Hockeenight Off-Day Skate
… in which Hockeenight looks for the helpers.
Martin Richard, 8 years old
The father of Martin William Richard today said he is trying to both grieve the death of his 8-year-old son, who was killed at the Boston Marathon bombings, and help his wife and daughter recover from injuries they suffered during the terrorist attack on Monday.
“My dear son Martin has died from injuries sustained in the attack on Boston. My wife and daughter are both recovering from serious injuries,’’ Bill Richard said in a statement released this afternoon. “We thank our family and friends, those we know and those we have never met, for their thoughts and prayers. I ask that you continue to pray for my family as we remember Martin.’’
He added, “we also ask for your patience and for privacy as we work to simultaneously grieve and recover. Thank you.”
At Hemenway Park, where the third-grader at the nearby Neighborhood House Charter School played during gym class, friends and classmates created a makeshift chalk memorial for Martin. In chalk, they wrote messages of love and prayer, telling the young boy that they loved him and would never forget him.
Martin attended the Neighborhood House Charter School, according to a school official. The boy "was a bright, energetic young boy who had big dreams and high hopes for his future, the school said in a statement. "We are heartbroken by this loss."
"We are also praying for his mother Denise, our school librarian and sister Jane, another Neighborhood House Charter student, who were seriously injured yesterday," the statement said.
The family represent "the very best this city has to offer," it said.
The Richard family was very active in the neighborhood.
"They are beloved by this community," City Councilor at Large Ayanna Pressley told the Globe. Pressley and other devastated residents gathered at Tavolo Restaurant in Dorchester to mourn.
The family contributes "in many ways," she said. "That's why you see this outpouring. It's surreal; it's tragic."
Sherman said that the Richard family is a "typical all-American family" and that Martin and his little brother always loved to play in their yard, no matter the weather.
Martin Richard was a typical 8-year-old boy, rearing to play with his pals and always displaying a sunny disposition.
That's how neighbors in his tight-knit Dorchester community recalled Martin, who was among three people killed in the Boston Marathon bombings Monday.
They said he was frequently spotted outside having fun with his younger sister, Jane, and older brother, Henry.
Jane Sherman, who lives next door, said she often saw the three children biking or playing basketball and hockey.
Martin, who was gearing up to play baseball this spring, would say hello to Sherman, but was not a fan of her Rottweiler, Audra Rose.
"He was a very outgoing, wonderful little kid," said Sherman, 64. "I think this is a horrendous loss."
Marchell Watson, who lives a few houses down from Martin's family in the Ashmont section of the city's Dorchester neighborhood, said she would always see Martin walking down the street with his family.
During many of those walks Martin would approach and play with Watson's two Shih Tzus, Lady Gaga and Diva.
"He was so playful and jolly out there," Watson said.
Lu Lingzi, 23 years old
Lu Lingzi chose the English name Dorothy for herself, a fitting moniker for an adventurous young woman who was transported from rust-belt China to the U.S., where she was pursuing a masters degree in mathematics and statistics at Boston University. On April 15, Lu hovered at the finish line of the Boston Marathon to cheer on classmates who were competing. She was one of three people killed by the twin blasts that turned the Patriots’ Day race into a scene of devastation. A fellow Chinese graduate student at Boston University, who was with Lu at the finish line, sustained serious injuries.
Reared in the grimy northeastern city of Shenyang where she attended a special school for talented youth, Lu made her way south to Beijing for college, where she studied international economics and trade at the prestigious Beijing Institute of Technology, ranking eighth in her major, according to her online CV. While in her final year of college, she interned at Deloitte in Beijing. After graduation, Lu joined the roughly 200,000 Chinese students who study in the U.S. “She was very lovely and full of positive energy,” says Gong Zheng, a friend who met Lu when they used the same Beijing agency to help them with their study-abroad applications. Gong, who is now studying in Atlanta, says Lu belied the common image of Chinese students in America as being spoiled, rich brats who buy their way into academic institutions. “She and I are kids from ordinary Chinese families,” Gong says. “We just wanted to get a better future through our own hard work.” He added that Lu “liked to use mathematics to solve problems.”
Starting at Boston University last fall, Lu posted pictures on Facebook that described her “New Beginning in BU.” According to her Facebook profile, her likes ranged from Disneyland and Sephora beauty products to Lindt chocolate and The Economist magazine. Shortly after arriving in Boston, Lu posted a picture of traditional northern Chinese comfort food, a porridge of mixed beans and grains. Was it a measure of homesickness or simply delight at being able to recreate this traditional dish in a faraway land?
In an email to TIME, Zhang Xuejiao, a middle-school classmate of Lu’s who is currently studying at Carnegie Mellon University, wrote of the pressures many Chinese students are under while in the States: “People in China, when they hear we are in America, they may only think about how great our lives are here, but they don’t know how hard we have to study. They don’t think about how we have to stay up every night to finish our homework. They don’t think about how great are the responsibility and expectations we have to carry.”
As news filtered out in China of Lu’s death, the reaction on Weibo, the Chinese social-media service, was swift. Barely an hour after Xinhua, China’s state media, confirmed that an unidentified Chinese student had been killed by the Boston bombs, more than 500 people had posted digital candles in her honor on Weibo. By the afternoon of April 17, more than 8,000 had so honored Lu. Earlier, the death of eight-year-old Martin Richard in the Boston explosions had also galvanized the Chinese Internet community, which poured out sympathy to his family. (Krystle Campbell, a 29-year-old restaurant manager, is the other confirmed fatality.)
Less than 24 hours before she died, Lu Lingzi sent an exuberant email to a professor after learning she had passed part of a major final exam.
‘‘I am so happy to get this result!’’ she wrote. ‘‘Thank you very much.’’
On Monday morning, Lu had put the finishing touches on a group research project she was planning to present at a statistics conference. She also posted a photo of the breakfast — bread chunks and fruit — she ate the morning she died.
‘‘My wonderful breakfast,’’ she wrote.
Lu was a vivacious chatterbox who had lots of friends on campus, said Tasso Kaper, chair of the mathematics and statistics department, whose face lit up talking about his former student.
‘‘The word bubbly — that’s kind of a corny word — but that describes her very well,’’ Kaper said.
Lu loved the springtime and kept asking when the trees would bloom in Boston.
‘‘She was very interested in the flowers,’’ he said. ‘‘Spring is a very important time of year for her.’’
Krystle Campbell, 29 years old
Krystle Campbell, who grew up in Medford and moved about a year ago to Arlington, was on Boylston Street near the Marathon finish line with her friend Karen on Monday, said Krystle’s grandmother, Lillian Campbell of Somerville.
After the bombs detonated, Krystle and Karen were side by side on the ground when medical personnel arrived, and somewhere en route from the sidewalk to Massachusetts General Hospital, someone mixed up their names.
When Krystle’s father, William Campbell Jr., went to Mass. General after the explosions, officials initially told him she was seriously injured and might lose a leg. But when they let him in, he saw it was Karen — not Krystle — in the room, Lillian Campbell said, “and my son was devastated.”
For years Krystle Campbell had been a general manager and catering manager for the Jasper White Summer Shack restaurants, working mostly at the Hingham and Cambridge locations. She put in long hours, “70, 80 hours a week,” her grandmother said, and often took the lead coordinating parties and graduations the restaurants catered.
She still made time for family and friends, though, and “was one of those people who always have to be doing something for somebody,” her grandmother said.
Krystle, she added, “was special. She’s a hard worker and she was always right there if you needed her. All you had to do was call Krystle, and she was there.”
That was the case when Lillian Campbell needed assistance after an operation a few years ago. She was living alone, after her husband died in 2005.
“She took care of me for almost two years after I had an operation,” Lillian Campbell said. “She moved right into my house with me for two years.”
“That girl is Class A,” she added. “She was the best. Not because she’s my granddaughter. She was like that with all of her friends, and she had a lot of them.”
Born in Somerville, Krystle Campbell grew up in Medford, where her parents had purchased a house, her grandmother said.
“She was so cute. She was just full of life,” Lillian Campbell said. “She loved being around people. She was a people lover, even as a little girl. She always had a lot of friends around her. She loved music, and she loved life, Krystle did. She was always bouncing and always happy.”
Krystle Campbell was always stopping by to see her grandmother. Last Thursday afternoon, they drank tea and talked for a couple hours — about work, friends, life.
“She had one of those personalities that belongs in hospitality,” said Nick Miminos, the operations director who hired her. “She was instantly likable. The waitstaff loved working with her. She would run food for them, clear the tables for them. She wasn’t just a figurehead. She enjoyed getting her hands dirty.”
New to the job, she quickly came up with new menu ideas, including two styles of lobster rolls.
She was also adept at diffusing any complaints from diners with her easy smile and kind manner, said Miminos, adding that he had plans to promote her inside the restaurant chain.
Krystle was also dedicated to her family. A few years ago, she moved into her grandmother’s house in Somerville, Mass., to help her recuperate from an operation.
She moved out about a year ago to share an apartment with friends in Arlington.
“She was a beautiful person,” her grandmother said. “She was very giving to anybody. She was right there to help anybody.”
As smoke wafted across Boylston Street and maimed marathon spectators lay across a bloody sidewalk, one veteran, an Army colonel and runner, shifted into combat mode as he crossed the finish line. He turned back into the chaos, peeled off his Team Red, White & Blue T-shirt and tied it as a tourniquet on the limb of a bombing victim.
A combat veteran who served in Iraq and was awarded a Purple Heart, the colonel later refused to allow a team spokesman to release his name after snippets of his actions were caught on video.
Turning T-shirts into tourniquets is not something most spectators along the marathon course would have had much experience with. “When we’re deployed, we all carry tourniquets — nice ones,” said Mullaney, 30, of Cumberland, Md., now a graduate student at Tufts University. “When you see missing limbs, the first thing all of us know is to tie a tourniquet.”
“Some lady on the street said there’s been a bomb at the finish line,” Mullaney said. “We looked at each other and thought, that’s a terrible joke to play on someone. We kept running, but then I started to pick up on clues that maybe something really did happen.”
Sirens blared from all directions and, up ahead on Commonwealth Avenue, race officials had shut down the course. The vets went from people running to heal, to people counseling their fellow runners. “It is a lot like the tables have turned,” Mullaney said. “There’s a number of civilians who’ve been put in a war zone, and there’s a number of veterans who’ve experienced that and can say, ‘We’re here.’ ”
At 5:20 a.m. on Monday, four hours before the Boston Marathon's elite runners took off, a group of 15 active-duty soldiers from the Massachusetts National Guard gathered at the starting line in Hopkinton. Each soldier was in full combat uniform and carried a "ruck," a military backpack weighing about 40 pounds. The rucks were filled with Camelbacks of water, extra uniforms, Gatorade, changes of socks—and first-aid and trauma kits. It was all just supposed to be symbolic.
"Forced marches" or "humps" are a regular part of military training, brisk walking over tough terrain while carrying gear that could help a soldier survive if stranded alone. These soldiers, participating in "Tough Ruck 2013," were doing the 26 miles of the Boston Marathon to honor comrades killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, or lost to suicide and PTSD-related accidents after coming home.
It took about eight hours for all of the soldiers to cross the finish line, some cruising nearly at a 13-minute mile, others coming in at a little slower pace. They were gathered near the medical tent behind the finish line, waiting for the elite runners to come in. That was the contingency plan in case anything went wrong—meet by the medical tent.
When the explosion went off, Fiola and his group immediately went into tactical mode. "I did a count and told the younger soldiers to stay put," Fiola says. "Myself and two other soldiers, my top two guys in my normal unit, crossed the street about 100 yards to the metal scaffoldings holding up the row of flags. We just absolutely annihilated the fence and pulled it back so we could see the victims underneath. The doctors and nurses from the medical tent were on the scene in under a minute. We were pulling burning debris off of people so that the medical personnel could get to them and begin triage."
"There was a guy behind me covered in his own blood, and I started to smell some smoke. I turn around to look and he's actually on fire." Once the victims were transported away for further medical care, Fiola and the others stood guard around the blast area. "We switched to keeping the scene safe, quarantining the area and preventing people from entering. There was a guy behind me covered, just covered, in his own blood, and I started to smell some smoke. I turn around to look and he's actually on fire, from a piece of whatever caused the explosion. I saw the smoke coming from his pocket so I reached in and pulled it out. It was his handkerchief, on fire."
"We had some sort of an influence, at least in helping the nurses get to the wounded and helping calm people down," he says. "It's one of those things that makes you go home and kiss everyone in your family."
A woman who suffered serious shrapnel wounds from the Boston Marathon bombings wants to thank the Army vet who calmed her down in the aftermath of the attack, and she got some help from a prominent figure on Tuesday: the Massachusetts governor.
“His name is Tyler. That’s all we know,” Gov. Deval Patrick, D-Mass, said at a press briefing. “And one of things he said to her to calm her down was to show her his own shrapnel wound from when he was in Afghanistan.”
The woman, identified by the governor only as Victoria, was terrified and "hysterical" after she got struck. Patrick said she was carried to a medical tent near the finish line by Tyler, a firefighter who introduced himself to her as an Army sergeant and Afghanistan vet.
"I don't know whether he was assigned to medical tent or, like so many people there and elsewhere in the commonwealth, just jumped in to help," Patrick said.
Sydney Corcoran, a 17-year-old Lowell, Mass., girl, woke up from surgery on the ruptured femoral artery in her leg with one request, according to The Boston Globe: "Find Matt." He was one of the two strangers who put a makeshift tourniquet around her leg as she lay on a bloodied sidewalk.
Corcoran had been at the marathon to cheer on her aunt, Carmen Acabbo, who was running the race for the first time. Her mother, Celeste, was also gravely wounded by shrapnel; she had to have both legs amputated below the knee.
Of Matt, the stranger who saved her niece, Acabbo said, "We would all like to thank him," according to The Globe.
In the moments after Monday’s bomb attacks, there were bystanders who defied human instinct — and official orders to evacuate — and ran toward the smoke, instead of away.
There was a Kansas doctor who ran back to help after completing 26.2 miles. A District native who ran down from a post-race party to apply tourniquets. A couple who tried to stop a stranger’s bleeding with a wad of coffee-shop napkins.
And, most astoundingly, there was Arredondo — a man once so broken by grief that his breaking made national news.
First, his son died in Iraq. Then, when Marines came to tell him so, Arredondo set himself on fire inside the Marines’ van. Then, years later, as he was healing, his other son committed suicide.
But Monday — for some reason — when the bombs went off, the broken man came running.
“I did my duty,” Arredondo said the next morning.
In the aftermath of Monday’s explosions, much of the early lifesaving was performed by amateurs: Boston cops, marathon volunteers, plain old bystanders. They tied tourniquets and carried away the injured in wheelchairs or in arms.
On Tuesday, local hospitals said this work — along with the efforts of professional medics on the scene — probably saved lives.
“Tourniquets are a difference-maker. Tourniquets can save a life,” said Joseph Blansfield, a nurse practitioner and program manager at the Boston Medical Center trauma unit, which saw a large influx of patients from the scene. “They proved their value yesterday.”
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