On September 11, 2001, I had a cardiologist appointment midday as they thought I might have a blood clot. Whatever it was, it was painful. That morning, I slept in until my friend drove me to the doctor to have an ultrasound performed, and in case I had to have something else done too.
I awoke to my friend yelling at me to get up, as they had turned on the TV to see smoke billowing out of the first tower. They were upset as they thought we were being bombed. I was bleary eyed and doubtful of the assessment, so I asked questions as we went to where the TV was on.
As I stood there looking at the tower, I very clinically said it looked more like something had crashed into it, that a bomb would have had a different effect. The unemotional words were just coming off of my lips when, live, on the TV, I watched the second plane hit the other tower.
I remember the feeling quite clearly. My stomach dropped and I didn't move. Instantly, immediately, my brain registered what had happened and I stood there knowing we were being attacked. The tears flowed quietly out of my eyes. I had to remember to breathe because, just like when I experience physical pain, this event caused me to literally hold my breath.
We stood there watching. Just watching. Everyone on tv was so confused. None of the reporters knew what to say. I have never seen so many stunned faces.
As the helicopters were circling the towers I could see the first of many small things falling from the floors above and below the wreckage. Somewhere in my head it registered that those small things were people jumping and falling from the buildings, as that was their only option to avoid the flames. The grief I felt for those people was overwhelming.
I don't know how long I stood there. I don't remember how long until the third plane crashed. By that point, all concept of time had left me. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. I wanted to vomit.
At some point, they drove me to the doctor. I don't remember discussion of keeping the appointment. I don't remember speaking at all. I remember walking into the huge waiting room with twenty or so patients and their family members sitting there. I remember that there was absolutely no sound whatsoever. It struck me that it wasn't that I was blocking out sound, it was that no one was speaking. It was so quiet that it felt like everyone else was holding their breath too. Even when the receptionist called me back, she was whispering.
I remember being numb and numb and numb and stunned. And it didn't go away. I went back to work and I went through the motions and I tried to make my work matter. And it just didn't. It never would again.
Every year I honor that day for so many reasons. I remember the people and I remember the aftermath. I remember who I was before and who I became afterwards.
The tears flow more steadily and more heavily than they did on that day to the point where I am exhausted. The tears flow to honor those that we lost, yes, but also for the ordinary extraordinary heroes who ran to help without a second thought. The tears flow because of a moment in time when courage and compassion outweighed everything else that tends to fill our daily lives.
They use to flow from gratitude for what we had learned as a nation, and as a world, and seemed to live up to for a brief moment. We proved we can do so, if we so choose. But now, more than anything, the tears flow from the knowledge that, although this event brought out the best in so many, it failed to bring a much needed long-term change to our society. All of that loss and all of the brave sacrifices seems to have been for nothing. Our war now is not an invasion from the outside, it is a war caused by failure to hold ourselves and our leaders to the highest ethical, moral, and legal standards. We all have become the enemy.
I will never, ever forget that day.
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