A Decade of Remembrance

Every night for the last few days I've dreamt of terrorist attacks--planes crashing, entire cities falling, people dying, not being able to find Adam. But what's been weird is that they haven't been nightmares...just dreams, slow and documentary-style, of a world in chaos. They've been almost matter-of-fact, a reality my dream self has come to accept.

I didn't know how I'd feel when this tenth anniversary arrived. I haven't lived in New York in nine years, and my life in Michigan has been such that my city days sometimes feel far behind me. But you never forget your first love, and New York has always been the place I wanted to be even since I was a little girl in suburban Ohio dreaming big dreams. I'll never truly leave my love behind.

This weekend, the internal DVD I keep stashed in the recesses of my brain came out, and I allowed it to be played over and over again. There are the images we've all become familiar with over the years--the fire fighters panning their documentary camera up to just catch the first plane crashing into the North Tower, with crowds soon gathering; the second plane flying into the South Tower, the crowds screaming below; people in the towers jumping to their deaths with the heat of the raging blaze behind them; the South Tower, and then the North Tower falling; images of the crash into the Pentagon, and then the devastation in Pennsylvania. But I also carry my own images around, ones that impart guilt, disappointment, and fear.

I asked for something to happen that day. Sitting behind my desk at the aviation college across from LaGuardia Airport, I didn't feel like being at work. I wanted something to happen so that I could go home early. An electrical outage, a major pipe rupture, something that would justify me going home to spend the day with Adam. But in the absence of such luck, I turned my radio on to the local NPR station and booted up my desktop computer, in preparation for the day ahead. Roughly forty-five minutes into my workday, the NPR broadcast stopped short and settled into static. Adjusting my antenna, I realized the station was experiencing difficulties, so I reluctantly turned the dial to a morning radio program on another station. Roughly ten minutes later, the morning shock jock laughed at incoming report that a plane had struck one of the towers of the World Trade Center; early news was reporting that it had been a radio-controlled plane. Minutes later, an update noted it had actually been a small engine aircraft, and the tower was ablaze. I refreshed the CNN homepage on my computer to find a red screen emblazoned with the headline "Breaking News" and a large photo of the WTC on fire. Shocked, I knocked on the office door my coworker, Frank, to tell him the news. His usually stern and patriarchal face slipped into one of concern as he told me to follow him to the school's observation tower. We climbed the stairs to the tower to find several colleagues already there, shocked and agitated as they announced that a second plane had just flown into the other tower. We all looked toward the Manhattan skyline, and as people commented on the blaze and the absurdity of it all, I could only think of the hundreds or thousands of people inside the burning buildings. Quietly, I said, "We're looking at people die right now." Even from a distance of thirteen miles, it was the worst scene I had ever witnessed.

Back at my desk, I could hardly sit still. I just wanted to get in touch with Adam, but all phone lines were jammed. I switched over to e-mail to find a string of messages from family and friends inquiring about my location and safety. One friend noted that the country appeared to be under attack, but I scoffed at what I thought was his overreaction. Only minutes later reports of the Pentagon being attacked surfaced, and then I realized he had been right. My childhood nightmares of faceless terrorists in the night seemed to be coming true. I ran outside of my building as I heard people screaming. Reaching them, I followed their gaze to the Manhattan skyline in the distance to see that only one tower remained standing. At that point, word made it through the school that all students, faculty and staff were to leave the premises. I tried once more to call Adam, without success, then ran to my car. I drove the normally seven-minute trip at 80 mph, hearing sirens blaring as paramedics and fire trucks from Queens raced toward the 59th Street Bridge to Manhattan. It was absolutely surreal.

I got home to find Adam on the couch watching coverage of the attacks on tv. I fell into his arms just in time for him to tell me that the second tower had fallen. I dissolved into tears as we held each other, watching footage of the thick plume of smoke and debris funnel through the city, thousands of people evacuate Manhattan on foot, eventually WTC Building Seven collapse that evening. Two of Adam's closest friends worked in mid-town Manhattan, and so we worried for their well-being. With no cell phone service, we had to just sit and wait. In the early evening hours, there was a knock on our door, and his friend Tom, weary and forlorn, stumbled over our threshold. Normally sarcastic and quick with a wisecrack, that day he simply engulfed us in hugs. On some personal level, I finally felt the enormity of the situation if a guy like Tom could be so effected. He told us he had walked the thirteen miles from Manhattan to eastern Queens along with thousands of other New Yorkers. Bridges and tunnels had been closed to traffic and all public transportation had been halted. It had taken him all day to walk the distance and his fatigue apparent. For him, and us, it was a day of all days.

For Adam and me, however, the attacks of September 11th didn't end on that day, or even once the smoke had cleared and the wreckage hauled away. In fact, 9/11 was just the beginning. Just minutes after I arrived home to find both buildings had fallen, Adam announced he had to call his contact at the New York State Naval Militia, an all-volunteer service organization to which he belonged, due to his service in the US Navy. My heart sank into my stomach as I realized that with our country at war, my Adam would be at war, too. He eventually spent the next two weeks of his life at Ground Zero, conducting crowd control and assisting where he could with recovery and relief. It was a haunting, lonely and fearful time as I contemplated what the future had in store for us. Ten years and three deployments later, I feel grateful to have my husband safe and alive, and yet still so pointedly changed by they way 9/11 impacted our lives.

Guilt. I feel guilt for wishing something would happen that day so I could get out of work. Of course, I didn't wish for 9/11, but I carry feelings of shame that the very day such murder and carnage occurred, I was hoping for an event that would send me home. Unfortunately, I got my wish. I also feel guilt for racing home so quickly when we were told we could leave. It was only days later, when I returned to work, that the administration praised many faculty and staff members who used their personal vehicles to shepard students (all commuter students unable to use public transportation that day) to their homes. I had been so scared that I didn't stop to think about anyone I might be able to help. We all wonder how we'll act in the face of disaster, and I am ashamed by how I ran, and didn't look back.

Fear. I used to carry my fear around all the time. In the days and weeks immediately following the attacks, most New Yorkers were afraid to trust anyone or go anywhere. In the years after, that fear subsided, but was replaced by a new fear of Adam's well-being in the face of war. Even now, I end every Skype session with him with a reminder of how much he is loved, and a command to stay safe. Despite his insistence that he is in the safest possible situation, I know full well that you can't be absolutely certain that something won't happen. I know that life can change--or end--in the blink of an eye.

Today was a day of reflection and heartache, for me and for America. I so deeply wanted Adam here with me; it seemed wrong not to have him beside me on the anniversary of the events that so drastically changed the course of our lives. But, I reminded myself that he is away, but still alive; not every person touched by 9/11 is that fortunate.

And so I wait, and reflect...with gratitude.