story2171.xml

story2171.xml

born-digital

story

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no

2002-09-11

LIFE GOES ON. The river was perfectly still, like glass, early the morning of September 11th. I'd been home for a few days. My mother had begun to lose motor control of her right leg. We feared this meant the lung cancer for which she'd been treated in the spring had metastasized into her brain. Our day was already full. Despite her leg, Mom was hosting a luncheon for friends at noon. Afterwards other friends would join us for a presentation about one of Mom's many craft passions, scrapbooking. We'd already had our first cup of tea when Dad turned on CNN to hear the morning news. The first plane -- a small plane, they said at first -- had just hit the North Tower. We sat down to learn more. In horror we watched the second plane hit the South Tower, understanding, instantly, that these strikes were no accident. We sat, mesmerized, horrified, in tears. At 10, the first call came. "Is lunch still on?" I looked at my Mom. Without question, she answered, "Life goes on." Still in pajamas at 11, I spoke with Mom's doctor to schedule a brain MRI for that afternoon. "Already," I thought, "life goes on." Outside, the river remained smooth, a peaceful reflection of the early-autumn sky, as far as imaginable from the destruction we watched in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania.

My Mom died of metastasized lung cancer on May 1. Some mornings, the river is like glass, just as it was on September 11th. Life goes on.