Choosing Hope: Moving Forward from Life's Darkest Hours

by Kaitlin Roig-DeBellis

  But everything has changed.

  I turn to a fellow first-grade teacher and ask, “How are you?” She looks at me matter-of-factly and replies, “Oh, I’m fine.” My eyes fill with tears. “People are dead,” I say. “What do you mean?” she asks, disbelieving. “No one died.” I would later learn that in those early stages, very few people understood the gravity of the situation. Most had heard either on the television or on the radio or from one another that the worst casualty was a teacher who’d been shot in the foot. Most people were relieved that the damage hadn’t been worse. They just didn’t know.

  I watch the faces of the people who are still waiting and I know that some of them will go home alone. As minutes and then hours pass and they still have no word of their child, or their mother, or their wife, they begin to understand. This is much worse than anyone thought. Yes, this is much, much worse. My students and I know. We heard the voices of our teachers and classmates in the final moments of their lives. When we left our classroom with the SWAT team, the last class out of the building, we saw the dozens of bullet casings on the floor. Spent shells that had rolled under our door from the adjoining classroom, where so many were killed. We heard what went on in there, and outside in the hallway, and in the classroom a little farther down the hall. I wish I could forget those sounds. I pray that one day my kids do.

  Little by little, the crowd has dispersed. All my students are gone now, and most of the others are, too. My mom finally arrives. She says it took her nearly an hour to get through the gridlock of cars and emergency vehicles on the streets leading to the school. Some people abandoned their cars when they couldn’t get any closer and ran to the firehouse to look for their children. My mom embraces me. She is stoic, as always. Holding on to her, I feel like a child, a frightened child who just wants to get out of this place. Even her reassuring presence doesn’t quell the fear that prickles through my body. Once we are cleared to leave, I grab her arm and start running, not knowing that, in a separate room in the firehouse, the families of those who are still unaccounted for are learning their loved ones are gone.

  Soon enough, everyone learns what my students and I already know: that many people have lost their lives. I hear the horrific details of what happened outside our classroom from others, people who love me and tell me gently the awful truths of that morning. I am horrified to hear that our principal and the school psychologist were shot to death outside my classroom, where they attempted to tackle the shooter on his way into the school. How very brave they were. The shooter then continued down the hallway to the first-grade classroom two doors away from mine. There, he found a guest teacher and a behavior therapist huddled protectively around their students. He sprayed them with bullets, killing everyone but one little girl who had the wherewithal to play dead. Then he headed back up the hallway toward our classroom, stopping next door, where the first-grade teacher and her aide had just finished hiding their students in closets and cabinets and under the teacher’s desk. From what I was told, he appeared at the door just as the teacher was closing it, demanding to know where her students were. I wasn’t surprised to hear that she’d tried to convince him that her kids were in the gymnasium on the other side of the school. She would have done anything to protect her students. Still, mercilessly, he killed her and then he fatally shot the students and the special-education aide who were hiding under the desk. The aide was found cradling an autistic child in her arms. When he stopped to reload, the rest of the students in the classroom made a run for it and survived. Innocent first-graders knowing their teachers couldn’t help them now, and having to run for their lives. I can’t stand to think about what must have been going on in their minds. A moment later, when police began to arrive, the rampage stopped when the killer shot himself in the head and lay dead on the classroom floor. He still had 253 rounds of live ammunition on his body.

  That was the classroom that adjoined ours.

  The Interview

  Drive as fast as you can!” I cried, as my mom slipped behind the wheel of her car. I slid into the passenger seat beside her, furtively scrutinizing our surroundings for any sign of danger. “What if the police lied and the shooter is still out here?” I wondered. “What if there is another shooter that they don’t even know about?”

  In my mother’s haste to get to me, she’d parked in a stranger’s driveway and run through the crowds and the traffic tie-ups the rest of the way to the firehouse. Now it seemed like she was backing out in slow-motion.

  “Hurry!” I cried. “Mom, please hurry!” I wanted to get out of that driveway. Out of the neighborhood. Out of Newtown altogether. I felt helpless to help myself. The only control I had left was ordering my mom to get out of there. “Hurry, Mom! Please hurry!” I cried, trying to swallow a breath. “Okay, Kaitlin,” she said in her perpetually steady way.

  For my whole life, my mom was able to calm me down with her cool manner and soothing voice. Not now. She didn’t yet know what my class and I went through, that we were living in a different world from the one we knew before that morning. My new world was scary. Danger was lurking everywhere. There was no safe haven—not even sitting next to my mom, the woman who was my savior, my protector, my comfort, my strength. If our elementary school wasn’t safe, no place was.

  “Am I alive?” I asked, my eyes bulging, my heart pounding wildly. “Did we really get out of the bathroom, Mom?” “Am I really here with you?” My mom reassured me. “Yes, Kaitlin, you’re alive. You’re safe.” The fear that shot through my body turned to numbness. For the rest of the ride, I was silent. My emotions were shutting down to protect my sanity. Still, the terrible stirring under my skin let me know that panic loomed just below the surface, ready to emerge at any moment.

  We pulled up to my parents’ house at about 2:00 p.m. Nick was waiting outside for us. I ran to him and grabbed him so hard that I felt him flinch. “Okay, babe,” he said, in a tone that told me he was completely unaware of the enormity of the tragedy or how close my students and I came to losing our lives. Nick led me inside and I dropped onto the living room couch. I couldn’t even speak. I just sat there, staring straight ahead. It was as if every ounce of strength had drained from my body and I didn’t even have enough juice to move. Neither Nick nor my parents pressed me for details, and I didn’t offer any. I just sat there, listening to the telephone ring and ring and ring. Mom answered some of the calls, and some she let go to the answering machine. I didn’t have the breath to ask who was calling and she didn’t offer.

  A little bit of time passed, I don’t know how long it was. Mom walked toward me holding the telephone receiver with her hand over the speaker. “It’s Diane Sawyer’s producer and I think you should talk to her,” my mother said. “I think you should hear what she has to say.” What? I thought to myself. You want me to talk to the news media? It was the last thing I expected to hear from my intensely private and discreet mother. I’m sure that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, I took the phone from her. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t feeling. I was simply following directions from the person I trusted most in the world. “Hello, this is Kaitlin,” I said.

  For the next ten minutes the producer talked and I listened. It was the same conversation she’d had earlier with my mom and the reason I suddenly understood why my mother suggested I take the call. The producer started off by telling me that her parents and Sawyer’s mother were all teachers. Both she and the anchor had a keen understanding of the sacrifices that good teachers make for their students, she said, and that was never more evident than what had taken place in the classrooms and hallways of Sandy Hook that morning. The news reports were all focused on the shooter, but they wanted to do a piece that showcased the importance of teachers and what they did for their students every day. They had no interest in exploiting the tragedy, nor did they want to focus the broadcast on the monster that caused it. Their interest was in highlighting the love of a teacher for her students in the midst
of one of the darkest times ever to befall our nation’s schools.

  I wavered. “I don’t know,” I told the producer. “I’m not sure. I can’t really think right now.” I could see from my mom’s expression that she wanted me to do the interview. As uncertain as I was about being on television, I trusted her enough to know there was a reason she was steering me in that direction, and she always only had my best interest at heart. The producer gently prodded me, reiterating the point that the intention of the piece was as a tribute to teachers. Hesitantly, I finally agreed. “Okay,” I said.

  Sawyer arrived around thirty minutes later. For the next hour, I told her bits and pieces of what I remembered about what my students and I went through that morning. I told her about hearing the shots and breaking glass and rushing my kids into that tiny bathroom. I talked about how good my students were, and that they knew they had to be quiet so the bad guy didn’t find us.

  “Did you tell them to be quiet?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, my eyes tearing and my voice shaking. “I told them to be absolutely quiet. Because I was just so afraid if he did come in, he would hear us and start shooting the door. I said, ‘We have to be absolutely quiet.’ And I said, ‘There are bad guys out there now.’ I just wanted us to be okay. And I was so, so saddened that there are people who in this situation are not okay. And my heart, my heart goes out to anyone who knew them and was part of their lives. I’ve never been a part of something obviously anywhere near this traumatic. And so I’m hearing the gunfire in the hallway and I’m thinking in my mind, I’m the first classroom, why isn’t he coming? In my mind, I’m thinking, As a six- or seven-year-old, what are your thoughts? I’m thinking that I almost have to be the parent, like I have to tell them—I said to them, ‘I need you to know that I love you all very much and that it’s going to be okay,’ because I thought that was the last thing we were ever going to hear.” My words caught in my throat.

  “I think there are a lot of people who wish, who want all the teachers to know how much it means to them, how much they care about their children,” Sawyer said, wrapping up. I was grateful to have been given the opportunity to honor my colleagues and the students who acted with such bravery and compassion, but I was relieved the interview was over.

  As Sawyer stood to leave, I glanced at Nick and my parents, and the stricken expressions on their faces reminded me that my talk with Diane was the first time they’d heard from me what had happened that morning. Before that, they had no idea about the trauma my students and I lived through. Or that we’d been so close to losing our lives.

  If it hadn’t been for my respect for my mom, I never would have spoken to anyone that afternoon. But once the interview was over, I was convinced that I had made the right decision, because sitting down in a formal interview setting I was able to process my thoughts about what happened and articulate my memories in a way I would not have been able to do otherwise. The people closest to me could finally understand what my students and I had gone through. I’m not sure I would have been able to tell them otherwise, and I know they wouldn’t have pressed me for details. And if I was the vehicle through which to deliver the message about the relationship between teachers and their students, then I was grateful to have been given the opportunity, and, in doing so, honoring my colleagues and the students who acted with such bravery and compassion.

  I wouldn’t know it for a long time, but that interview was a way of purging some of the horror I was holding inside, and a tiny first step in what would be a long road to healing. That’s why my mom suggested I do it. She knew that all along.

  The Day After

  Iwoke up late on Saturday and found Nick sitting on the couch in the living room, the remote in his hand, the TV tuned to CNN. Twenty-four hours had passed since the bloodshed, and the names of colleagues and children who’d lost their lives were beginning to trickle out. I couldn’t bring myself to watch the first-day coverage, but after I’d collapsed into bed, depleted from talking and crying and trying to stifle my anguish with an extra glass of wine, Nick had stayed up for most of the night, watching the news. He looked dead tired. I was still feeling numb. I’m sure it was my body’s way of helping me cope. Had I been able to access the feelings of sorrow and anger and revulsion that festered inside me, I might have lost my mind.

  I sat down next to Nick, still in a daze. “Are you sure you want to see this?” he asked. I didn’t answer. All of the major news stations were broadcasting a press conference with Connecticut State Police lieutenant Paul Vance. He was saying something about the medical examiner getting ready to release the official list of names of the people who had been killed, but I was having trouble comprehending his words. To me, he sounded far away, as if he were speaking from the other end of a tunnel. His mouth moved in slow motion and his sentences slurred into a kind of indiscernible drone. I glanced at the news crawler at the bottom of the screen: “Twenty-six dead, including twenty children. All victims have been ID’d.” I felt sick to my stomach. Knowing the names of everyone who didn’t make it out of our school wasn’t something I was ready to hear. The official list would just confirm what my students and I already knew from listening to the horror firsthand outside our classroom. Our community had suffered an enormous loss and we didn’t need names to begin mourning.

  Why those kind women, who had devoted themselves to helping groom our children to grow up to be thoughtful, caring adults? Why innocent first-graders, little ones, who still believed in the Tooth Fairy, for God’s sake? Our school was a tightly knit community unto itself. It was inevitable that my students and I had lost people we knew. People we cared for. We heard it when we were holed up in that tiny bathroom. (Later, when I allowed myself to hear more, I learned that my principal, a sibling of one of my students, and the teacher and half of the first-grade class whose room adjoined ours were all among the lost. That took the tragedy to an even deeper level.)

  The reporters were shouting questions at Lieutenant Vance, most of them about the shooter. What was his motive? Did he leave anything behind that might answer why he did this? What about the “secondary crime scene,” the shooter’s house (where he’d shot and killed his mother before coming for us)? Was there any evidence found there that might shed light on his motive? Why are they focusing on why this person did what he did? I wondered. There is no answer for the havoc he wrought on our community. Nothing can explain his viciousness.

  “Can we please turn it off?” I asked, turning to Nick.

  As numb as I was emotionally, physically my insides felt like they were crawling. My chest felt tight, my skin prickled, and I couldn’t catch my breath. It felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. I was in a perpetual state of fear. I didn’t know how to relieve what I was feeling, but I needed to do something to occupy my scrambled mind. I had to stay in motion to keep from becoming completely unglued.

  For the next few hours, I never stopped moving. I scrubbed down all of the kitchen appliances and countertops, and scoured the tiles on the bathroom floor. I rearranged furniture, vacuumed the carpets, and polished tabletops that had already been polished to a sheen. I dusted every picture frame in every room and the molding around every doorway. I washed, dried, and folded sheets that had already been washed, dried, and put away. Nick tried to help, but nothing helped. I was being swallowed up by my own sadness and anxiety.

  That afternoon, our house filled up with people. Friends came from as far away as Boston. They brought pizza, sandwiches, cookies, cakes, and drinks. Being surrounded by the people I’d felt safest with made me realize that my sense of security had been completely breached. I couldn’t bear to think about anyone leaving. How was I going to block the noise in my head once they were gone? How would I distract myself from my troubled thoughts? It was all I could do to take one step after another and breathe.

  My sleep that night was fitful and plagued by gnawing thoughts. Why us? I wondered, as I lay awa
ke, listening for noises, afraid of what I might hear. Why defenseless babies? Why my wonderful coworkers, people whose chosen purpose was to guide a community of children to be their best? How will my students carry the burden of what they witnessed?

  Will we ever heal?

  December 16, 2012

  On Sunday, the superintendent held a private meeting. The e-mail invitation said it was voluntary attendance and for Sandy Hook staff and their families only. I told Nick I wanted to go, to be with friends and colleagues who I knew were struggling as I was. I thought it would be good for all of us to be with one another, to hug, and talk, and cry together for the first time since the worst day of our lives. If I could comfort others, I wanted to be there for them, and I’d hoped their presence would reassure me.

  Nick offered to take me. The meeting was held at the Reed Intermediate School, a short distance from our school. When we arrived at the school, the parking lot was already full, so we had to find a space a good distance away. It had taken every ounce of courage I had to even make the drive to Newtown. I was trembling with fear. I imagined threats in every car and on every corner. I wasn’t sure I could take the walk from the car to the school. With every step, my heart pounded a little harder. I scanned the landscape around us, watching for bad guys to jump out of the bushes, constantly looking back to see if we were being followed.