A day or two before my return, the president sent one more memo, graciously hinting that my coworkers should give me enough personal space to find my equilibrium. She gently cautioned people not to overwhelm me with attention, though they might wish to offer their condolences. I was grateful for this wisdom, too.
Even with so much accommodation, my first day back at work was one of extreme emotional fragility. There was no room in my mind for anything but Dylan, and the horror of what he and Eric had done. I prayed I wouldn’t see anyone in the elevator on my way in—not so much because I felt ashamed, but because a single kind word or touch would make me cry, and I sensed that if I lost control so early in the day, I’d never be able to regain it.
Several of my associates had worked from my cubicle in my absence, answering calls and doing their best to sustain the momentum of ongoing projects. I was an intruder in the space. Papers I didn’t recognize were stacked in the corner; my computer’s password had been changed. Worse was the black telephone on my desk, monstrous to me. For many months afterward, a wave of anxiety would sweep over me when I found the red message light flashing on my phone. But there were no messages that first morning.
Before long, people began to pass by. Some offered words of welcome and sympathy. Others gave me a quick hug.
I arrived late to our large monthly staff meeting. All the chairs were taken, so I joined the people leaning against the back wall. For the first time since the tragedy, I was in a room filled with people, some of whom I did not know. It was hard not to feel that everyone was focused on me, although they were scrupulously careful not to stare.
My stamina was still poor in those early days, and simply standing proved to be too much. A few minutes into the meeting, I found myself short of breath and too weak to stand. I worried that sitting on the floor would look unprofessional, and the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself, but I was going to pass out. So I slid down the wall to the floor, rearranging my skirt over my knees as best I could.
I ended up sitting cross-legged behind a row of chairs. One of my colleagues made eye contact and offered his seat. It was a lovely gesture—minimal enough not to embarrass me, but telling me I was noticed and cared about. I shook my head. No thanks; I’m okay. You stay where you are. I spent the rest of the meeting on the floor, present but not present, watching the backs of people’s knees and listening although I was unable to see who was speaking.
Small victories, as they say. I wanted to hide, but I was there.
? ? ?
I was at work from 9–2:30 and made it through 4 meetings. I fought the whole time to look and act normal. I was slumped down and exhausted. By the end of the day I was beaten. I have huge, looming thoughts, and trying to get out normal words and thoughts and actions are like trying to push an elephant through the eye of a needle. No one can understand what I’ve been through or am going through. It’s all I can do to even attend or listen. When I got to my car after work, I shut the door and sobbed.
—Journal entry, June 1999
Although I did not realize it at the time, returning to work provided an essential framework for my recovery on many levels.
First of all, it allowed me to experience directly the compassion and sympathy other people were capable of. It made me cry to be hugged, but I learned to welcome the tears and not resist them. It was easier to allow myself to feel the sorrow than to suppress it. My colleagues walked the fine line of giving me my privacy while still showing compassion and myriad small kindnesses whenever they could. I doubt they will ever know how much they helped me.
In July, one of my coworkers came to my cubicle, representing the rest of the staff. In her arms was the most exquisite bouquet of dried flowers I had ever seen. We didn’t know each other well, and her manner was formal when she said that no matter what my son had done, he was still my baby and everyone with children related to my loss. I could see she had no love lost for Dylan, and she probably couldn’t understand why I had loved him either, but she was trying to find common ground. Gratitude overwhelmed me, and I was unable to speak.
Later in the fall, there was a craft sale in the break room, and I bought a couple of ornamental Christmas-themed pins to give to friends. I wrote a check and opened my wallet to show identification, but the woman working the cash box assured me it wasn’t necessary. “Right,” I said, putting my driver’s license away. “Because who on earth would pretend to be me?” It was the kind of black humor that sustained me in those days; in my awkward way, I was trying to put her at ease. But there was genuine heartbreak on her face.
Nobody I worked with spoke to the press, although the calls were constant. One reporter tricked the receptionist into connecting him with my supervisor. Frustrated, he confronted her: “Why hasn’t anyone there been willing to talk about Sue Klebold?”
“They’re not talking because they’re good people,” Susie told him sharply, and it was true.
My first weeks back, I could only think about Dylan. I would cry for most of the long drive downtown in the morning, appreciating the private time to connect with my memories before trying to put him out of my mind so I could function for the day. The last thing I did each morning before leaving my car was look in the mirror and wipe off the salt marks on my cheeks left by tears.
Despite the patience of my colleagues and my best efforts to behave professionally, I was a wreck. I was paralyzed by self-consciousness in a way I remembered from my own adolescence. Because I was having chronic intestinal issues as a result of the stress, I was scared to eat in case I suffered an attack without a bathroom close by. I did what I could to reduce my anxiety level—I even stopped setting an alarm clock because the sound would leave me jangly for an hour afterward—to no avail.
A friend told me once that the brain “on grief” is like an older-model computer running a program drastically too complex for its capacity—it grinds and stutters and halts over the simplest calculation. It took great effort just to hear what others said. My powers of concentration were nowhere near restored, and racing thoughts about my personal situation and about Dylan kept me in a world of my own.
I took copious notes, but no productivity trick could compensate for the deficit. My face still burns when I remember the first meeting I led after the tragedy. I asked everyone to go around in a circle to introduce themselves and say a little about what they did. When the room fell silent, I unwittingly invited them to go around the circle and introduce themselves—again. The sideways glances and uncomfortable seat-shifting alerted me to my mistake, but there was nothing to do but stumble through my apology.
It took a long time for me to return to a full schedule. In the same way my evening walks were helping me to rebuild my physical strength, so did I have to regain the emotional capacity to be around others. Work was a rehabilitation of sorts, a safe environment where I could rebuild my identity and work through my unique grief experience. The families of the victims were always on my mind, especially how difficult it must have been for them to try to resume some semblance of a normal life after what Dylan had done.
As time went by, my constant anguish began to feel almost comical. Stashed handkerchiefs dropped out of notepads, calendars, sleeves, and my pockets when I stood up. I could always be relied upon to provide a Kleenex pack. Seasonal allergies? Ask Sue.