The Moth Radio Hour: Caught Off Guard
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From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bowles, and in this hour, we'll hear four stories told live on stage at Moth events around the U.S. True stories told without notes about real, sometimes surprising events.

If 2020 taught us anything, it's that life as we know it can change on a dime. The stories in this hour all deal with moments that caught people off guard. Some moments are a test of will, while others can throw a person's life completely off course. Our first storyteller is Aaron Pang. He shared his story at a main stage presented by WGBH in Boston. From the Wilbur Theatre, here's Aaron Pang, live at the Moth.

So I'm commuting home from work and when I walk into BART, San Francisco's subway system, I am instantly annoyed because I walk with a cane and I wear leg braces and I notice that the elevators and escalators are out of service, which means that after sitting on my butt in my office for eight hours, I have to start off my commute by walking down three flights of stairs down to the platform.

And there's nothing I can do, that's the only option. So I walk up to the mouth of the stairwell, and I take a deep breath, and I put my hands on the inevitably sticky handrail, and I begin my descent.

Whenever I'm walking downstairs, I have to stay relatively focused. I have to stay focused, and so I don't notice immediately. But about seven or eight steps down, I realize that nobody is passing me, even though it's peak commute hours, and there's so many people in the station, and the stairwell is actually wide enough for two people to walk side by side. And so I pause and I turn around, and I see all of these people behind me walking at my pace.

And this woman at the front, she looks to me and she gives me this little fist pump and she winks and she says, "Honey, you got this." And I realize they're not passing me because they're trying to be considerate. They're trying to give me space. But what they don't realize is that their consideration is causing this huge backup up the stairwell. A backup that people could blame on me. And...

And I can just feel the pressure building on the back of my neck as more and more people enter the station. I can feel like now I'm the only one standing between their day of corporate office work and their night of precious, precious Netflix. But I don't say anything. I don't say anything because I want to be considerate of their consideration.

And so we keep walking, but about halfway down I hear this disembodied voice at the top of the stairs. A man who's obviously had a very long day. And he just yells, "Oh my god! Walk faster!" "I would love to." But everyone around me in my close vicinity freezes in this thick awkwardness as if they're offended for me. And that woman, she puts a hand on my shoulder, gives it a little tight squeeze, and she says, "Ignore him."

Take all the time that you need." And I turned to her with a smile on my face and I say, "But you guys know you can pass, right? There's plenty of space. I'll be fine." And she goes,

"Oh dear, that's so considerate of you, but you don't need to worry about us, and you definitely should not worry about him. He is being such an ass. You just do whatever's most comfortable for you." And that's when I snap at her and I say, "Yeah, you guys passing, that is what's most comfortable."

And she's stunned into silence, but without another word, she concedes and she moves past, and people are trickling past, and I can feel that pressure on the back of my neck ease a little bit. And I keep walking, and I finally get down to the flat of the platform. On flat ground, I'm able to ease into a mode of walking that requires a lot less thought.

But I'm still at the mouth of the stairwell, so I try to hustle out of the way to let people pass. And as I take a step, my left leg mid-swing catches my right leg, and suddenly my body's moving forward with nothing underneath it. I try to execute an emergency maneuver. I try to hop on my right leg, replace my cane to catch my fall. But as we all learn in physics class, Isaac Newton's a bitch. And therefore, my body is a body in motion, crashing to the ground.

See, I became differently abled about seven, eight years ago when I underwent a series of surgeries to remove this benign tumor from my spinal column. Every surgery has its risks, and my risks manifested after 20 hours in the operating room. I woke up in a hospital bed unable to walk, and for two months I stayed in that hospital bed learning to walk for the second time in my life.

But after those two months, I walked out of that hospital. But now I do so with a cane and braces and a limp. And every year, we would go in for checkups. My mom would always ask the same question. She would ask, "Isn't there anything you can do for him to fix him? Any special treatment we can try?" And the doctors always provide some version of the same answer. They say, "Aaron's recovery has been miraculous.

He has a full-time job, he lives by himself, he even travels. He's independent, and that's much more than we can ask for. And the doctors are right. I am independent. But things like having a full-time job or even graduating college on time, they don't really test your independence. At least not on the day-to-day basis, like just the casual grind of a morning commute on the subway can.

But despite all my criticisms of BART, BART's actually pretty great because every train car has reserved seating for people like me. And these accessible seats allow me to play this game, this game I like to call "Accessibility Seating Chicken." Like, this one time, I walk into a car with a very pregnant woman and an old man, and there are only two seats for the three of us.

And so in the ten seconds between us getting on the train and the train starting to move, we have to decide who sits. This becomes a game of will to see who is the most stubbornly polite. And there is, "Oh no, you sit. No, you sit. No, you sit. But you're pregnant. But you're old. But you're handicapped." And there's a lot of weird, like, polite shoving

And as all of this is happening, all of the able-bodied people in non-designated seats ignore us. But when the dust settles, the woman and the old man are seated, and I'm the last man standing. I am the last man standing because I am the youngest and I look the strongest, and to be perfectly honest, I really like to win.

And so I take my spot next to one of the railings that you can hold on to, and I'm basking in my victory, satisfied in my ability to help somebody else out in need. And that's when the train starts with a jolt. I lose my balance and I fall into a businessman in a suit. And then finally, somebody stands to let me sit. See, in public, it's a weird balancing act, balancing what people, how people perceive me, how I perceive myself and what I'm actually capable of.

Because on the other side of that coin, sometimes people don't even notice that I need help. Like on a different commute, I'm seated there in one of the accessible seats. Next to me is an able-bodied woman in the other accessible seat. And we stop and the train doors open and this woman in her late 50s comes in and she just beelines towards me and she gets right in my face and she says, "Excuse me, can you please stand? I have a bad back and I need to sit."

And I point to my cane, but before I can say anything, the woman next to me stands and this lady takes her seat. And for the next 15 minutes, I can feel her channeling this self-righteous anger. She's furiously scrolling on her phone, giving me the stink eye.

But about one stop before I get off, she turns to me and she goes, "You know you were supposed to stand for me, right? These seats are reserved for people who need it." And then she points to her phone, which has the BART website on it, with the rules of priority seating. And without a word, I just point to my cane, and then I lift up my pant leg to show her my braces, 'cause every once in a while, in public, it's nice to have two forms of cripple credentials.

And instantly, the hot air just deflates out of her. And she begins apologizing profusely. And she's just like, oh, I'm so sorry. And she begins telling me her whole life story about her injury. And I can relate. And she says something that I always remember. She says, I know I might not look like I need it, but these seats are really helpful. And I couldn't agree more. Sitting on the subway is great.

And sometimes people don't know that I need those seats and that's completely okay. Because other times people can't help but to notice my disability. Like when I end up walking down three flights of stairs and end up tripping and just star fishing on a really crowded platform. I'm lying there and I can hear the train that I was supposed to be on pull out of the station. My legs feel like electrified jello and I am only able to get on all fours.

Somebody who reminds me of my mom comes up next to me and offers to help and without a word I put out my arm and she takes it. And when I try to stand she doesn't realize that I'm about to put all of my weight on her. And so she's not ready and when I do she loses her grip and I'm about to fall again. Except this time there's a man behind me and he puts two arms under mine and he puts me on my feet. I don't give this man permission to pick me up, let alone even touch me.

But in moments like this, you kind of have to swallow your pride. And so they walk me over to one of the benches and they offer to sit with me until my train comes. But I say, no, it's totally fine. This happens all the time. I'm just a little shaken up. And they fade back into their lives. And as I'm sitting there, I'm just furious. I can feel the other people just taking sideways glances at me.

I'm furious because for the last seven years, I've done so much physical therapy to get to where I am now. But in those same seven years, I have also watched a stupidly large amount of TV. I am currently on my fifth rewatch of The West Wing. That's 577 hours of television that I could have better spent on my legs.

And so I always think about this concept that journalist Malcolm Gladwell popularized, this idea that it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at anything. And so when it comes to my legs, I wonder if I just don't have the talent or if I'm not dedicated enough. I wonder if my disability is severe enough for me to sit or if I'm strong enough to stand.

I wonder if it is okay to get drinks with friends after work, or should I go to a physical therapy appointment? And as all of these thoughts are tumbling through my mind, a couple of more trains pass. And when I finally feel up to it, I get on one and I go home. I get to my apartment. I make dinner. I put on a TV show. And as the night progresses, I feel the pain in my knee dull, and those thoughts begin to fade. I'm getting ready for bed.

I brush my teeth and I stretch a lot. And as I get into bed, I grab my phone to set an 8 a.m. alarm so that I can catch the 8:45 train. Erin Pang is a software engineer and lives in Oakland, California. Erin told me that since telling this story, he started driving to work. Part of him loved commuting. Surviving the grind made him feel independent. The only thing he really misses is the people watching.

Aaron had a chance to share his story live on stage several times with The Moth, including in front of a hometown audience in San Francisco. He actually invited his entire medical team to the show, the surgeons, nurses, physical therapists who worked with him over the course of his treatment and recovery. And he said it felt really good to be able to give them a glimpse into an experience they were part of.

Aaron still constantly worries about what more he could be doing. In an email, he told me, my condition will degrade and odds are at some point in my life I won't be able to walk anymore. Now the worry becomes finding long-term sustainable solutions for me to live the life I want to live. It's less looking to return to the past and more how will I live in the future.

By the way, I asked Aaron which West Wing episode was his favorite, and he said, there are too many, but Two Cathedrals is a universally beloved one, and I do love the episode The Supremes. I first met Aaron when he called our moth pitch line and left a two-minute pitch that caught my ear. The pitch led to me calling him and then his taking the stage to tell the story, and now our sharing the story with you.

If you have a story you'd like us to consider, you can go to our website and look for Tell a Story, where you'll also find advice for how to craft your pitch. Or you can call us at 877-799-MOTH. That's 877-799-6684. Pitches are developed for shows all around the world. Coming up, a romantic night out at the Neville Island Rollerdrome when the Moth Radio Hour continues. ♪

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX.

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That's netsuite.com slash moth. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bowles. It's often said that how you act in the face of something you can't control can determine the outcome of the situation. Our next story from Joel Brady is a fun example of just that. He shared it at our Story Slam series that happens once a month in partnership with WESA in Pittsburgh. Here's Joel Brady live at the Rex Theater.

Last year, my wife Peggy and I, we went on a roller skating date at the Adult Skate at the Neville Island Rollerdrome. And if you've never been to the Adult Skate, it's like this kind of alternate universe. It's all these people who were really good at skating in the 70s and 80s, and they're still really good at roller skating, and they still have all their Adidas tracksuits and their light-up skates. And there's also this wonderful sense of community there.

And Peggy and I, we don't know anybody there, but we were just taken in the night and we were like, "This is great." And we're not as good as those people at roller skating, but I have a signature roller skating move. And this move, it involves me sitting down, like on my haunches, on one skate, and then I kick the other skate leg out directly in front of me. And if I get going fast enough, I can do like a full rotation around the rink like that. And I was doing that like all night, you know.

And Peggy's like, she's starting to get tired of it. I'm nowhere near close to even getting tired of doing that. And so, you know, the night goes on and I remember at this point in the night that song Hot Stepper was on, you know, like the, I'm the hot stepper, word, rock that one. Which is like a terrible song, but the Neville Island Roller Drone is like this vortex where every song you hated in high school sounds amazing. So that song is on and I'm getting into my signature move.

I skate up real fast in front of Peggy. I forgot to mention, like, usually I come around and I cut her off. Like, anyway, I'm getting into my signature move, so I skate real fast. I get down into my move. And then all of a sudden, I feel her hands on my back. She had caught me. And I was surprised because I didn't even know she could skate that fast, but she caught me. And now she's, like, pushing me really fast around the...

around the rink and I'm thrown off because it's pretty hard to actually to balance like that and now I've got this other variable in my physics and it's just it's a problem but then I settled down and I was like no we got this you know so we're going around and I'm like okay this is actually this works and then I just then I kind of let go and I just like gave myself over to her and I almost just involuntarily I put both my arms out

And it was so liberating, and the best way I can describe it is like, I felt like a rose on the Titanic, like on the prow of the Titanic, you know? Like wind in my hair. And it was also this incredibly intimate moment, too. So we started dating when we were 16, and I can remember the first time that I kissed the spot next to her eye. She has this little indentation in her bone structure. I kissed her there, and it was like this intimate moment that we remember it.

And I knew that this moment at the Neville Island roller drone was going to be that kind of moment. And, you know, we're in the middle, people are looking, I don't care, I'm with my wife, like, you know. And then, we're in the middle of this moment, and I see 15 feet ahead of me, skating by, is Peggy. And she's got this very confused expression on her face. And I'm also feeling very confused, because I can still feel her hands on my back.

And it's kind of hard to do in this position, but I do look like a quick, you know, over the shoulder. And it's just some random guy. It's not at all this woman that I've known intimately for over two decades. It's just this dude that I've never seen before in my life. And he's got this big goofy grin on his face. And he's nodding to Hot Stepper like he's having the time of his life. Because that moment that I've been having, the one I've been telling you about, he's also having that moment. Except that his experience of that moment, I think, is a little bit different than mine.

For starters, he's the one pushing. That's just for starters. But secondly, he's known all along that it's just some random guy he's having this moment with. That's not information I've had access to. So then I'm like, okay, recalibrating, recalibrating. And people's expressions make more sense now. The size of the hands. And then I'm thinking like, all right, well, what are next steps here? Because we're still flying around the roller drone and Leo DiCaprio back there.

Doesn't look like he wants this moment to end anytime soon. And to be fair, why would he? I've been giving him every indication that I'm really enjoying his company. Like, really enjoying his company. And then I stop and I'm like, well, you know what? There are no next steps here. Because with Hot Stepper blasting like that, I can't communicate with him over my shoulder. And I don't know if you've ever tried to extricate yourself from this specific physical situation.

Sitting on one roller skate with your other skate leg out in front of you and some dude pushing you around at breakneck speeds. Just take my word for it, it can't be done. It's not physically possible without total carnage. And then I thought, you know what, I might as well enjoy it. And I looked over my wife and I thought, life partner. And then I looked back over my shoulder at that guy and I thought, skating partner. And I put both my arms out again and it felt incredible. And we did like 10 more laps like that.

That was Joel Brady. He and his wife Peggy have four children. Joel is a professor of religious studies at the University of Pittsburgh and an avid climber. He says he and Peggy don't skate much at all anymore. And as for that mystery skater, he wrote, "The light touch with which he initially caught me was matched only by the gentleness with which he released me, only to skate off and vanish into the crowd. I've sometimes wondered if he was an angel."

You can see a picture of Joel and his wife Peggy on that fateful night at the Neville Island Rollerdrome on our website, themoth.org. Sadly, he doesn't have a picture of his signature move, but if you Google roller skating and shoot the duck, you'll get the idea. Our next storyteller, Michelle Robertson, also took the stage at one of our monthly open mic story slams, but this time in Detroit, Michigan, where we partner with local radio station WDET.

Here's Michelle Robertson, live at the Moth. I'm the oldest of four girls in my family. My first sister was born just before my second birthday, and then my other two sisters are 10 and 14 years younger. So the majority of my childhood, most of my memories are just me and my dad and Rebecca and my mom.

My mom and dad were two totally different people. My mom's just super shy and very straight-laced, like never did anything wrong. She didn't smoke or drink or swear or gamble or anything like that. And my dad grew up on the rodeo and loved drinking beer and smoking some weed and whatever else he could get his hands on.

So they had nothing in common except for as parents they had this one thing and that was that neither one of them really had any issues with playing favorites. So Rebecca was my mom's favorite and I was my dad's favorite and if my mom went anywhere Rebecca was going to be with her and my dad took me with him. So Rebecca got to go to the grocery store in the bank

And I got to go to the party store to buy beer and to my aunt and uncle's houses every single weekend where my dad would hang out with his brothers and sisters and they would drink beer and smoke whatever and play cards. And me and all my cousins, this huge extended family, we'd ride horses or do whatever we wanted because nobody was watching us.

We both individually had these really great childhoods, Rebecca and I, but my parents in creating this kind of division of a family created this huge animosity. So it wasn't like normal sibling rivalry. There were no moments of tenderness. We didn't do each other's hair or makeup or talk about boys. We hated each other. Hated. Legit hated each other.

And she was really, like, when I think about competition, she was my fiercest opponent for all of my life because we were constantly trying to outdo one another and prove that we were loved. And it continued that way once we moved out. We both moved out, got married, had our own families. Now, to me, I had grown up with this big extended family, and so it was important to me that my kids knew their cousins. It just was, like, an unfortunate circumstance that they were Becca's kids. But it was...

It really was. You don't know her. My dad would call me every weekend and ask me to come over for dinner. And I'd say, yeah, can you have mom call Becca and ask her to bring the kids over? And she would. So we all spent time. Well, Becca would hang out with my mom in the house. And me and my dad would light off fireworks for no reason or ride four-wheelers. And so all the kids would hang out with us.

And then my two younger sisters grew up and moved out, and my parents were just kind of left with each other. And they realized, I think, what everybody else knew, that they didn't have anything in common.

And I think, well, my mom probably got tired of my dad drinking all the time and my dad probably just got tired of listening to my mom bitch about him drinking all the time. So my mom moved out, but she still came over on weekends. And then she moved back in, so that was fine. And then she moved back out and she didn't come over on weekends anymore. And then Rebecca didn't come over on weekends anymore. And within this really quick couple of months, my entire dysfunctional family kind of started to fall apart. And

It was really a short time. Like a couple months later, I will never forget. I was at home. I was working from home that day. And I'm sitting on my bed and my laptop's out and these papers and my phone rings. And I pick it up and it says Karen slash mom. That's my mom. She never, ever called me. And so I panicked because I thought something must have happened to my dad for my mom to call me. So I answer the phone. I'm a little panicked. But she was totally fine. And she's like, well, that's over. That's final. And I was like, what's final? And she said, the divorce. And I said, what?

"What divorce?" And she said, "Between me and your dad." And I was like, "No, there's no divorce between you and dad." And she's like, "Well, no. I mean, there was. It's final. I'm leaving the court right now." So I wanted to ask questions, but I couldn't because I felt like my eyes get hot and a lump in my throat. And so I was just like, "Okay, thanks for letting me know. I'm working. I'm really busy. I got to go." And so I hung up the phone and I cried.

so hard and so ugly for such a long time. And I wanted to call a friend, like I wanted to talk to someone, but I couldn't because they would ask what was wrong and I would say, "My parents' divorce is final." And they would say, "I didn't know your parents were getting divorced." And I'd say, "Yeah, me neither." And that was going to be super weird. And I was really mad at myself because really the only person in the world that I wanted to talk to was Rebecca.

But I couldn't, I actually didn't even know if I had her phone number. But I did. After a long time, I looked, and I did. And I eventually worked up the courage to call her. And I thought it was going to be weird. To be told, I made it a little bit weird, because she said, hey. And I said, this is Michelle. I'm your sister. And she was like, I know who you are. And so I made it a little weird. But then I just said, oh, OK. Hey, have you talked to mom? And she said in her really Rebecca-like way, no.

"Have I talked to mom? I talk to mom all the time. Mom calls me every day." And I was like, "Oh, okay, okay. I didn't know. So you know that I didn't know." And she said, "You know what?" And I was like, "That it's final." And she said, "That what's final?" And I said, "The divorce." And she said, "What divorce?" And I sat between mom and dad, and she didn't say anything. And then I heard her crying.

And then I started crying all over again. And then we just cried together for this really, really long time. We stayed on the phone for hours just talking and crying and talking bad about our parents and figuring out how we were going to tell our sisters and how we were going to tell our kids and how important it was to both of us that our kids stayed in contact. And we talked and we cried until there was just nothing left. And then we just sat there forever on the phone in silence until...

She said in her really Rebecca-like way, like, why would mom call you instead of me? Mom always calls me. And for the first time in 35 years, I was able to just laugh because I just didn't care anymore because I realized that there didn't have to be a competition and that she wasn't my opponent. And for the first time, I was just talking to my sister. That was Michelle Robertson.

Life threw another curveball when Michelle's father was diagnosed with cancer shortly after the divorce, and she moved him in with her and her family. She told me in an email, My sister Rebecca is a nurse and was so, so helpful during that time. We became super close while caring for him until he passed away. She's now one of my best friends. I seriously don't know what I would do without her. Our kids still see each other. We all spend a lot of time together, and sometimes my mom even joins. ♪

She first told this story back in 2017, and she said that listening back to it again after so long made her think how grateful she is that things have changed. She said, I genuinely love my sister and still can't believe we spent so many years trying to outdo each other. You can see a picture of Michelle, her mother, and her sister Rebecca on our website, themoth.org. ♪

Coming up, surviving the unthinkable when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org.

This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bowles, and our last story comes from Patience Murray, who survived one of the deadliest mass shootings in the United States. A word of caution, this story graphically describes the events of the attack and may be difficult for some listeners to hear. Patience shared her story at an evening we produced in partnership with 3CDC at the Anderson Theater Memorial Hall in Cincinnati, Ohio. Here's Patience Murray.

I heard gunshots. They were firing off over the music and it sounded like they were coming from another room in the club. People were screaming, ducking, and scrambling for cover. I was 20 years old. It was my first time going to Florida, my first trip alone with friends, Tierra and her cousin Akira. The trip was the only thing we talked about for weeks. It was my first time getting on a plane,

And it was my first time being at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. It was an 18 and up club and we had so much fun that night dancing and being silly. But the club was about to close soon. My feet were aching, my armpits were drenched, and the sleek ponytail I had in the car turned into a bushy mess. We embodied the phrase "leave everything on the dance floor." And we did. Until we heard the first shots of the machine gun.

I dropped to the floor. Things started moving quickly. It was like the room was spinning. I could hear other people, but I couldn't hear myself. I couldn't hear my thoughts. I couldn't think. I was on the floor, scooting backwards away from all the chaos, and I kept moving and moving until I felt the cool ground underneath my palms. I realized that somehow I miraculously scooted my way through an exit and made it outside. When I looked up, I saw Akira.

coming towards me. She said, "Tierra was still inside." I lifted myself up from the ground and without any hesitation, we rushed back in for her. It was the first time I felt that kind of determination, but leaving Tierra behind wasn't an option. The gunfire was still blasting and it sounded like it was getting closer. Tierra was squatting by the bar, paralyzed with fear. Her eyes were lost. We didn't have any time to think.

The exit seemed way too far and the gunfire seemed way too close. We saw people rushing into the bathrooms and we really needed to hide. So we decided to follow them. We saw a cover in the bathroom. It only had four stalls. So we jammed ourselves into the handicapped one with 20 other people. We could still hear the gunshots, the screams, but by this point the music had stopped. There was a brief moment of silence. Then everyone started talking again.

Some people were on their phones. I saw a girl bleeding on the floor, holding her arm, and others were begging people to remain quiet. Then the gunfire started again, but this time it was inside our bathroom. We were screaming and scrambling around on the floor as the shooter fired endless rounds of bullets at us. Then the shooter's gun jammed. The gunfire had stopped. When I looked down at my leg,

I saw a hole the size of a penny pouring red streams of blood. I tried to wiggle my way into a space on the floor, but the pressure surrounding the bullet wound was so heavy, it felt like a boulder had just dropped on my leg, crushing it. It stunned my entire body. I could barely move an inch. I could barely breathe straight. Underneath the stall, I could see the shooter's feet and his machine gun. It was nothing like I had ever seen. It was the first time I ever saw a machine gun in real life.

I lifted my head from the floor and Akira, she had her phone raised to her ear while she was bracing her bleeding arm. And I heard her say, "Please come get us, please, I've been shot." I desperately hoped that her calls would save us all. Then out of nowhere the man said, "Get off your phones." Not in a yelling voice, not an angry voice, it was a calm voice, which was terrifying. I didn't dare pick up my phone.

And besides the only people I could call, lived a thousand miles away. I was on vacation, and it was the first time I left the state without telling my father. I started crying. I felt a hand rubbing my arm, trying to console me. And I don't know whose hand it was, but I appreciate that hand so much. I tried to slide forward, but my right leg was bent and pinned under the man laying next to me. I asked him, "Please, get off my leg. It's been shot."

But he was shot too and couldn't move either. We needed someone to come save us because it was absolutely nothing that we could do to save ourselves. It was going on 3 a.m. We'd been lying in each other's blood for hours. Phones were ringing. They were making the shooter agitated, and I found it harder to keep my eyes open. I wasn't sure if I was falling asleep or if I was dying. Then the phone rang and rang and kept ringing. And then the shooter started making his own calls to 911.

He warned the police to stay away, claiming that if they didn't, he'd detonate the explosives he had in his car. At first, all I had to worry about was him shooting me again, but now I feared being blown to pieces. I heard the shooter pacing. I could see his feet right outside of our stall door. I didn't want to die, but each time I heard him click his gun, I lost hope. I felt myself giving up. Laying in excruciating pain,

It makes you beg God to take the soul out of your body. It makes you pray and ask forgiveness. It makes you regret not saying all the things that you wanted to tell people yet extremely grateful for the things that you did say. Suddenly there was a loud boom. The entire building shook. Then there was another loud boom, even louder than the first. I just knew that this was it. I knew that I was about to die. I placed my hand in my mouth and clenched my fist in preparation for death.

Then out of nowhere, a voiceover speaker shouted, "Get away from the walls." The shooter ran into our stall and began firing at people. I didn't move. I didn't breathe. I just held my breath and clenched my fist. I felt the man next to me move closer. I felt their body pressed on my arm. And then he shot again. And I heard the man on top of me scream.

Then there was another loud boom and the wall came crashing down. Debris covered my face but I could still see a light shining through the hole in the wall. The police shouted for the man to put down his weapon and then the room erupted with gunfire and lit up like a night sky on July 4th. Then there was nothing. There was silence. When the police came in through the hole in the wall, I remember looking up at the officer with his armor and gun in complete shock. I was alive.

I can still see the image of my legs on the stretcher against the backdrop of those closed ambulance doors engraved in my mind forever. The hospital was a blur, but I do remember the nurse handing me the phone. I memorized my father's number just in case I ever lost my phone and today I was glad I did. The doctor explained the situation to my father. I had been shot in both legs and the bullet that entered my right thigh shattered my femur bone so I was being taken into surgery.

They handed the phone to me. I could just hear how confused he was, and I tried my best to remain calm and clear. I didn't want my father to hear the fear in my voice like I heard the confusion in his. He always said, you're going to be fine. My dad was no doctor, but I believed him. I kept those words with me as I rolled into surgery, and they were really the only thing that gave me hope. Tiara survived a gunshot to her side, but Akira didn't make it.

Earlier that night, we were celebrating all of her successes, and now she was gone. It was the first time I ever felt the sensation of someone just suddenly being gone. It's been three years since the shooting. I remember my first time walking again. I remember my first time going to school again. I remember my first time going to a club again. And I remember my first time being happy again. But no matter how happy I am or how much stronger I feel, I always ask God why.

Even now, I can't believe that I survived. 49 people were killed. I think about the odds of the shooter not shooting me for a third time or the police not coming in when they did and I can't stop thinking about why me? And every day I think of that. And every day I'm living to figure out the answer to that question. Thank you. That was Patience Murray.

Patience is an entrepreneur, author, and founder of the Survive Then Live Foundation. After these events, she graduated from NYU as an MCC Resilience Award recipient. Patience has since moved to Florida, and she started a new life and a new business with her husband, Alex Murray, whose sister Akira died that night.

Patience says that she and Alex found each other while they were both healing from the same traumatic event. He was dealing with the loss of his sister Akira, and she was dealing with not only the physical pain, but also the loss of her sense of security in the world. They had both lost hope in life. But she says together they've regained that hope in their relationship and love for each other.

From the first time I met Patience to when she took the stage, a period of maybe 11 months, there were more than 15 mass shootings in the United States. El Paso, Texas, Gilroy, California, Dayton, Ohio. At first, I worried that Patience's story might be too hard for people. But with every new report, in each instance, the numbers of casualties and fatalities reported matter-of-factly, it felt more and more important for people to hear her story.

Samuel James, a journalist and frequent storyteller with The Moth, shared the stage with patients that night in Ohio and recently spoke to her about what it was like to tell her story. How did you feel first telling this story? I was extremely nervous.

I was extremely nervous because I never told my story in this format, in this way before. Everything has always been, you know, question and answer or I find a way to put it into like poetry. You know, I've spoken before. I've spoken in front of people before, but I've never told a story in a way that brings them on the journey with me versus me talking at them. Because it's not a performance. You're literally just telling the story. And I think that's the beauty of The Moth.

I like sharing my, you know, my truth, my journey with people who are willing to listen and take that journey with me. And because it's a heavy story. It's not a story that, you know, brings roses at the end necessarily. It's a roller coaster ride. When you were telling your story, can you tell me just like what you imagined it might be versus what actually happened?

When I imagine telling my story on any stage, especially in the format that I was telling it in, I thought I would get super emotional. I thought I wouldn't be able to finish. I thought that I would just be a puddle of tears by the end of it. But I actually felt super empowered by sharing my story in that format on that stage because...

I already went into it with reservations. I didn't think that I could make it through it. But when I realized that I was making it through it, even with distractions, even with my anxiety, even with my own emotional, you know, transgressions, I realized that I'm a lot stronger than I give myself credit for. And that was inspiring to me on stage while I was, you know, saying the stories like, wow, I'm actually making it through this. Did you have any...

Any interactions with audience members after you told the story? Yes, I did. They were a few people, like a good amount of people that came up to me and just wanted to hug me. I remember one lady, she was crying, literally crying for me. And that, for me, was humbling. I just, I got on stage hoping that I wouldn't, you know, that I would be able to finish. And here's this woman, you know, she's so moved by it and

At that point I realized that I needed to have a little bit more confidence in myself and more confidence in the fact that I do have a powerful story to tell and no amount of anxiety no amount of fears or just you know self-esteem issues should come in the way of connecting with God's purposes over my life at the end of your story

You end the story, your story, with saying that you still ask God why. Do you still ask God why? You know, I've stopped asking God why because I feel like God is revealing why in my life every day. And I have to listen. Just like how the Moth audience members listen to me, I have to listen for God. There's so many different things that I have in store, and I feel like

Asking that question, why, each day, all last year, gave me some clarity on where I need to be this year and what position I'm in for my family, for people who are also trauma survivors. Sometimes we think that we have control in life, but as much as the decisions we make

are what shape the clay, but we're not the ones holding it. God is. So I'm just listening for that inner direction from God to just let me know if I'm on the right path. And I feel like I am. So I'm just going to keep moving forward and ask me this question in five years. All right. I'll meet you back here in five years. That was Samuel James talking with Patience Murray.

You can hear more of that interview on our website, themoth.org, where you can also find out more about Patience and the many things she's up to now. Her new business, she has a book, and she was featured in a three-part documentary series entitled Sincerely Patience that was nominated for an Emmy. Patience told me that the shooting forced her to truly accept the fact that we have no control over what happens in life.

We can only control how we deal with it. And I think that's true for all the storytellers we met in this hour. May we all find the strength to embrace and move through everything that life throws at us. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us again next time for the Moth Radio Hour.

Your host this hour was Meg Bowles. Meg also directed the stories in the show. The rest of the Moth's directorial staff includes Katherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Janess, and Jennifer Hickson. Production support from Emily Couch.

Moth Stories Are True is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Michael Hedges, Ione Camozzi, Dexter Gordon, and Bill Evans. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts.

The Moth Radio Hour is presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.