I was a single mother of two, a newborn and a 3 year old, struggling with the demise of my marriage. My husband of nine years had left three weeks before our second child was born.
Pediatric offices are likely locations to hear crying. From children, sure, but also from the bleary-eyed mothers, concerned fathers, and any caregiver with a sick child. I cannot explain to you the exact relationship that develops between a person and their pediatrician. It feels like an extraordinary caretaker with eyes on you, as a mother and on your child, the thing you care about most in the world. The bond between you and your pediatrician is born as a witness to both growth and ailment. To achievement and milestones celebrated. It is built on the corroboration of experience, trust, knowledge, and vulnerability. It’s built on life.
On Jan. 26, my childrens’ pediatrician was murdered. The gunman, another doctor from an unknown practice, entered the office with a gun and barricaded himself inside, taking the staff hostage. My ex-husband and children had left the parking lot that same late afternoon from taking COVID tests for school. The first disturbance call was reported to 911 five minutes after they concluded their visit. These details are too much for me to hold right now.
I returned from a walk later to missed calls and texts from my ex. “The staff at Children’s Medical Group is being held hostage by an armed gunman.” The Austin Police Department’s Twitter feed confirmed it. Then I watched for hours as news stations reported little.
Through a friend’s text, I learned that four of the hostages made it out. Dr. Lindley Dodson, my doctor, was the only one still inside with the gunman. The hours dragged on. The negotiator’s bullhorn blared, “You don’t deserve to go through this … for all you have done for others. You have saved a lot of lives.”
Shortly after 11pm, SWAT sent in a robot after failing to engage in communication with the gunman. Then came confirmation, two deceased bodies. The man had executed her and then turned the gun on himself.
The loss is great. It’s overwhelming. I know the story has more but none of it changes the outcome. The gunman had terminal cancer. The gunman applied a week before for a volunteer position and was denied. The gunman was most likely under severe mental stress and was unstable.
I received a call Wednesday morning from one of the other doctors at the practice informing me that my children’s COVID tests were negative. I uttered a small I love you. Thank you. I’m so sorry. I heard tears on the other side of the phone and know that beyond her own agony of losing a friend, co-worker, and fellow mother, of experiencing whatever terror that took place the night before, their patients’ care still came first.
This grief is thick. In a country and health care system that does so little to see mothers clearly. To give attention and care to postpartum and the ongoing joy and struggle that occurs raising children. Of navigating the fears and stressors of the unknown.
My pediatrician did these things for me. And she did these things for others.
As my marriage dismantled, I was asked to give so much at a time when I was hollow. She saw me and gave me care too. She lightened my load by sharing in the caregiving of my children. Ask any parent who has ever received an after-hours call for a checkup on their sick kid. Ask any new mother terrified that something is amiss. A pediatrician is in your corner, corroborating that you aren’t alone. It is such a gift. My corner is empty right now.
This past year has taken so much from so many. Helping children navigate the tumult of the pandemic, the uncertainty of their education, the fears of testing, of sifting the regular sickness from the dire; helping parents navigate such fraught times with kindness, confidence, and assurance. The loss of Dr. Dodson is profound as grief compounds. She leaves behind her own children, of similar ages to mine.
I hold a hope that somewhere beyond the fear, sadness, and shock that Dr. Dodson, at the moment of her death, could go into the experience with the curiosity of a brilliant, caring pediatrician who dedicated her life to medicine and the care of others.
The Lindley Dodson Education Fund has been set up to support Dr. Dodson’s children.
Katy Chrisler is a writer living in Austin, Texas. The Chronicle welcomes submissions of opinion pieces on any topic from the community. Find guidelines and tips at austinchronicle.com/contact/opinion.
This article appears in February 5 • 2021.