Reflections on 9/11/2001

2001 was a difficult, traumatic year.  My first husband, Rich, had been diagnosed with congestive heart failure, cardiomyopathy, and Marfan Syndrome in 1987.  He’d been doing well until we relocated from Maryland back to New York.  I noticed his fatigue, increasing pain from a bad ankle, and weakness.  I suspect he had undiagnosed sleep apnea and often would fall asleep within minutes of sitting down to watch television. 

In the spring, he fainted at work and was taken by ambulance to the emergency room at the nearest hospital.  He’d gone into atrial fibrillation.  To bring his heart beat back to a normal rhythm, they gave him a little anesthesia and used the paddles.  He told me later that the anesthesia hadn’t worked well and he felt the electrical shocks each time the paddles were used.  “I never want to go through that again,” he told me.

He was released after a week in the cardiac unit. Rich, the kids and I enjoyed a lovely trip to Fire Island on Easter Sunday. 

Less than a month later, he told me quietly, “It’s happening again.”  He meant the A-fib.  He was scheduled to see an electro-cardiologist the following day.  We called the cardiologist who’d been following him.  The doctor didn’t feel the a-fib was anything to worry about.  He suggested we bring it up with the new electro-cardiologist the following day.  Meanwhile, he advised Rich to take a little more of his digoxin.

Rich was still scared.  I sat watching TV with him but, around midnight, he said I should just go up to bed.  I was battling a nasty sinus infection and he wanted me to get some rest.  Reluctantly, I agreed.

Some time in the night, he died. 

Shock and grief are hard work.  We needed help dealing with it all so I got us involved with bereavement classes.  I joined widownet.org.   It was a struggle to go on but there was no other choice.

I was working as a freelance interpreter for the Deaf and had secured placement with a vocational training school for disabled adults.  There were always Deaf clients there and I had been there a year already.  During my down time, I was allowed to surf the internet and work on creative writing stories.

On the morning of September 11, though, I couldn’t access the internet to check the news.  The teachers all noticed problems with the internet and just assumed a server was down somewhere.  The clients were unaware; they were all working on individual projects.  The Deaf clients were all working independently so I worked on my story a little.  I’d check back to see if I could get the website I used for news.

At about 9, the internet was back.  I checked the news and, to my horror, saw images of a plane crashing into the north tower of the World Trade Center.  At that time, reporters thought it was an accident; that the pilot somehow had gotten confused about where he was going.  But this wasn’t a little plane, it was a 747.  It was a clear, beautiful morning.

And as I watched the live video, I saw a second plane coming close.  I couldn’t believe my eyes as it crashed into the south tower.  This was no accident.  I looked around and saw that the teachers were all aware of what happened.  They were clustered together and I went over to join them.  We knew we were being attacked.  The lead teacher said we weren’t going to inform and alarm the clients.  We would continue to act as if it was a normal day as long as possible.

I grew up developing the skill to hide my feelings.  I felt numb and sick, realizing that the attacks were acts of war.  I didn’t give that away as I continued to interpret and, during down time, check the news.  The Pentagon was attacked.  I heard that a fourth plane seemed to be headed to Washington DC as well, possibly toward the Capitol or White House.

I learned that the lead teacher’s husband was in one of the towers.  Her poise was remarkable.  She was frequently on the phone, trying to get news of her husband, but she was also focused on the task at hand.

When both towers collapsed, I thought: for the first time, I’m glad Rich isn’t here to see this.  But, at the same time, I missed him dreadfully as I wondered what was going to happen next.  A few of the clients were tapped gently on the shoulder and asked to come into the principal’s office.  I knew that it meant they had family members in the towers because they didn’t come back.  Fortunately, the Deaf clients didn’t have any relatives in the centers.

Before I returned from lunch, I found a phone (yes, one of those Ma Bell dial-up things) and called my kids’ schools just to check on them.  I was assured they were all fine and there’d been no announcements.  When I saw the kids later, they told me many classmates were suddenly pulled and didn’t return.

By the time the training day was over, I’d learned the brave passengers of Flight 93 (the fourth plane) had overpowered the hijackers and brought the plane down in an empty field in Pennsylvania.  They were all heroes. I still remember hearing the voice clip of Todd Beamer just before the passengers stormed the hijackers: “Let’s roll.”

When I got home, I could see much more of the devastation from the attacks.  Most horrifying of all was the sound of bodies hitting the ground as trapped, desperate people jumped from the towers to avoid being burned alive.  The hijackers made sure they got on planes that were fully fueled to inflict as much damage as they could.

They did.  Thousands died that day, and the whole country was in shock.  I was numb all over again, as I had been for weeks after Rich’s death.  When I did feel an emotion, it wasn’t fear or despair.  It was anger.  My hope was bolstered by the stories of heroism by the Flight 93 passengers, people in the towers who helped others get out, and most especially by the first responders.  President Bush said: “Make no mistake: The United States will hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts.” 

Never was I prouder to be an American.  We bonded across the country.  We played “Proud To Be An American” by Lee Greenwood.  It took 10 years and wars, but Osama bin Laden (leader of al-Qaeda, responsible for the attacks) was finally located and killed by a squad of specialist soldiers.

I am sad we don’t have that sense of unity anymore.

A lot of informative links about 9/11:

This Day In History

Prager University’s video for those born after 2001

Dan Rather/Elliot Kirschner’s 9/11 21 Years Later

A positive from all of this is from an article in my Nice Newsletter.  Pay It Forward 9/11

 

 

I Don't Cry Anymore

 I haven’t been able to cry in years, and I’m not sure why.

 

When I was growing up, I too had to stuff my feelings and pretend everything was all right even though it wasn’t.  I would lock myself in my room and let the tears flow.  I cried until there was nothing left inside and my eyes burned so badly, I’d close them and go to sleep.  When I began counseling and meetings, I came to accept that it was okay to share what I was feeling and to cry, although there were things, I still kept hidden.  I think it was an issue of trust.  There were things I couldn’t open up about to anyone, and some not even to my journal.

 

The last time I really had “good” cries was after my first husband passed away in 2001.  I would dissolve into tears over the mention of his name, a memory, a familiar smell, the sight of his clothing or a favorite place we liked to visit.  It felt good to get the grief out but I didn’t like the aftermath of crying: red, swollen eyes, stuffy nose, and hitching breaths.  I never liked that part of it.

 

So why did I stop crying?  It’s not that I don’t feel grief or pain.  I have been heartsick over every single story of child abuse, mass shootings, deaths of friends and relatives, and sad scenes in movies but the tears won’t come anymore.  Is it possible I cried them all away?

 

I have no trouble expressing anger.  That’s always been the easiest to release.  I can laugh.  I can feel happy and joyous.  I can feel deeply depressed and incredibly sad.  But I can’t cry.  There are still some feelings I keep hidden but I don’t think that’s why I don’t cry.  Before counseling and meetings, I kept everything hidden and I cried like a baby.

 

All of that is just to say I’m much better expressing myself, standing up for myself, and even toning down the anger.  But I can’t cry.

Unthinkable

"If a person can grow through unspeakable trauma and loss, perhaps a nation may, too.”  This is a quote from Unthinkable by Rep. Jamie Raskin of Maryland.  This is not a book about the former President nor is it about January 6, 2021 and its aftermath as it is about surviving trauma.  I don’t need to touch on either the former guy or the events of January 6^th.   We all know what happened and what is going on.

I’d never heard of Rep. Raskin and the very first time I became aware of who he was, I also learned he had just suffered the devastating loss of his only son on December 31, 2020.  It was an especially shocking loss because young Thomas Bloom Raskin, only 25, had killed himself.  In addition to the enormous shock of losing a child, there’s the inevitable questions:  why?  Why didn’t I see the signs?  Why didn’t I do this or that differently?

No parent ever expects to outlive their child, no matter the age.  I remember the sorrow etched on the faces of my first husband’s grandparents when his mother was killed in a hit-and-run crash.  I remember the same sorrow on my father-in-law’s face the first time I saw him after he learned my husband had passed away in the night.  I grieved for Rep. Raskin and, again, for my in-laws.  I grieved for me, going on after having a piece of my heart amputated.

The work that Rep. Raskin threw himself into in the days, weeks, months and year after the death of his son have helped him cope.  At first, grief is overwhelming.  At any memory or mention of a name, a smell, a familiar sight, the tears overwhelm the body and becomes a quivering mass of pain.  The tasks ahead of Rep. Raskin provided a lifeline to survival.  The issues at hand were within his experience and expertise: the Constitution of the United States.

By the end of the book, a year had passed.  Now he can remember his son without the crushing devastation and tears.  He can remember his son for the compassionate and aware young man he was.

It’s still possible for this country to heal too.  Difficult, but still possible.