Dominica, Dec. 1st, Part 2
I run upstairs to my cabin on deck 5. My memory of this is in stuttered glimpses, I
think because my brain was stuttering in what I could take in. I collapse in sobs first for Casey. I get up and start to change out of my wet
clothes. I collapse again then for
Casey’s parents. I start to put on dry
clothes. I collapse again for us on the
ship, for Casey’s friends and for our entire community. I get water and Kleenex. I collapse one more time in the cabin for
everyone back in Charlottesville & UVA, for everyone who works for ISE and who sends
us all of out into the big wide world time and time again. This all happens in about five minutes. In dry clothes, with Kleenex and water, I
head up into the Union. All around are
students crying, holding each other, wrapped in blankets, and boxes of tissues—these
last two signs of how much the crew cares and is trying to help in any way that
they can. Jacques and Emily and others
(I’m sorry, I do not remember who) are standing in the center of the Union. I go up to Jacques and I think I said,
“Really?” and I think he said “Really”, and then he took me in his arms and I
cried on his shoulder. I know there are
people all around crying, and I’m supposed to be offering what little comfort I
can, I’m supposed to be offering my shoulder too, but first there are
tears. I try to gather myself, and I
finally ask “How?” And Jacques tells
me. And I collapse again into his
shoulder, now knowing that the people crying around me are both grieving and
traumatized. I do not know how a vessel
can hold so much pain. I do know that I
will be forever grateful for Jacques and Emily and Jonathan and Kierra and Renee
and Brett and Kai and Kate and Isaiah and Annalyn and Chris and Gudrun and Dr.
Greg and Dr. Ann and Mary and Damian and Pema and John and LaVohn and Randy and
Shimim and Andrea and Darlene and Kathy and Matt B. and Mark P. and Bruce and
Don and Lisa and Mikki and Keith and Joe and Jessa and Kim and Claire and Holly
and Seth and Jack and Katie and Julie and Inez and Ian and Conrad and Danielle and
Alex and Brandon and Jackson and Cathy and Shelby and Rebecca and Eddie and
Jake and Jordan and Katie and Jennifer and Maritza and Cameron and Allie and
Jess and Donovan and Andrew and everyone who offered their love and grace to
one another as we pulled together to support one another as best we could.
Later that night, John Tymitz calls everyone to the Union
and tells people in person what happened.
Later that night, I sit with Dominican police officers for an hour as
they take a statement from one of Casey’s friends who was there. Later that night, Pema and Kate encourage me
to eat something. Pema brings me an
apple. Kate asks what I want, I don’t
want anything, but I know that eating is fuel, and so I say I just want
vegetables. Jerry, from the deck 7 bar,
finds me in Tymitz about ten minutes later and runs up with a handful of
paper—“Here, here is the paper for you!”
Everyone trying to help. Except I
have no idea why it is so imperative for me to have paper right in that moment,
and then we all figure out that Kate asked Jerry to get a pepper for me because
I wanted vegetables, and there are green peppers for pizza on deck 7, and peppers turned into the emergency paper. Ten
minutes late I do get a plate of sliced green peppers, which I do eat, and
somehow they do help.
The next morning about 70 of us quietly walk to a church in
Dominica at 7:30 in the morning. It is
hot and tropical and we are still stunned. The congregation there welcomes us with grace.
Other stuttered
snapshots from that week:
Standing out
in the rain during our last on-ship time. All of the student life staff is there (so
grateful for every one of them), welcoming students back on board, subdued
energy, gentle hugs and some smiles and some tears. Staying behind to be the last staff back on
the ship, claiming that. Letting the rain fall on me, sharp
sparks of coolness. Knowing how
different this leaving is from the 2007 voyage. We are not all back on board, safe and
sound. We are leaving Casey behind. No John on deck 5 to smile up to with thumbs up; this John was getting ready to lead a memorial service. One knee on the ground, hands to my heart, rain
and tears, I said goodbye to Casey, I got back on the ship, last staff member back on board. Later that night we got a delivery of 200
flowers to throw overboard for a maritime mourning ritual. Before the ship left, I got off one more
time. The security folks seemed to
understand. It was still raining. I left a flower on the dock, and came back
inside, last staff member back on board, again. Struggling with not bringing
everyone home.
That week I
learned a new hug—one where I wrapped my left arm around someone and held the
back of their head with my right arm, essentially channeling everyone’s mom or
dad who couldn’t be there in that moment to hold their child in their grief.
At Casey’s
memorial on board, only about 30 hours after she passed, I learned more grace
and wisdom from her friends, who had beautiful reflections about her and who
also managed to incorporate a touch of humor as well; I learned how that little ripple of joy and
laughter helped us hold the heavy grief.
On Sunday night on the ship, after Casey’s memorial service had ended,
we all just sat there, over 500 of us.
Not moving, holding the space.
Getting
words of wisdom from Mary, about how we can still claim the joy of our
journey. This translated into a line
of my commencement speech—the joy doesn’t negate the pain, and the pain doesn’t
negate the joy.
Writing the
commencement speech—I think it was only 5 minutes long, if that, but it took me
a solid day to write it. I enclosed myself
in the deans office, and wrote and cried and wrote and cried. I wanted to be able to say it without
breaking down.
And finally,
two things, two reflections:
1. I went back to work on Monday, Dec. 10th,
and one of the first things I did was go for a walk with my sweet and wise
colleague, Marlene. I told her much of
what happened, and I also shared the insight of what else I was grieving—I was
grieving (and still am) the fact that I couldn’t bring everyone home
safely. My biggest two goals of the
voyage were to get everyone home safely and to help to build an amazing, caring
community. And I couldn’t bring everyone
home safely. Marlene’s words to me, with
space for hope and for doubt and for wonder—not making it an easy remedy, but a
true inquiry, were, “Lisa, how do you know that Casey isn’t ‘Home’?” I’m grateful for her words, they reminded me
that I don’t know, that as much as we work for something, some things are not
in our control, and that I am but a small humble human on a big planet in a
infinite universe.
2. The other reflection, simply this: We all matter. Casey showed us how much she mattered, both
alive with her presence and smiles, and in her absence. And in turn, we all
showed each other how much we matter in our outpouring of grief and love and
support. The emails and notes and
messages and hugs I got all helped, they really did make a difference. We all
matter, every single one of us, all the time, we matter and we are connected
and we do make a difference with our love and our simply being. We all matter.
Much love,
Lisa
