I
The girl who had been shot was laughing.
That’s what Kharissa Maehren remembers.
While the other victims arrived at Children’s Minnesota by ambulance, the 9-year-old walked into the emergency room on her own, bleeding from her arm where a bullet grazed her.
The laceration from the AR-15 rifle was so large and complex it took an hour to stitch. During the procedure, Maehren sat with the girl watching Bluey. It lasted 10 episodes.
Ten times Maehren and the girl sang the theme song together, and again and again they laughed.
“It's the little things we do here that mean so much to the kids and their family,” said Maehren, a child life specialist. “On that unthinkable day, it was more important than ever.”
That morning, Maehren was getting ready at home for another day on the surgical floor. It was her day to come in late. When she saw an alert on her phone about a gunshot victim, she thought little of it at first.
Then another alert came through. And another. Moments later, her colleague texted her to come straight to the ER.
There had been a mass shooting at the Annunciation Church and School.
“I remember calling my mom and crying,” Maehren said. “I told her I was going into a really hard day at work. I’ll never forget that feeling.”
When she arrived at Children’s Minnesota, the scene was unrecognizable. “It was a madhouse,” she said. “Police, FBI, spiritual care, public relations, social work — everyone was there. But it was organized, and everyone was doing what they needed to do.”
As a child life specialist, what Maehren needed to do looked different from everyone else.
Depending on the child, she may transform into any number of roles — teacher, friend, confidant, guide — to calm their fears and anxieties. She might have the child play with medical equipment to make a procedure less scary or play a game meant to promote expression or help with coping. She may facilitate writing, art, or relaxation strategies. She may offer a stuffed animal or simply be a comfort with her presence.
“My goal is to meet patients where they’re at and do whatever it takes to make their experience easier and more comfortable,” Maehren said.
By the time she arrived in the emergency room, there was one child from the mass shooting who didn’t have a child life specialist.
“Gunshot wound, grazed by bullet,” her chart said.
“It was the most complex laceration I’ve ever seen,” Maehren said.
Maehren immediately focused on grounding the girl and her mom amid all the bustling in the ER, amid the IV pokes, blood draws, chart updates, and ominous medical terms. She made sure they understood what was happening and that there were no surprises.
“This patient had been through something awful and traumatic, and now she was in a place that's unfamiliar and scary to children,” Maehren said. “That’s why any time I meet a child, I introduce myself as kind of like a teacher. Instead of teaching about reading and math, I get to teach about being in the hospital.”
She brought the girl Play-Doh, a Squishmallow, and coloring materials — familiar things to make the room feel safer and more comfortable.
The girl did not want to see the wound, so Maehren constructed a “towel fort” to block her view while it was being prepped for sutures. Before the procedure, Maehren talked her through every step — how the numbing injection would feel, how the sutures would work, what recovery would look like.
“I always explain what’s going to happen in words a child understands,” she said. “We even call stiches string Band-Aids.”
Not long after, Maehren got her fresh clothes to wear home, since hers had been taken into evidence.
“They had been wearing uniforms, and I remember seeing all the evidence bags of all their clothes that they had to take off — their shirts, their pants, their shoes,” Maehren recalled.
Over the next couple days Maehren helped more victims and their families. One anxious sibling that Maehren got to know found comfort in a worry stone Maehren gave her that read “one day at a time.” And when she told Maehren she felt helpless as her brother and friends suffered, Maehren helped her craft cards and color pictures for them all.
One mother, sobbing, asked Maehren, “How do I tell my kids their friends have died?”
“No one should have to know how to do that,” Maehren said. “We gave her language to use, and we listened. That’s part of the care, too.”
Looking back on the day months later, Maehren still can’t comprehend it.
“You see these things on the news, but you never think it will happen in your city, in your hospital,” she said. “But I’m proud of how our team came together — how we took care of those kids, and of each other.”
II
Melissa Buckentine had planned for a joyful day.
She and her child life colleagues were preparing for Children’s Minnesota’s state fair event — a day of music, games, and celebration that patients look forward to every year.
“It was supposed to be an exciting day for Children’s,” said Buckentine, a child life specialist.
When the news came, everything changed. While her manager coordinated family reunifications, Buckentine quickly worked to make a log sheet so specialists who showed up to the ER knew which patients still needed to be seen.
“It’s not typical that we have six of us down there. We’re really grateful because it was important that everyone had a specialist that day,” she said.
Her primary patient was a boy with multiple bullet wounds. When he asked for his favorite stuffed animal, Buckentine found him several from their child life closet.
“It wasn’t Curious George from home, but it was something, a small comfort,” she said.
That was the only thing he asked for, but Buckentine knew it wasn’t the only thing he needed. Part of the job, and a special quality of child life specialists, is deciphering each patient at each moment. What are they feeling? What do they fear? What do they need?
“The 14-year-old down the hall might need more than the 5-year-old down the hall, and what they need will be totally different,” Buckentine said. “It’s my job to figure it out.”
This boy was a puzzle. He held his words as tightly as his stuffed animals.
His sister was no easier. She came into the room in a fit of anger, pushing her mom and talking to no one. Buckentine got her some fidget toys and coloring pages but was otherwise at a loss.
She asked all the right questions in all the right ways. But she wasn’t ready to talk. After 14 years working in the ER, Buckentine knew trauma had a way of silencing its victims.
So she just stayed with the family. For hours she stayed with them. She was there when they learned of the boy’s second bullet wound. She was there through the flurry of doctors, nurses, surgeons, and specialists, translating the swirl of medical activity into something the family could understand. “There were so many people coming in and out,” she said. “It’s a lot for a family to take in when they’re in shock.”
After spending all morning with the family, the sister finally let her in.
She told Buckentine what activities she enjoyed and what sports she played. She talked about her brother, what he liked and what might make him feel more at home. She even told some jokes.
“Just being there with them made all the difference,” Buckentine said.
When the police came to interview the parents, she stayed with the siblings so they wouldn’t be alone.
“At that point, you’re a safe person for them,” she said. “You’ve gotten to know them, so they’re not scared to be away from mom and dad.”
When the boy was moved to an inpatient room, Buckentine handed the family off to the child life specialist on that unit, making sure she knew the boy loved trucks and video games and giving her tips for getting through the sister’s bristly exterior.
Buckentine also attended to a mother whose child was critically injured, and who was deeply concerned about the other children from the small, tight-knit school. Buckentine was able to listen and reassure her — a small connection that made an immeasurable difference.
Around the same time, Buckentine consoled a sibling crying in the hallway outside her sister’s room. “Just seeing the emotions of the family members was a lot,” Buckentine said. “I remember that sister’s look of fear. Connecting her with someone who could be with her to listen, talk to, or just be with was impactful.”
Later that afternoon, Buckentine had to shift to a “normal” workday on her unit in the sedation department, struggling to keep out the news and the images and the despair. But she didn’t falter in her care for the other patients who also needed her guidance, her companionship, her presence.
As difficult as the event is to reflect on, Buckentine is proud of what her team did that day.
“It was really hard, but it went as well as it possibly could have,” she said. “Everyone worked together — social work, chaplaincy, the nurses, everyone. I’m proud that we were able to be there for those families.”
III
Months later, Kayla Shafer still hears the woman’s frantic voice.
Have the parents found their child? Are the siblings with them? Are they okay?
Shafer was the hospital’s point of contact with the school’s reunification center, confirming which children still needed their families, and which were still alone.
“That still replays for me, how terrified she was,” Shafer said.
As manager of Child Life and Music Therapy, Shafer never thought she’d be coordinating the reunification of families or boarding up windows so siblings could play free from news coverage while waiting to hear if their brother or sister was going to live.
They plan for days like this, they practice these moments, but it is not something the mind truly comprehends.
“You can’t make sense of it,” Shafer said. “It’s hard to ever see children here because of what adults do, but this is an entirely different level. And to just know throughout the day that everyone here and everyone at that school and everyone in our community is going through something horrible, and we’ll never be able to go back to it not having happened. Every day now is different because of it.”
For 10 years Shafer’s been helping children feel comfortable and safe during hospital stays. A couple years ago, Shafer worked at the bedside strumming her guitar and singing melodies with patients to help them cope and make them smile. Music therapy is of the same cloth as child life services, and when she became a manager she fell in love with the special profession that puts children first and attends to their unique needs.
“Kids aren’t just little adults, and child life specialists are so skilled at helping reduce trauma for kids in ways that are meaningful to them,” she said. “We take their development into consideration with every intervention we provide.”
Shafer oversees 65 staff members across child life, music therapy, and facility dogs. That day, 20 child life specialists were at the hospital. Six were paired with victims, and the rest staffed the sibling play area and other hospital units.
For most of the day, Shafer served as the communication link between the hospital’s command center and her child life team. Because specialists were with each of the victims in the ER, she was able to give leadership real-time confirmation when patients and siblings were reunited with their caregivers.
Shafer could focus her efforts on reunification because she didn’t have to worry what her specialists were doing. She knew they would do their jobs while she did hers.
“It’s their standard work to respond to traumas,” she said. “On a regular day, they might respond to a trauma in the morning and then they might put on a party in the afternoon. It’s a lot to expect of them every day, and they do it.”
That day, as on every day, her team embodied what Children’s Minnesota stands for.
“They put kids first,” Shafer said. “That’s why we’re all here. They worked together, they supported families, and they did their work quietly and expertly, even in the most traumatic situation.”
