Twenty Years...

It's now been twenty years since TWA Flight 800 crashed and changed the course of many lives from my hometown of Montoursville.

Over the years I've written a great deal about my experience with Flight 800, both publicly and privately.
(See previous years' entries here: http://anythingbutsupermom.blogspot.com/2012/07/forever-changed-in-blink-of-eye.html
http://anythingbutsupermom.blogspot.com/2013/07/remembering-friends_17.html
http://anythingbutsupermom.blogspot.com/2014/07/countless-ways-to-tell-story.html
http://anythingbutsupermom.blogspot.com/2015/07/the-world-they-knew.html )

I had ideas running through my mind for yet another entry, especially since twenty years is a pivotal point (although every year feels pivotal for one reason or another). I decided to go back to the original source of where I recorded my thoughts and feelings in the aftermath of what we all began referring to as "the crash". I feel that in order to gain some sense of what it was like as a 17-year-old in the midst of the Flight 800 tragedy, I would let my journals tell a little bit of the story.

It could go without saying that this was my first journal entry after the crash. I wrote 7 pages detailing the longest night of my life, which started around 11:30 p.m. on July 17, 1996 when I learned about TWA Flight 800 and its connection to my hometown. Even if I hadn't written anything down, I am fairly certain I would still remember everything about that awful night.

I wanted to write so much about what I was experiencing, but it wasn't an easy task. Between spending time with friends, going to the school, talking on the phone and watching the news, the days were long and full. But it was good not to be alone.

With my birthday at the end of May and having a swimming pool at my house, I had pool parties for my 15th and 16th birthdays. I don't know why I didn't at 17. However, the friend that I chose to invite up to swim shortly after school let out was Monica. I can still see us kicking around on a raft, chatting and giggling about our new boyfriends. I am forever thankful for that memory, and for the other days I got to see her that summer, the last day being July 15.

(I apologize for the breaks in this entry, it was just the best way I could edit it.) I dreaded the start of the new school year like never before. My senior year was supposed to be fun and exciting! Everything had changed, and my biggest fear was that Flight 800 would be forgotten: that the school would be oversensitive, and/or that we would not be allowed to talk about it. In retrospect, it was a ridiculous fear. There may have been some missteps, and at times it seemed they (school) would try to avoid mentioning Flight 800 (or maybe I was oversensitive). As an adult, I can see the other side of it now. It was an extremely tough situation for our entire town to face, and I can't even imagine trying to navigate how to begin a school year after losing so many students and maintain some kind of normalcy. The year wasn't "normal" like my previous years of high school, but it was a new normal. It was okay, and hard as it was, I learned that life had to continue moving forward. 

I also began keeping a journal of letters to Monica. Some times I wrote as if she were still here, other times I wrote about the tragedy and how much I missed her. It helped me work through the grieving process that first year. My letters to her were less frequent after the first anniversary, and my last letter to her was in 2001.

I could write something nearly identical to that right now. I am pretty certain that it has crossed my mind every day since it happened. Even if I don't dwell on it, it can just be a flash of thought: "Flight 800". No matter what, it has never left my mind.

This entry (from late October 1996) detailed an evening at a friend's house with ten or so of us hanging out. Our friends that we lost were still at the forefront of our memories and conversations. Monica had her first serious boyfriend shortly before she died, and the story of how they got together was neat (and I witnessed a good portion of that story). "The other puke story" was the night we randomly met up with a guy from her church (Matt) and his friend (Dave) at the mall and ended up going bowling with them. Monica's Auntie Anne's Glazin' Raisin pretzel and strawberry slush didn't end up sitting so well with her. Our night ended shortly after that (all the while she managed to hide the fact she puked, even though it was in the trash can in front of the bowling alley), and afterwards, we thought we could double date--Monica and Matt and me and Dave. Long story short, Monica and Dave ended up together (and I did not end up with Matt). Now I can look back on that story and smile. But at that time, I was taken aback by the rush of emotions of an interruption that would've never bothered me otherwise.

During that first year, I journaled quite a bit about Flight 800 (and also just the every day normal life of being a high school senior). It was often the subject of writing assignments in my AP English class. I decided to be brave enough to make it the subject of my Psychology report. The report would use data collected from surveys sent around to a sampling of the student population. I earned an "A", and while I still have all of the surveys that were filled out, the report disappeared from the board (where everyone's reports were hanging) and I was never able to take it home.

When I went to college, I would once again use Flight 800 as the subject of another Psychology report and a few English essays. I spoke on it in my oral communications class, and referenced it in a technical writing report. It was a part of my life, and it was therapeutic for me to share my experience, especially in college where people remembered hearing about Flight 800, but had no direct connection to it. I wanted my friends to live on and to show that their brief lives had meaning.

Now here I am, twenty years on the other side. There has been so much that has happened in my life during that span, and at times I can hardly believe that I am 37, that I'm (equally) responsible for the lives of three lovely daughters, and that I drive a minivan (never say never)! I have endured other losses; my three grandparents that were living at the time of Flight 800 have passed away. I dealt with my first marriage falling apart in a really ugly way while I was pregnant with my first daughter. Yet Flight 800 remains the event with the most impact on my life thus far.

This weekend, I had the opportunity to share with my oldest daughter a little bit more about Flight 800. She knows why her middle name is Monica, and she knows basically what happened (as much as a 10-year-old can grasp about something that happened ten years prior to her birth). I decided at the last minute to come to Montoursville to participate in the Memorial 5K as I felt a strong pull to do so. Averey was a willing participant, and the other three people in our family came along and stayed at my parents' house. The night before, we had to go and get her some new sneakers though, as her feet hit a growth spurt. After we found a pair, I asked her if she would mind going to the cemetery so I could show her where a majority of the victims are buried. She obliged, and we headed up to the peaceful hill with a beautiful view of the sunset. It had been a long time since I had been up there, and it still strikes me how unreal it is to see all of those graves with the same end to their dash -July 17, 1996.

I'm not often in Montoursville around the anniversary, but when I am, it is a mix of emotions. I was especially glad to be able to spend a little time with Monica's parents at the 5K. It was awesome to be there with all of those people who remembered. Yet it still hurts that an event such as that exists because of the 21 we lost. They say that time heals all wounds. Twenty years later, the wounds may be healed, but the scars will always remain.