My Memories of 9/11

As I sat down alone tonight to a very late dinner (my portion of the lovingly-prepared meal was gobbled up by some hungry children without consideration to Mama who ran out of the house in a mad rush for the meeting she almost missed completely), I grabbed the Funnies that were sitting, opened, to read. Apparently, I'm a week late because all of them were about 9/11.

Every Sunday, during the Prayers of the People at church, they announce the names of the people celebrating birthdays or anniversaries the next week. I try very hard to greet everyone I know after church with an upcoming birthday. As I was walking through the foyer, I ran into the husband of a woman whose name had been mentioned.

"Hey, Dick, when is Susan's birthday?" I asked.

"Today," he said, giving me a quick hug.

"Oh, goodness. I want to tell her Happy Birthday. Is she here?"

"No, Patti, since 9/11, Susan stays inside on her birthday and doesn't wish to celebrate it."

I understand the sentiment. All the children born on Pearl Harbor Day must have felt exactly the same for 30 or 40 years after that notorious date. Yet, I wondered if we didn't owe it to all the people who lost their lives that day to live ours to the fullest. Shouldn't we pick ourselves up, wash our faces, put on clean clothes, and be thankful we have a life to live?

As I'm sure each of us did last Sunday, I spent some time remembering where I was when "the event" (notice it's in lower case, not upper case letters - I refuse the dignify the murder of thousands of innocents by capital letters) took place. I was pregnant with Daelyn, my precious baby, and in the hospital. I was eating my breakfast quietly when my doctor, an Army-trained Ob/Gyn, walked into the room.

"Patti, you should have the T.V. on and be watching the news," she told me. "A plane just hit one of the twin towers."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding. How could that happen? Did something happen to the pilot? Wouldn't it have been on autopilot by then? Was it a terrorist attack?" My mind was reeling trying to grasp the concept of the Twin Towers being hit.

"I don't know," she responded. "Turn the T.V. on."

I did and, as she and I watched, the second plane hit the second tower. There was silence in my hospital room for several minutes. Then she quietly said,

"Well, I guess there's your answer."

As horrific as the whole scene on the T.V. was, I couldn't tear myself away. I laid in that hospital bed crying - crying for the victims, crying for their families, crying for the rescue workers, crying for all the people watching, like me, in shock, crying for the lost innocence of my country.

I tried repeatedly to reach my husband, who works at a Nuclear Facility that is always under alert to terrorist attack. I couldn't get through; the phone lines were overwhelmed by all the calls. As the news coverage unfolded, we heard about that other flights that had been taken over by terrorists. There were reports of a plane hitting the Pentagon and lots of other unsubstantiated rumors flying. I was petrified, thinking that SRS had been bombed and that was why I couldn't reach Don.

Suddenly, my phone rang, a sound that really jangled my already-frazzled nerves. I snatched it off the cradle, hoping against hope it was my husband reporting he was fine. Instead, I heard the voice of one of my sisters, Trina.

She was crying, too. All I could mumble was, "Trina!! Trina!!" amidst my tears.

"I'm coming, Hon," she said. "I don't want you to be alone with all this. I'm coming to sit with you."

It wasn't even necessary to explain how alone I felt; she knew. I wanted a hand to hold, someone's shoulder to cry into as I watch the carnage of 9/11. She was coming to be with me.

I've thought so often how much it meant to me that I didn't have to ASK someone to come to the hospital to be with me at such a difficult time. She knew. And she came.

As painful as that day was, and still is, I'm very thankful for my blood sisters and the love we share for each other. No explanation is necessary most of the time with them; they just instinctively understand.

While I'll never forget that day or the horror of watching people flinging themselves from upper story windows rather than burning up, all caught on live television, I'm ever so thankful for the men and women who risked their lives; those on the planes, those helping others out of the burning buildings, and those trying desperately to rescue others. Next year, I'll wash my face, put on clean clothes, and go out . . . but not before I call my sister, Trina.