Afterward [TRIGGERY: guns, violence, blood]
It's been nearly two weeks since gunfire erupted in the apartment below mine. The vigil candles have all gone out and have been gathered up with the desiccated bouquets and balloons that have lost their plump. They've been set aside in the courtyard near the dumpster; no one quite has the nerve to toss them away. Life goes on more quietly here. There has been a hush in this building, and the surrounding neighbors have been eerily quiet as well.
I'm left to contemplate the change in energy here, since energy has very much become my life's work. It is lighter here now, when it had slowly become more and more choking and oppressive, as if the event about to come had been barreling down on us all for months. The main sewer line backed up on the building a few weeks ago. We were invaded by meat-hungry ants and gnats a few weeks before that. But most of all, there was this heaviness in the air. That's gone now. I mentioned it to my kids, and they agreed. I asked them if it felt lighter to them as well. They said it was weird, but yes, it did feel better. I'm sure that sounds odd to all of you; maybe it's all just coincidence and weird imaginings from our heads.
The suspected killer was brought into custody the next day, and it seems his acts were a very personal vendetta. He shot the surviving young man four times, and his former girl a number of times--although the neighbors guess it was 4 as well and that he emptied the entire clip of 12 bullets into his victims. Unfortunately, Ms. Dora was caught in the middle of a type of love/business triangle gone seriously wrong. She was also shot 4 times. Both women died.
My phone call to 911 started at 12:50, so somewhere in the preceding seconds I stood stock still in the kitchen trying not to make any noise, and hoping the shooter did not fire up (toward me). After a beat or two of silence I leaped for my cell phone in the living room, hands shaking, straining my ears for any further clues. Disbelief is thick in times like that. You don't want to believe that what you heard was indeed what you heard. For a moment, I tried to convince myself that the rapid fire pops of the last flurry of bullets, and the harsh laugh I heard just before, meant that it was just a string of firecrackers. Then my neighbor screamed for help, which broke my hesitation so I could mash the "SEND" button, hearing the footsteps that probably meant the gunman was fleeing the scene.
I opened the door, then realized I better make sure he was gone, and peeked out windows to see if anyone was still down there. Peering around to see if the stairs were cleared, I crept out--phone to my ear. All this eternal time, the phone was still connecting, still ringing and ringing and ringing. By the time I hit the courtyard, neighbors from all over had joined me, screaming at each other for phones, calling out for help, none of them listening to anyone else. 911 picked up at last, but I didn't get a dispatcher, I got a phone tree for selecting Spanish or English--bear in mind that I can't process phone information very well even in a darkened room with a pair of head phones on and no ambient noise. So...I'm only vaguely aware of the recorded phone tree at this point, and just know it felt like forever before the phone rang again and I got a real live human voice on the line.
I gave the address and cross street carefully, as my mouth can sometimes say the wrong things in times of stress--if I didn't concentrate very carefully I might be sending them to an address I haven't lived at since I was 5, and completely believe I'd said the correct place. My quick reactions made me the first to get through to 911, and therefore the first to report about the number and conditions of each of the victims. No one had gone near any of them yet. I became first responder. There isn't a lot of first aid to be administered to someone who has been shot so many times. Basically, you grab a towel and try to stop any bleeding you can find. You apply pressure and offer a soothing touch and you murmur whatever words of comfort you can come up with.
Dora didn't seem to breathing when I first touched her, but as I placed a hand on her ribs and watched her belly she seemed to gain more strength and began to breathe more deeply and regularly. Reiki poured from my hands and forehead and heart--and I knew in that moment that this was why I had come to live here. I wasn't able to save her, but I can only hope that a kind and loving touch at that very dark moment was some comfort to her.
Asia was face down, mouth gaping and gasping for air. So tiny. She seemed to be no older than 13. Heavy-lidded eyes half-closed and unseeing, she fought for each gaping breath. I placed a hand on her shoulders and encouraged her--accepted a towel from my neighbor and pressed it into the blood flowing down her neck. Reiki flowed like fire and I sent her all the love I could manage. The 911 dispatcher told me that the police had arrived, and I should talk to them. Then she hung up with resounding click.
This is interesting now, in hindsight, because in our conversation she seemed focused on assuring me that the police were on their way, without much concern for first aid or medical attention. At one point, I interrupted her, enunciating each phrase carefully, "hey! I need you...to tell me...that the ambulance is on the way!" Still, it was all about the police, but after that she did admit that medical teams were coming as well, of course.
The first officer in the apartment took a look around, muttered some word of shock and awe--like "wow" or "oh, man" or some other bit of futility. Then he said, louder, "okay, they're done. They've had it," before telling us to leave.
Last I checked, only an MD could pronounce someone dead, and I don't think that would happen while the victims are all still breathing.
We refused. He insisted we had to leave so that the EMTs could make it in, that the space was small and they had a lot of equipment to bring in. He made it sound like they were right outside. So I complied, taking a moment to touch each victim on the head and bless them, telling them that Jesus was with them. I suppose it was an assumption to think that they were Christian and would find comfort in this. It isn't something I would say to...well, anyone in other circumstances, but it just seemed right in this case.
Perhaps the largest bit of learning to me from this--God forbid I should ever be on scene for a shooting again--is not to comply to that request that I take my hands off the victims and clear the scene. My call to 911 began at 12:50 and ended at 12:56. Some few minutes later we were chased out of the apartment to let the EMTs in. At 1:05 I retreated to my apartment after loitering on the stairs, as the EMTs still had not been let in, and posted to Facebook asking for prayers or Reiki to be sent, because there was nothing else to be done--except to continue to beam Reiki in. I came back to the stairs--still no sign of EMTs, but my neighbor who had been in the apartment (in her bedroom and had escaped the bullets) was crying out for the police, the fire fighters and the EMTs to please help her mom--as they just stood there. I left the stairs to settle and support her out on the median strip, watching it all unfold.
It was at least 20 minutes before medical help made it to the victims.
I want to you think about that. 20 minutes. Shot 4 times. Bleeding and in pain, and except for the 7 minutes or so that someone had a hand on your back, urging you to hang on, that help is on the way, there was no other help. The officers saying, out loud within your hearing, that you were done for.
No one deserves that.
To be fair, I understand why it took so long for proper medical response. Well, at least I understand theoretically--administratively. The EMTs should not be sent into a live shoot out, they should be safe when they respond to such calls. However, with all the neighbors milling about in the courtyard, each one telling the police that the shooter had fled...the shooter had fled...the shooter had fled...it should not have taken over 10 minutes after arrival and 20 minutes after last shots fired to allow the medical teams in. Period.
I'm angry about that. I'm likely to get angrier. I'm likely to get activist about this--if I can get over my fear of talking to people out loud.
God forbid I should ever live through such an experience again, but if I do, I won't be leaving the victims until the EMTs lay hands on them as well. Any who ask will be told to fuck off in no uncertain terms. My 20/20 hindsight showed me that the faith I had that attention was immediately forthcoming was a blind and uninformed faith. I truly believe that Ms. Dora could have survived had she been seen faster, and barring that, I think she would have had far better chances if she'd at least not been left alone at that critical time.
No one deserves that. Least of all the neighborhood grandma who looked out for everyone and everybody. She was always outside watching the kids--grandkids and great grandkids. More than once she signed for my packages and kept my stuff safe. She never failed to check on me and my reclusive self. She was a good and beautiful woman, and her family has suffered a great loss in her untimely death.
I'm left to contemplate the change in energy here, since energy has very much become my life's work. It is lighter here now, when it had slowly become more and more choking and oppressive, as if the event about to come had been barreling down on us all for months. The main sewer line backed up on the building a few weeks ago. We were invaded by meat-hungry ants and gnats a few weeks before that. But most of all, there was this heaviness in the air. That's gone now. I mentioned it to my kids, and they agreed. I asked them if it felt lighter to them as well. They said it was weird, but yes, it did feel better. I'm sure that sounds odd to all of you; maybe it's all just coincidence and weird imaginings from our heads.
The suspected killer was brought into custody the next day, and it seems his acts were a very personal vendetta. He shot the surviving young man four times, and his former girl a number of times--although the neighbors guess it was 4 as well and that he emptied the entire clip of 12 bullets into his victims. Unfortunately, Ms. Dora was caught in the middle of a type of love/business triangle gone seriously wrong. She was also shot 4 times. Both women died.
My phone call to 911 started at 12:50, so somewhere in the preceding seconds I stood stock still in the kitchen trying not to make any noise, and hoping the shooter did not fire up (toward me). After a beat or two of silence I leaped for my cell phone in the living room, hands shaking, straining my ears for any further clues. Disbelief is thick in times like that. You don't want to believe that what you heard was indeed what you heard. For a moment, I tried to convince myself that the rapid fire pops of the last flurry of bullets, and the harsh laugh I heard just before, meant that it was just a string of firecrackers. Then my neighbor screamed for help, which broke my hesitation so I could mash the "SEND" button, hearing the footsteps that probably meant the gunman was fleeing the scene.
I opened the door, then realized I better make sure he was gone, and peeked out windows to see if anyone was still down there. Peering around to see if the stairs were cleared, I crept out--phone to my ear. All this eternal time, the phone was still connecting, still ringing and ringing and ringing. By the time I hit the courtyard, neighbors from all over had joined me, screaming at each other for phones, calling out for help, none of them listening to anyone else. 911 picked up at last, but I didn't get a dispatcher, I got a phone tree for selecting Spanish or English--bear in mind that I can't process phone information very well even in a darkened room with a pair of head phones on and no ambient noise. So...I'm only vaguely aware of the recorded phone tree at this point, and just know it felt like forever before the phone rang again and I got a real live human voice on the line.
I gave the address and cross street carefully, as my mouth can sometimes say the wrong things in times of stress--if I didn't concentrate very carefully I might be sending them to an address I haven't lived at since I was 5, and completely believe I'd said the correct place. My quick reactions made me the first to get through to 911, and therefore the first to report about the number and conditions of each of the victims. No one had gone near any of them yet. I became first responder. There isn't a lot of first aid to be administered to someone who has been shot so many times. Basically, you grab a towel and try to stop any bleeding you can find. You apply pressure and offer a soothing touch and you murmur whatever words of comfort you can come up with.
Dora didn't seem to breathing when I first touched her, but as I placed a hand on her ribs and watched her belly she seemed to gain more strength and began to breathe more deeply and regularly. Reiki poured from my hands and forehead and heart--and I knew in that moment that this was why I had come to live here. I wasn't able to save her, but I can only hope that a kind and loving touch at that very dark moment was some comfort to her.
Asia was face down, mouth gaping and gasping for air. So tiny. She seemed to be no older than 13. Heavy-lidded eyes half-closed and unseeing, she fought for each gaping breath. I placed a hand on her shoulders and encouraged her--accepted a towel from my neighbor and pressed it into the blood flowing down her neck. Reiki flowed like fire and I sent her all the love I could manage. The 911 dispatcher told me that the police had arrived, and I should talk to them. Then she hung up with resounding click.
This is interesting now, in hindsight, because in our conversation she seemed focused on assuring me that the police were on their way, without much concern for first aid or medical attention. At one point, I interrupted her, enunciating each phrase carefully, "hey! I need you...to tell me...that the ambulance is on the way!" Still, it was all about the police, but after that she did admit that medical teams were coming as well, of course.
The first officer in the apartment took a look around, muttered some word of shock and awe--like "wow" or "oh, man" or some other bit of futility. Then he said, louder, "okay, they're done. They've had it," before telling us to leave.
Last I checked, only an MD could pronounce someone dead, and I don't think that would happen while the victims are all still breathing.
We refused. He insisted we had to leave so that the EMTs could make it in, that the space was small and they had a lot of equipment to bring in. He made it sound like they were right outside. So I complied, taking a moment to touch each victim on the head and bless them, telling them that Jesus was with them. I suppose it was an assumption to think that they were Christian and would find comfort in this. It isn't something I would say to...well, anyone in other circumstances, but it just seemed right in this case.
Perhaps the largest bit of learning to me from this--God forbid I should ever be on scene for a shooting again--is not to comply to that request that I take my hands off the victims and clear the scene. My call to 911 began at 12:50 and ended at 12:56. Some few minutes later we were chased out of the apartment to let the EMTs in. At 1:05 I retreated to my apartment after loitering on the stairs, as the EMTs still had not been let in, and posted to Facebook asking for prayers or Reiki to be sent, because there was nothing else to be done--except to continue to beam Reiki in. I came back to the stairs--still no sign of EMTs, but my neighbor who had been in the apartment (in her bedroom and had escaped the bullets) was crying out for the police, the fire fighters and the EMTs to please help her mom--as they just stood there. I left the stairs to settle and support her out on the median strip, watching it all unfold.
It was at least 20 minutes before medical help made it to the victims.
I want to you think about that. 20 minutes. Shot 4 times. Bleeding and in pain, and except for the 7 minutes or so that someone had a hand on your back, urging you to hang on, that help is on the way, there was no other help. The officers saying, out loud within your hearing, that you were done for.
No one deserves that.
To be fair, I understand why it took so long for proper medical response. Well, at least I understand theoretically--administratively. The EMTs should not be sent into a live shoot out, they should be safe when they respond to such calls. However, with all the neighbors milling about in the courtyard, each one telling the police that the shooter had fled...the shooter had fled...the shooter had fled...it should not have taken over 10 minutes after arrival and 20 minutes after last shots fired to allow the medical teams in. Period.
I'm angry about that. I'm likely to get angrier. I'm likely to get activist about this--if I can get over my fear of talking to people out loud.
God forbid I should ever live through such an experience again, but if I do, I won't be leaving the victims until the EMTs lay hands on them as well. Any who ask will be told to fuck off in no uncertain terms. My 20/20 hindsight showed me that the faith I had that attention was immediately forthcoming was a blind and uninformed faith. I truly believe that Ms. Dora could have survived had she been seen faster, and barring that, I think she would have had far better chances if she'd at least not been left alone at that critical time.
No one deserves that. Least of all the neighborhood grandma who looked out for everyone and everybody. She was always outside watching the kids--grandkids and great grandkids. More than once she signed for my packages and kept my stuff safe. She never failed to check on me and my reclusive self. She was a good and beautiful woman, and her family has suffered a great loss in her untimely death.