is the least I can do in return for such blessings.
In ten years, I am a very different person. And I'm not just changed in the ways that people typically develop in a decade; I'm changed because my heart has learned a hard lesson. And I share this personal story, these private memories, because I think it's important for me to share these lessons. Ten years ago, I was 22. Still a chid, in many ways. Now, I'm 32, but John is still frozen in time. I'm experiencing the growing older that he was so excited for, and it is because of his enthusiasm for life that I pass along his legacy.
So, when I tell you I love you, I mean it. And when I give you a hug, it's for real. And if I send you an email out of nowhere, it's because I genuinely care. And if I ask you if you've had too much to drink, it's because I won't tolerate you on the road. All of these make me vulnerable at times, but I'm willing to take that risk because that's how much it means to me. That's how much John means to me. That's what I believe John's life is worth.
And to those of you-my dearest, oldest friends-who I don't get to see as frequently as I would like, please know, there is never a day when you are not in my thoughts and in my heart. I carry you with me in everything I do. Not being with you today is possibly the most difficult thing I've done in ten years. There is truly no where else I would rather be right now.
And to John, who visits me every time I look at a clock and it reads 11:17 or see a yellow butterfly flutter by or catch an episode of "The Simpsons" or look in your nieces eyes, you are with me always.
