Eroica
Wednesday, January 13, 1982, was blizzardy on and off all day. Dr. Jon Harris and his four colleagues from Ohio – mostly social workers and academics – were halfway through a disappointing week of meetings in D.C., where they had hoped to learn better ways to integrate psychiatric patients into their communities. The District, with the largest per capita mental health budget, seemed to specialize more in spending than on treatment.
In the hotel lobby that afternoon, Dr. Harris and his close colleague Maria were discussing a new NIMH paper on treating depression. The topic was important to Dr. Harris, who taught social work and mental health policy and was still trying to fix the fact that his mother succumbed to depression in a state hospital ten years ago. Maria was equally committed to her work; she loved talking about outcomes research almost as much as she loved talking about her kids.
Maria heard the loud crash outside first. “Jon, that sounds bad.”
Sebastian, their budget expert, was sitting nearby at the bar, still celebrating that the new grant he had secured meant a decent budget for his colleagues’ work. Seb heard the crash, too. He abandoned his beer and cigarette to check outside, asking “Are Meg and Ray back yet?” Meg and her chronically overworked boss Ray, both psychiatric social workers, had not returned from their visits to community mental health programs. Meg had to navigate multiple busses that day and Maria hoped she was okay. Meg was a small-town girl, still in her twenties and younger than the others by five to ten years. Her ability to develop creative treatment programs with minimal resources was impressive, but she was naively idealistic. She had dubbed this D.C. visit their “Deinstitutionalization with a Heart Trip.”
Snow and ice were accumulating fast that afternoon. Traffic was a mess and Meg was running late from her visit to a rehabilitation program. Once off the bus, she cut through a park that was already too icy for a fast shortcut. She heard a loud crash that nearly knocked her off balance. Then a disheveled old-looking woman, wearing pajamas and a blanket, ran at her, yelling, “Get out of here. Leave me alone!” Meg fell in the snow, trying to get away. The woman’s voice chased her until other noises drowned her out. Horns. More crashing. Sirens. Helicopters. Meg hurried to the hotel. She was winded and wet and fell into a chair near the bar. Maria was relieved to see her. Seb offered his napkin. Dr. Harris got a towel.
The bartender turned up the TV: “. . . plane crash” . . . Air Florida Flight 90” . . . 14th Street Bridge . . . Potomac River . . . ice . . .”
A few survivors popped up in the river by the plane wreckage, trying to hold on. “. . . only minutes to survive in that freezing water,” a newscaster said. A rescue helicopter approached, then turned back. It was leaving. Even the TV anchors looked shocked.
“. . . too dangerous,” explained a reporter.
The helicopter returned, this time closer to the water. A man in the river desperately grabbed the skids, pulling the helicopter down. The rescuer pushed his hands off.
“NO,” Maria cried out. Meg was silent and frozen in her chair, holding onto the towel from Dr. Harris, who sat next to her.
A lifeline was dropped from the helicopter and the man was pulled up.
Another rope was thrown into the water. “LOOK,” shouted Maria. “There’s a hand sticking out of the wreckage . . . it just batted the rope away.” A flight attendant in the water clutched the rope and was pulled high above the river. The cold wind blew her skirt all the way up and exposed her bare legs to the bitter elements and the world. Seeing the huge rips to the top of her pantyhose made for too intimate of a moment; some averted their eyes. A mingling of muffled emotions came from the bar. Dr. Harris and Seb sat stunned and still. So did Meg, except for her quickening breath and hot tears rolling down her cold cheeks.
The helicopter returned and threw another life ring. Maria again saw the disembodied hand of a man batting it away. She yelled at him to take the rope. “Why won’t he take it?” A freezing trio of a man and two women came into focus. The man took the ring and one of the women; he insisted on a second line for the other woman, who was wearing a life vest. Only then did he allow himself and the woman he was holding to be pulled up. Seb was alarmed, “That helicopter can’t carry that much weight.”
The helicopter couldn’t get much lift and dragged the man and woman barely above the water. They passed over the second woman just as she lost her grip on her lifeline. Everyone in the bar gasped. The man being rescued tried to reach out to her but couldn’t. The life jacket would keep the woman from drowning but the reporter worried she could freeze first.
A shared chill moved through the bar. It turned into horror as the woman who had been holding onto the man slid off of him and back into the water. She flailed wildly on top of an ice floe. Rescuers returned to throw her life rings, which she couldn’t see or grab, even when they landed on top of her. Maria’s bursts of tears drowned out the TV. Meg held onto her armrest until she saw the woman finally grab the ring in her elbow and be pulled up. But the woman lost her grip and again fell into the water. She tried to swim on her back but sank. Bystanders on the river bank could no longer contain the unbearable tension. One man jumped into the icy river and brought the woman to shore. In the bar, a chorus of relieved sighs replaced gasps. Except for Meg, who gasped repeatedly as if she needed to hold her own breath for the woman to survive.
The second woman, still in the water, was barely afloat and unable to grab onto the life ropes thrown at her. The helicopter moved closer, just inches above the water. The rescuer couldn’t reach her; he unhooked his safety harness and leaned far out on the skid to pull her from the water. They both dangled from the helicopter, now flying on its side. No one trusted they were safe until they were dropped onto shore.
By now, Maria was hysterical, “Get the man with the hand,” she pleaded. “He gave the ropes to everyone else; you have to save him!”
The helicopter returned to him. The wreckage had shifted. The hand was gone. More than one observer wondered what he or she would be willing to do to save another.
Maria rushed to the ladies’ room, her sobs echoing down the hallway. Meg was shivering and struggling to inhale. She tried to grasp her armrest but took Dr. Harris’s instead. Seb went to the bar, choked up, and walked outside. He fell against the wall, then buried his head in his hands and wept until he could light a cigarette and stand back up. Ray was just walking in the front door and hurried to join them. He had been in Arlington that afternoon, his meeting with a new mental health advocacy group running long. His colleagues were relieved he hadn’t been on that bridge. Seb returned, carrying a tray of hot tea and shots of brandy; he updated Ray. Ray had seen a lot of commotion on his way back to the hotel and knew something dreadful had happened.
Dr. Harris tried to get up but realized Meg was gripping his forearm. She couldn’t catch her breath. “Meg,” he said, “you’re hyperventilating. Slow it down.” She kept taking breaths in. “No, breathe out, Meg.” He pressed his hand to her stomach and pushed in. Meg finally forced several deep breaths out. Dr. Harris handed her a cup of tea.
Meg took a few sips. “I feel so cold,” she said, adding the brandy. Her hair and clothes were soaked with melted snow from her fall in the park. She gulped the tea, then stood up. “I need to get out of these wet clothes,” she said. “And I need to call my parents.”
Seb wanted to call his wife, Ray a close friend. Maria needed to hear her kids’ voices. Dr. Harris said he had to call his grandfather. Maria remembered his granddad was the only living relative he had. “Yes Jon, he’ll be very worried.”
Someone asked if they should still meet for dinner, but everyone stood silent until Meg calmly said, “We’re all mental health people. Let’s not be alone with this.”
Jon was caught off guard by Meg. Minutes ago, she had been so vulnerable yet now she was rallying them. Before Jon left his colleagues at the elevator to jog up the stairs, he glanced back to look at Meg.
# # #
They all got through the rest of their meetings that week but felt like they were intruding on the city’s grief. The blanket of sorrow that covered the city was thicker and colder than all the snow and ice still on the ground.
Meetings were shortened; everyone seemed distracted. Dr. Harris and his colleagues increasingly noticed the many homeless people, broken liquor bottles, and needles on the snow. Discussions about the crash and the failings of the District’s mental health system captured the tragedy of both.
On the last day of their trip, Dr. Harris and Meg had various meetings at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, mostly unproductive. They were disheartened by how few ideas and resources they had to bring back home. They both noticed a man huddled around the steam vent of a large government building, talking to his voices. The large cardboard box in the snow, on top of a plastic sheet, was his bed. Jon’s heart sank. Meg had already looked away. On the bus back, as they neared the museums Meg broke their silence. “Dr. Harris, one more tragedy is not what I want my last image of this trip to be. I need a final look at my favorite treasures here. Do you want to see them?”
He nodded and said, “You know Meg, I haven’t been your professor in several years. And especially after this week, it’s really okay to call me Jon.”
They braced each other up the icy steps to the Library of Congress. Meg showed him the ceiling mural in the main reading room: “Human Understanding.” They stared at the grim-looking angel lifting her veil of ignorance to stare down at them. In the bright hallway on their way out, Meg pointed to the enormous stained-glass skylights, still covered with ice from the storm and glittering like a covering of diamonds over sapphires. She took Dr. Harris to the art museum with the explosive Kandinsky and explained that it captured all of her feelings from the week. “Thanks for letting me share this with you, Dr. Harris,” she said to him.
Jon smiled for the first time that day. He didn’t know why she still called him Dr. Harris.
# # #
Jon was grateful that dreadful trip was over and settled into his aisle seat on the flight home. His colleagues were scattered nearby. The close-up look at the district’s mental health system – visible everywhere in the clinics and the streets – was discouraging, heartbreaking. And he still felt raw from watching that plane crash.
Jon looked out the window. He saw snow and ice still on the ground but thankfully, none on the wings. He took a deep breath, adjusted his seat belt, and opened his leather backpack. He pulled out the new federal position paper on mental illness and substance abuse. He wanted something he could understand and work on. Something without emotions. After the first paragraph, Jon lost focus. His gaze drifted until it landed on Meg, sitting in the row in front and across from him. She looked calm. He pulled his eyes back to his article, but minutes later, his eyes again found their way to Meg. She was sleeping, breathing quietly.
Days ago, she had been so vulnerable, hyperventilating while watching the plane disaster. Jon was able to help her find her breath, something he knew how to do from all the times he had calmed his mother’s distress, which rarely went away when she was still alive. Only minutes after Meg caught her breath that day, she was up and supporting her colleagues.
Meg had intrigued Jon for the past ten years, ever since she was a student in the first class he taught as a new assistant professor. He was later pleased to be her graduate school advisor. He appreciated that she brought her blue-collar practicality to tackle the big problems in mental health. Her solutions came more from an approach to life she learned in the resourceful, rundown town she was from than from anything he and his department taught her.
Jon appreciated that she still asked for his input about mental health policy and shared her ideas with him. He no longer saw her as the same twenty-year-old girl he first knew, but he wasn’t sure how to think about her now. Jon shifted his thoughts back to his reading. His article fell to his lap. He looked again at Meg. He was captivated by this thoughtful, earnest woman. For the first time, he noticed that she was surprisingly lovely.
Once landed, they all lingered in baggage claim after reconnecting with their luggage. Everyone was still a little shell-shocked from the trip. Hugs all around. Plans to meet again were confirmed. Then, another round of hugs.
Jon was tired when he got home but not calm. He decided he needed a hard run. The January air was brisk, not yet bitter. He hadn’t had a good run in over a week. Jon began a light run. Then faster. The cold air he sucked into his lungs invigorated him, as did the thrusts of breathing it out. He heard the crisp sound of his feet pounding the ground. He heard the heavy sound of his breathing. It felt good.
He ran faster. Harder. He lost his breath and had to stop. He bent over, thrusting his hands to his gut, reminding himself to breathe out.
Breathe out, Meg went through his mind. His mind jumped to how he had helped Meg breathe after watching the crash. The hand now pressing on his abdomen was the same hand that, just days before, had pressed against hers, helping her catch her breath.
She had moved so quickly from vulnerable to strong in the face of tragedy. When her colleagues were still stunned, she was the one who said, “We shouldn’t be alone.” Then she showed him the District’s hidden gems. That trip was a disaster except when he thought about her. He saw flashes of her face from the morning’s plane trip. He smiled, though he didn’t realize he was. He started running again to get back home.
Once there, his focus returned, but not his calm. He hadn’t eaten all day but wasn’t hungry. The tea he brewed comforted him but offered no clarity. He found some old brandy and poured it into his tea. He knew he needed his music. He ignored the rock and flipped through the classical, knowing only Beethoven was powerful enough to deal with whatever he was feeling. He pulled out Beethoven’s 3rd, Eroica, even though it agitated him. He chose it, trusting it would help him understand his.
Boom!
Boom!
The first notes of Eroica were more jarring than he remembered.
Daa da daa, da-da-da-da-da.
The melody – sometimes soft, sometimes strong, captivated him. He wondered why he hated this symphony. The notes became frantic, the haunting theme disappearing, then returning. He felt like he was running but was unsure whether he was running to or away from something. He heard joy in the music, then foreboding. His growing agitation felt like a struggle. Then the wailing oboe gutted him.
Damn, he thought, this is funeral music. Even the lighter movement offered only a softer version of gloom. His head ached. He thought of all the people in his family who were gone: his depressed mother, his worn-out grandmother, and his father – lost in the waters of the Pacific in WWII before he was even born. Then he thought of the families of all those lost only days ago in the Potomac and on that bridge.
He rose abruptly to turn off the music but decided to listen to the first part again.
Boom! The plane crash.
Boom! His heart.
Daa da daa, da-da-da-da-da. That melody reminded him of Meg.
Damn the Eroica! He remembered Eroica means Heroic.
Jon thought of the breath-stopping rescues from the plane crash. Those were heroic, he had no doubt. But given the option, he would rather take his chances jumping into an icy river than jumping into love. He didn’t trust that he could survive falling in love. There’s no struggle more heroic than trying to find and hold on to love, which for him was always the precursor to terrible loss and pain. He closed his eyes and saw Meg. He sat back in his easy chair and uneasily let himself fall into the excitement and terror of falling in love with her.
Then, again, he thought about the plane crash, and the wreckage in the river that held so many lost lives, so many lost loves. Seventy-eight lost souls, but five saved. He thought of the man with the hand*, the man who wouldn’t let himself be pulled up until those around him had lifelines, the man on the shore who jumped in, the rescuer who dangled so precariously from the helicopter. Then his thoughts returned to the man with the hand.
He felt love for all of them, too. And his heart ached.
*Arland D. Williams, Jr. was “the man with the hand.” He batted the life rope away from himself three times to save the rest. 2025 marks the 40th anniversary of renaming a portion of the 14th Street Bridge for him.
Rebecca Petersen is a clinical psychologist who lived in Washington, D.C. in the 1980s and still vividly remembers the events of January 13, 1982. She writes academic articles, novels, essays on mental health, and therapeutic haikus. She currently lives in Northern California.