Over the years, I have written and spoken a great deal on one of my life's most pivotal events. When I worked for Pinnacle Health, they had a publication called "Art and Soul", to which employees could submit artwork, photography, essays and poems. I chose to submit a story on my experience with Flight 800 that was published in the summer of 2005. Instead of writing something new, I've chosen to blog this story for today.
It’s amazing how quickly your life
can change. Just when everything seems to be absolutely perfect, the
unthinkable occurs, and your illusion of immortality is shattered.
It was the
summer of 1996, the summer before I would begin my senior year of high school.
All was right in my little world. Hanging out with friends and my new boyfriend
were the exciting events at the time, and since it was the first summer I was
driving with a license, I volunteered to chauffeur everyone around in my
mother’s car. I had reached the apex of independence in my 17 years. Little did
I know my life would take a rapid course down from that peak.
On the
night of Wednesday, July 17, around 11:30
p.m. , I arrived home to find my mom and brother waiting for me at
the front door. I immediately sensed something was wrong because no one ever
greeted me at the door even if I came in a little past my curfew. They said
they had something to tell me and I was to follow them downstairs. I think it
was my dad who spoke the words, but looking back, it’s all a blur. All I knew
was that the worst imaginable tragedy had settled over my hometown.
Many
members of my high school’s French Club were planning a journey to France . I heard
about it through several of the 16 people who were going on this excursion,
including one of my best friends, Monica Weaver. I saw her two days before she
was to leave, and she talked excitedly about the new clothes she bought for the
trip, and the francs she had received from the bank. On the morning that she
left, we talked on the phone for 45 minutes, chatting about our boyfriends and
of course, her trip. She didn’t seem the least bit hesitant about going, and
who would be? It was an amazing opportunity for them since the French Club
didn’t venture overseas every year. At the end of our conversation, we decided
that she would call me when she got back (while she recovered from her jet
lag), and we said our good-byes, unknowingly for the last time.
The 16
members of the French Club, their five chaperones, and 209 other passengers
boarded TWA Flight 800 at JFK
Airport
It was instantly
all over the news. By the next morning when I went to my high school, the mob
of reporters was unbelievable. How could this happen to my hometown of
Montoursville? With a population just over 5,000 and nestled next to Williamsport , it was just
your average sleepy hamlet, relatively unknown to anyone living outside of Lycoming County Pennsylvania ,
America ,
even the world. It was too much to bear. I realized that this was a life-changing
event, and I had to face it no matter how impossible it seemed.
Within the
week after the crash, funeral services began, some with or without the
deceased, depending on whether their body had been found in the waters. In the
space of four days, I attended five viewings and four funerals, more than I had
been to in all of my 17 years, and more than I hope I ever have to attend for
the rest of my life.
The school
year approached quickly, and I was a mix of emotions. How could I face my
senior year without Monica? The last day I saw her, we talked about how we
would have so much to write about in each other’s yearbooks, and also our plans
for the upcoming year: mall trips, bowling, and just driving around and being
teenage girls. I couldn’t comprehend why that had been taken away from her. She
had so much going for her! She planned to go to school to be a nurse or a
physical therapist, and I was clueless about my future. The 16 students that
perished were vibrant, very involved in the school and extracurricular
activities, and knew what they wanted to achieve in life. I tried to make sense
of the tragedy in my own mind, piecing together specific Bible verses and
trying to remember that God has a plan for everyone, but even now it’s still
hard to grasp why so many young lives were taken away much too soon.
I went
through much of my senior year as I did any other school year, enjoying the
dances, football games, parties with friends, and being a part of the school
musical, but a lot of times I felt very sad and lonely. I looked forward to
graduation and moving on in my life.
As time
ticked on, the pain I felt from the death of my friends lost some of its sting.
There were weeks that would go by where I wouldn’t even cry, but yet not a day
would pass when I didn’t think of Monica or my other friends that I lost, or
the tragedy itself. Nearly nine years has passed, and it still crosses my mind
every day, whether it’s a brief moment when I see the pictures of my friends
that I’ve displayed in my hallway, or if I hear of a tragic event and it
reminds me of what I lived through at such a young age.
Visiting
her gravesite was probably the most difficult thing in dealing with her death.
It made the incident all too real, and many times I left crying. But there was
a time I spent there when I felt very comforted.
In late
December of 1998, I went up to the cemetery around 11 p.m. Earlier that
evening, I visited with Monica’s family, and in between going out to eat and
meeting up with friends, I felt the need to stop at the cemetery.
It was a
beautiful night. There was crisp snow on the ground, the moon was shining
brightly, and the stars were twinkling. I approached the area where many of the
Flight 800 victims are buried. Their wind chimes swayed musically in the light breeze,
and I knelt by Monica’s decorated headstone and for some reason felt at ease to
talk to her out loud, even though I had always visited the site in silence.
After a couple minutes, I said, “I have never done this before. This is a little
different for me. I just wish I could know if you can hear me. I wish I could
have some sort of sign!” I drifted off into regular conversation again, and a
couple minutes later, I noticed something. All of the wind chimes had silenced.
There was still a breeze, but there wasn’t a sound. Right then and there, I felt
Monica’s presence, listening to me talk as she had done so many times before.
Living
through the tragedy of Flight 800 has changed me in so many ways. I’ve learned
a lot about life, love and death. Being 17 at the time, they were lessons I
never expected to learn so early in life. Never taking anyone or anything for
granted, realizing how short and meaningful life really is, and how to make the
most of what you have are just a few of the key lessons I’ve come to
understand. I’ve heard that God will take a negative situation and come out
with something positive. As I’m living my life now, I’d definitely have to
agree.
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