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If you kiss your child, or your wife, say that you only kiss things which are human, and thus you will not be disturbed if either of them dies.
— Epictetus, Enchiridion
I knew something was wrong when I saw the caller ID. Few people have legitimate reasons to call me during the day, and I tend to decline every call I’m not expecting. I was about to so, when I saw my wife’s name. A call from her was unusual. Under normal circumstances, she would only send brief text messages, especially on days when she is teaching.
“Hi. What’s going on?” I didn’t manage to conceal the tone of apprehension in my voice. “Everything OK?”
She hesitated, as though she was struggling to find the right words. “No,” she said, at last. Another pause. I was about to ask when she spoke. “Don’t panic. Everything’s fine, so far. But there’s an active shooter on campus. I’m hiding with my students till it’s over.”
Her words send a violent, sharp flash right into my brain. Impossible, and yet I understood at once. I grasped the full magnitude of her words the moment she uttered them. Less than 24 hours earlier, a gunman had fired round after round of automatic fire into a large crowd in Las Vegas. Earlier in this morning, the final body count of this worst mass shooting in American history had still not been confirmed. But it seemed the events had already inspired a copycat killer.
I felt lightheaded. I could hardly control my voice when I asked her for details. In a quick, matter-of-fact fashion she reported what she knew. Campus security had sent text messages and emails informing them about the shooter. The entire campus was on lockdown. Police were positioned at the exits, all electric locks were disabled, and a SWAT team was on the way. Faculty and staff had been instructed to hide with their students until the situation was cleared.
◊♦◊
She had received the messages during the lunch break of her cinema class. After a moment of disbelief, she had gathered her students, and lead them to a projection booth. The doors were locked and the lights switched off. They sat on the floor, their backs against the walls. It was a good hiding place, with a thick door that could be locked from inside, and in the dark, they wouldn’t be visible form the window. Not good enough, I thought. Not without bulletproof door and windows.
“I’m coming,” I said, my voice now firmer. She objected. There was absolutely nothing I could do. We had to wait and hope for the best. Besides, since she would be stuck for an undetermined time, I would have to pick up our daughter from pre-school. Then she said she couldn’t talk any longer. Her voice could be heard from outside. She promised to keep me posted, and then hung up.
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do. Obviously, my work day was over. Was I supposed to just sit and wait? Pre-school would go on for another three hours. Should I go and get our daughter already? No. There was no use in that. Why scare her, without having any answers? Besides, it was helpful that she was taken care of.
I decided to go to campus. I expected the police to have sealed off the entire area. But I wanted to get as close as possible.
I felt feverish as I was running down the sidewalk. Before I reached the car, a ding announced an incoming text message. Don’t call. Can’t talk. Somebody knocked at the door. We
didn’t open.
I felt as if I had been at the receiving end of a clean, hard punch to the solar plexus. The shooter was in the building, close to her. I fumbled with the phone and managed to type: On my way. Even as I hit the SEND key, I was aware how little reassurance that could possibly offer.
◊♦◊
I reached the car, and placed the phone next to me on the passenger’s seat. I merged into traffic without checking. I loathed myself for it. The last thing I needed now was an accident. I wiped the sweat on my palms on the fabric of the seat, and inhaled deeply. I managed to clear my head a bit and proceeded, driving fast but with my eyes on the road.
On the radio they were talking the about the shooting spree—the one in Las Vegas, that is. The news of the campus shooting hadn’t reached them yet. They said the gunmen in Vegas
had killed more than 50 and wounded another 500. Wounded. It sounded so sterile, so clean. It sounded like a gunfight in a PG-13 movie: a character is grazed by the bulled and then moans a bit. After a good bed rest the protagonist can rejoin the plot. If he’s really tough, he might even ignore the wound and fight on. “Wounded” didn’t sound severe. It didn’t sound like projectiles ravaging faces, bowels, and groins. It didn’t sound like severed spines. It didn’t sound like brain matter and gore on walls, or bone fragments and shattered teeth on the tarmac.
Another ding from the phone signaled the arrival of a new text message. I glanced. If anything happens, know that I love you. I pulled over. The phone in my hand felt heavy. My head was spinning. What to answer? What to advise? I had to offer advice. I couldn’t just let things go their way. Should I tell her to hide? Stupid. She was hiding already. Should I tell her to run, in case he entered? Should I tell her to fight, if there was no time to run? Those guys on a train in France had fought and disarmed a jihadist would-be killer. It had made all the difference. There were simply too many scenarios. Too many contingencies.
Eventually, I responded. Do everything you can to stay safe. “Everything” felt right. “Everything” excluded passive acceptance of one’s fate. It meant hiding, running, fighting: Whatever was necessary. I started to write I love then deleted the text and typed We love you, hoping that bringing up our daughter would summon all the will to survive she had in her.
I sent the message, re-entered traffic, and turned the radio back on. They were still talking about the shooting in Vegas. The host quoted politicians saying that now was not the time to talk about gun control. But plenty of thoughts and prayers had been offered. And plenty of guessing, too, about the shooters motives. He was a tough one to figure out. He wasn’t a Muslim, he wasn’t an immigrant, he wasn’t a minority. Shit, the guy wasn’t even poor.
All the convenient explanations had been neutralized. Trump had read a message in which he explained that pure evil was to blame. I supposed that was sufficient for some.
◊♦◊
Still no word about the campus shooting. How long could it take for the news to reach them? This was a local station, after all. What would they say about this gunman? Would he be associated with a population that could be blamed?
A patrol car passed me by. Only slightly faster than me. No sirens. Why were they driving like it was a goddamn joyride? Every cop in town should be racing to campus—eager to save victims, burning to take out the shooter. And why had my wife not responded? How long had it been? Five minutes? Ten? She was supposed to keep me updated? Was she still able to answer? What the hell was going on?
I prepared to pull over and send another text message. The phone rang. It wasn’t a ding. It was actual ringing, and my wife’s name was on the screen. A glimmer of hope rose. I tried to suppress it. Too risky. I didn’t want to hope. I wanted to know. I picked up.
“Everything’s OK,” she said, fatigue in her voice. “The cops say there’s no shooter. Don’t know what exactly happened. But I’m alright. I’m coming home.”
◊♦◊
Local media later reported that a university instructor had falsely announced an active shooter situation on campus. It wasn’t clear whether her actions resulted from malice, attention seeking, or mental issues. In any case, her terrified students grabbed their cell phones and spread what she’d told them. Within minutes someone had called 911.
When everything was over the teacher was arrested and underwent psychiatric evaluation. In the end, it had only been a massive scare. Nobody was injured. Nobody died. The knocking at the door of the projection booth had probably been some staff member. But for about 40 minutes, it had been a realistic and imminent possibility for me that my wife might meet a violent death.
In the past years, I have often contemplated my own mortality. I’m not morbid or suicidal. I have more to live for than ever. I’m also fortunate enough to be in good health. I am, however, consumed by the desire to live as well and meaningful as I possibly can. I detest the waste of time, the waste of myself. Nothing is more dreadful than the prospect of facing death with deep regret on my mind. Too much time has been misspent already. To protect myself against a wasted life, I want to know that I will die: not in a vague, abstract way, but with deep, profound understanding. I’m too old to cling to the children’s notion of unlimited time. I embrace my mortality.
However, the mortality of loved ones is an entirely different story. Too agonizing, too devastating was the thought that my wife or my daughter could be subject to everyone’s
inevitable fate. Too petrifying the possibility that their lives might be cut short. And so, I resorted to the delusion of immortality, the same one that I refused to apply to myself. I ignored the risk of wasted days, and wasted life.
My conviction that there was a campus shooting in progress lasted 40 minutes—a long time to think when you don’t have much of an opportunity to act. And many of my thoughts revolved around regret. Regret that I had kissed my wife goodbye only in passing that morning, without much thought, convinced that I would see her in a few hours. Regret about every minute during which I had taken her presence for granted, and denied her the fullest attention. Regret that I had not even allowed the reports of the Vegas shooting to remind me of the fragility of life.
Epictitus’s quote above had left me unaffected for years. I took it as either dishonest or appallingly callous. I don’t know whether Epictetus truly believed that the death of wives and children will leave us unaffected, if only we envisioned before the fact. But I do recognize now the wisdom of his advice to face the harsh reality that the mortality of loved ones is. If we do, it is inevitable that we experience some discomfort and worry. But it is equally inevitable that we become more appreciative of their continued presence. To live to the fullest, we must keep in mind that time is limited. To love to the fullest, we must do the same.
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