"Mom, there's been a shooting at MP. Someone is dead and we don't know who the shooter is."
I was just leaving my Zumba class Friday morning when my son called me with those words. MP is Marysville-Pilchuck, one of two high schools in our town of 60,000 people. My son attends Marysville-Getchell (MG), but I could hear the terror in his voice.
No one knew what to do—MG wasn't in lock down, and the teachers were instructing students to go home if they were able. I told my son to grab as many kids as he could and head to our house, half a mile from the school. I remember hanging up the phone and thinking, "No, no, no, not again, not here." When I got home minutes later, ten kids sat huddled around the television, checking their phones for updates from friends at MP. As they looked at me, I could see the fear and trauma on their faces.
It was heartbreaking.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. About three hours after the shooting, a friend arrived who had been in lock down at MP. He told us about his experience—being told to get down on the floor, away from the windows, and staying there for two hours. No one could use their phone. When the police finally got to his classroom, they searched the room and each kid was patted down before being escorted out in a single file line to a waiting bus. Only then did they find out what had happened.
By Friday afternoon, we had pieces of the terrible news. The shooter, a student at the school, was dead. So was a young girl, someone my son knew. Four other students were in the hospital with critical injuries. Today, one of those girls was taken off life support and passed away.
© Karen Ducey/ZUMA Wire
Our small town is reeling. I cannot begin to fathom what the parents of the victims or the shooter are going through. My heart is broken into a million pieces for them and their pain. I cannot wrap my head around what the kids of this community are going through. My son spent time with different groups of friends all weekend long. They came and went, but there were always at least two of them together; they need each other to lean on. Only they understand what the other is going through, and none of them wants to be alone.
As for me and my husband, I feel like we're struggling with our greatest parenting challenge so far. It's such a difficult situation, and there's no script to follow. Dealing with the fear we feel as parents, but not communicating that to our son. All I want to do is sit on the couch and hold him close.
What happened in my town has become too common. I was so naive to hear the stories of far off acts of violence and think it could never happen here. But it did, and it is shocking. I floundered all weekend, trying to be strong for my son, and then crying my eyes out when he left the house. I know it's okay to feel sad and angry and helpless. It's the fear I'm having a hard time with. I noticed this morning that my left fist was clenched so hard I left fingernail marks on my hand.
I felt scared to send my son to school today. He is a class leader, it's the right place for him to be, and he needed to go. I'm so proud of him for being brave. But all I can picture is the young man at MP, well liked by his peers, standing up during lunch, and shooting those around him. I don't feel brave at all.
The "what if's" and the "what can we do's" and the "how did this happen" are conversations for another day. All I know is that children shouldn't be afraid to go to school—and parents shouldn't be afraid to send them there. For the people in our community who lived through this terrible day, that will never be a reality again.