story9501.xml

story9501.xml

born-digital

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2003-09-08

My 9/11 experience is not just about watching the televised events of the day, the week, the month, or the year that followed the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. As I look back over the two years since 9/11, I see how I am maturing as an American and as a firefighter?s wife. I?ve tried many times to write what happened to me that day and after with months between re-visiting the attempt to finish. My story is not gory, nor first-hand at Ground Zero. Rather, as I suppose, it is much like many others who watched in overwhelming helplessness through the television. And, it was a slap to the face as a young firefighter?s wife, just before our first wedding anniversary, to realize the real danger my husband could face.

September 11, 2001, was an ordinary Tuesday morning with the same routine of getting to work. The only significant thing about the day ahead was the anticipation of an out-of-town customer visiting the Long Island manufacturing site where I worked. As I scurried to get last-minute photocopies made, a coworker stopped me in the cube aisle asking if I had heard about an airplane hitting the World Trade Center. I first envisioned a little passenger plane that probably clipped its wing while filming a Hollywood action flick or skyscraper documentary. Why else would a plane be that close to the buildings? But the disheartened look in her eyes said it must be more than that. I finished the photocopying and swung by the cafeteria, where CNN is always on the televisions.

Over the heads of a few dozen people in front of the tube, I briefly caught a glimpse of a Twin Tower spewing smoke from a huge hole in the side. I went back to my desk to call my husband at his work and left a voicemail for him. I mentioned it to another coworker and he replied that a second airplane just hit. Now, fifty people were congregating around two of the cafeteria televisions with images of both towers billowing with smoke and news reporters frantically trying to find new words to describe the raveling of the horrific events. The first mention of terrorism from the newscaster sent some in our crowd saying ?I knew it was terrorists? and the rest of us into utter shock.

?Chicago is next,? I immediately thought as I envisioned the Sears Tower with same horrible fate as the Twin Towers. (I am originally from Chicago, where most of my family resides.) I first thought of my sister who works in The Loop, even though I wasn?t too sure of her proximity to the Sears Tower. I dashed to the phone and caught her just as she was leaving. She said that there was an announcement a moment ago to evacuate the building, so she was just about to leave. I said, ?Good. Go. I?ll talk to you later.? and hung up. No need to prolong talk when seconds prove to be crucial. I called my aunt who works for the government and I thought also works in The Loop. I got her voicemail and prayed it was because she was already instructed to leave. I also checked my phone list and ensured there were no 212 (Manhattan) area code work phone numbers belonging to my husband?s family.

I then checked my voicemail messages and returned a phone call to my husband. Chris had overslept that day and was awoken by his mother calling from Queens to tell him the first plane had hit. He had called me to relay the news and to let me know he?ll be at the firehouse, where he has been a volunteer firefighter for five years prior. (Most of Long Island fire and rescue services are fully staffed by volunteers.) After some phone-tag, he reported to me he was slated to go on the first truck dispatched if and when FDNY calls for back-up. This was my first slap in the face. I?ve been with him through five years of firefighting, but this was something completely different. This was a new enemy.

I walked back into the cafeteria to hear the latest news update and then quickly returned to my desk. Now, I don?t recall the exact moments I learned of the overcome airplanes in Washington and Pennsylvania -- the sequence of events is all a blur. I called the Chicago hospital where my mother is a surgical nurse, often times removed from the outside world for hours at times. She did hear of the attacks, but knew no details. I updated her as much as I knew from the CNN updates and our family status, namely my sister?s evacuation. I also told her of my husband?s seat on the truck with as much confidence and pride as I could muster, trying to ease both our fears. My father had been asleep after a long night at work, but I called to update him, too.

All airline flights were grounded by this time, and the thought of spending the preplanned day with the visiting customer seemed as insignificant as what I had for breakfast that morning. I swung by the cafeteria televisions as often as I could while trying to be near my cube phone (my link to family and friends) as much as possible. The first tower had just collapsed, and the news coverage showed live scenes of indistinguishable locations obstructed by smoke which were interrupted by instant re-plays of the tower falling. I could not comprehend the damage much less the loss of life at this point. It was all so overwhelming. While on the phone with my sister-in-law in Chicago, the second tower leaned and teetered until it too collapsed like its brother. The rest of the day was spent on the phone with family and near the television in amongst trying to look somewhat busy with work-related tasks (though work was definitely not at all productive that day).

Contact with my husband was frequent but brief as he told me over the course of several calls his status: he?s going to The Pile, he?s not going, he?s going, he?s not going, the truck is going (but he?s been replaced), he?s going on a second truck, the second truck isn?t going, the second truck is going, he?s back on the first truck, etc. Meanwhile, my heart?s stopping, it?s pounding, it?s stopping, it?s pounding, it?s stopping, etc. But, like all other times with his many fire and rescue calls, I am strong for him and let him simply know how much I love him and how proud I am of him. (No need to add my worries to his thoughts at a time like this.) The last phone call was sometime in the afternoon. I was last left with knowledge that he was leaving on a truck bound for downtown Manhattan to work on The Pile.

At lunch, my coworker Mike and I decided to head out of the office to clear our minds. We went to the nearby Wendy?s as we often did, but it was so eerie to see how empty it was compared to its usual lunchtime crowd. We nibbled on our lunch as I explained my husband?s whereabouts (and not even sure myself of what I was telling him) and as we tried to make sense of the attacks. I needed some more time to collect my thoughts before returning to work, so we resorted to a local craft store where I often go to escape. It didn?t work: the store was just as eerily empty as Wendy?s, and the radio newscast of the attack blared over the store?s PA system. One of the storekeepers commented how depressing the continual news was, and I mentioned the irony of how I came here to get away from it!

The next few hours are so vague to recollect now, almost two years later. I remember our company offering everybody the chance to go home early if they needed to, but most people stayed (not surprising knowing how work-driven the company is). I chose to stay, and I even stayed later than my usual 5:30. I didn?t want to return to an empty house and be alone as I waited for my husband?s return.

I actually tackled some work assignments, trying to escape the media hysteria. At 6:30, I left work for the 30 minute drive home. All twelve pre-programmed radio stations in my car didn?t play a note of music or a commercial advertisement. Instead, all the stations had continuing news coverage: a recap of events, estimated death tolls, speculation, history of suspected terrorist groups, etc. Among the information flying around the airwaves was the report of the collapsed Marriott Hotel next to the towers? location. At that time, reporters could not confirm nor deny if there were any trapped victims or rescue personnel, but there was strong speculation of certain deaths there. With my knowledge that Chris was in Manhattan, I tried to suppress any thought on the possibility that he could have been in the collapse. But, my mind raced and figured the timing of his arrival into Manhattan could have very well placed him in the wrong place at the wrong time. At that moment, I faced the very slim but real possibility that he could be dead. No body knew anything for sure the whole day, and nothing except seeing him with my own eyes would ease that fear. I drove to our apartment, heart-wrenched but not surprised to see his car missing from the driveway. I turned on the television, changed clothes, and decided to write a note to leave inside my husband?s car for his return -- wishful thinking.

When I arrived at the firehouse to leave the note in the car, the firehouse all of a sudden became a very intimidating place to me. For five years, I strolled in and out of that building as if it were an old friend?s house. But now, it was as if it was cursed. I felt so insignificant -- I didn?t want to bother anybody who may be inside. I debated whether I should go in and ask the dispatcher my husband?s whereabouts. I didn?t want to distract the dispatcher, but my worrying got the best of me and I marched in, still with the assumption that my husband was in Manhattan. A passing firefighter informed me that an ambulance crew was in Manhattan but Chris was in the chief?s office, instead. A great sigh of relief came over me.

Seven or so firefighters along with Chris had their eyes glued to the television screen in the office. (Another few dozen were milling around the station.) I silently stood in the doorway as my husband walked toward me. I took his hand and lead him to the next room for some semi-privacy. I hugged him very hard, and I couldn?t let go. But, I didn?t shed a tear.

I was so pissed at him, really. Last I heard many hours ago, he was being sent into Manhattan on a death mission for all I knew. That entire time, it took every ounce of my energy to be strong for him, not worry (even though I did), and keep myself composed. All for nothing. He had been at the firehouse the entire time getting the ambulance and trucks ready and waiting to be assigned to a crew. However, knowing that it was all for nothing was a relief. There he was, right in front of me, safe and sound?well, safe anyway.

Of course, he was not sound. He was ?in the zone? -- very focused, as he is with all fire and rescue calls. His concentration got the best of him while preparing the trucks, so he was unable to call me. Watching that moment of television when I walked in was the first chance he had all day to stop and sit. (I made it quite clear that, from then on, he does not ?stop? or ?sit? until he calls me to let me knows he?s alive.) God, I was angry, but I was more thankful to God for his safety at the same time.

I stopped to gas up the car on the way home. Rumors flew that gas prices would sky rocket with the obvious turmoil we would now face with the Middle East, so I took advantage of the untouched price of $1.49 a gallon (which, by the way, remained $1.49 for months).

Chris soon joined me at home. I called my parents in Chicago again and spent some more time on the phone. It broke my heart to hear how Elizabeth, my high school friend in Chicago, feared returning to work as a United Airlines flight attendant, especially when she told me that she had worked that tragic flight route a few times in the past. Mary, my college friend, called to make sure we were alright and to let me know her father who works in the Pentagon got out of there with no harm; luckily, his office had just been moved from the hit section because of construction. This was all becoming way too personal, too connected, too small of a world.

I think we had dinner?probably nibbled on a frozen pizza. The television replayed the film footage all evening long: the second plane hitting, the towers falling, the Pentagon burning, the flight paths of the four ill-fated flights, the ever-revising estimated death toll, Mayor Giuliani?s brush with death, eye-witness stories, emerging details, and continuous speculation. Chris and I talked about the day, the events, the news reports, the attack, the terrorist bastards, what it will be like if Chris goes with a rescue crew into Manhattan. And, in our own way, we prayed that God look over the crew from our firehouse, all emergency rescue crews, volunteers, survivors, and victims. We clung to the hope that victims would be found in air pockets of the fallen building rubble, that this would be the end of the attacks, and that justice will somehow be found. We knew we were now at war.

It was a restless night. The fire department pager on our nightstand woke us at 6:00 the next morning with a message calling for a new crew for FDNY mutual aid. Chris jumped into his laid out clothes, grabbed his packed duffle bag, and kissed me goodbye. I got to work early, and we continued our phone tag game: he?s going to Ground Zero, he?s not going, he?s going, etc. One more phone call to the dispatcher confirmed he was on his way into Manhattan. My heart stopped.

The day at work was such a blur. The customers (who were supposed to be here the day before) were at the office, and I tried very hard to put on my professional front for them. I occasionally snuck to my phone to get an update from the dispatcher and to catch a CNN update in the cafeteria. I could not let myself worry, but I was definitely on edge.

After work, I went to the firehouse. Some of those from the rig decided to go out for dinner. So there I was, in a practically empty restaurant, surrounded by mentally battered heroes fresh from the scene. Their faces were long, all of them talking, nobody really listening?just talking to try to find words to make sense of it all. Our waiter looked a bit confused at their demeanors, so I explained the situation on the sly. His eyes bugged out of his head with a look of disbelief. He soon returned with our drinks and announced they were on the house as a thank you. However, my dining companions were all talking so much they didn?t even hear his kind gesture.

Our friend Laura made a notable observation during dinner: that what is happening will forever belittle anything that has ever happened on any call. She referred to a rescue call a week before when a man had accidentally fallen into the collapsed septic tank in his back yard. Our fire department was on the scene leading the grim rescue efforts. (Chris was manning the hazardous materials station, ensuring all personnel were properly cleaned after leaving the rescue scene.) After many hours of tactical rescue efforts exhausted, the body of the man was finally recovered. It was horrific news that swept through Long Island, and even my college friend in Seattle, Washington, had heard on the news. This was a big deal in the firehouse: the time, the talent, the ill-fate. To Laura?s point, what was such a big buzz was going to be so distant so quickly. Indeed even a year later, I hadn?t heard anyone speak of it since Laura at that dinner.

Finally back home for the night, I thought Chris would be bursting at the seams to tell me every little detail of what happened that day -- just like he does with every other call, often times talking into the wee hours of the night. This was indeed different, another slap in the face. It took more than nine months for him to tell me what he saw that day while he was assigned to Ground Zero. It wasn?t anything gory, but it definitely was a life-altering experience. That is his story to tell.

One aspect he did tell me that night has left the biggest pit in my stomach. It wasn?t so much what he told me, rather what he reminded me of. Between his work and firehouse activities, I often lose track of the details of his busy schedule. I vaguely remembered him telling me a week prior about an engineering seminar in the city for his job. But, with all the recent events flashing by, I had completely forgotten about it. Just keeping track of his whereabouts at the time was enough, much less what he was supposed to be doing instead. The awful reminder was that the seminar he should?ve attended that day (September 12) was to be held in one of the Twin Towers. It makes me nauseous even to think about it now, almost two years later, how our lives would forever be affected had the attacks been a mere 24 hours later. By chance and the grace of God, we will never know. Instead, I focus on the irony: my husband was supposed to be at the WTC on September 12 wearing his suit and tie, but instead he wore his firefighter turnout gear there.

For me, September 11 poured into September 12 as one big, long day of devastation, horror, and hope. The next few days were also surreal. By Thursday, I had been so overwhelmed with phone calls and emails that I sent everyone in my email address book a mass email explaining everything, or at least what I knew at that point. The all-time worst email reply in my life was from Tom, a very close friend of my husband and groomsman in our wedding, whose uncle Herman Broghammer worked on the 78th floor of Tower Two was lost. Tom spent the following days with his cousins posting fliers all around Manhattan with his uncle?s picture and information desperate for a lead to his safe finding. Unfortunately, his uncle is still among the missing. And, other reports confirmed missing FDNY firefighters Chris knew -- Raymond Meissenheimer and Kevin Smith -- two men who also had volunteered in our fire department.

However, many missed-it-by-this-much stories provided some relief, some blessings. My husband?s two uncles work within a mile of WTC. Uncle John witnessed the first plane crash and everything to follow from his office window looking directly at the Towers; he works for ComEd, and so he was required to stay at work throughout the nights and the following days to handle the electricity shortage emergencies in the vicinity. And, Uncle Pete stepped out from his building to witness the reality after the first plane hit; he works for the IT department at Time (magazine), and so he was required to stay at work to support the history-in-the-making journalism efforts. (I have since updated my phone list to include their new work numbers!) My coworker?s mother, who worked on the 50th floor, was lucky enough to be late to work that day when her WTC-bound subway train was halted just a few stops short from her destination and ordered to evacuate.

My classmates and I dreaded attending class Thursday evening and were quite surprised at how our professor seemed oblivious to our lack of enthusiasm or participation. But during the class break, he explained to us that he was at a seminar on Monday (September 10) in one of the Towers and didn?t care for the guest speaker enough to go for the second day of the seminar?s morning segment. He was purposely late so that he could just attend the closing luncheon, but his WTC-bound subway train was also halted early and ordered to evacuate.

I think it was Friday on my drive home when a radio disc jockey duo shed some light for me. All the radio stations for the following days played very little (if any) music. Instead, caller after caller shared stories, prayer requests, and messages of hope. However on one station, Opie and Anthony, two otherwise clowns that dominated the airwaves for the long drive home every night for the past year, seemed to have a fire lit under their asses. They were completely wound up in disgust. They tried to reach out to the audience to point out just how serious this is. One DJ?s point: what the terrorists did by hijacking the planes to kill innocent people is no different than them driving military tanks down Broadway in broad daylight and shooting at thousands of innocent people; but what makes it worse is that they had the audacity to use OUR airplanes instead of their own tanks. His passionately aggravated voice was screaming out to his listeners. Good point.

Friday night, I had a tough mission. Quite a few of the firefighters were at the local watering hole, which is nothing different. But this weekend, it was a new release needed by them. You could just feel it in the air: greetings were a little friendlier and a lot more sincere; no catty chatter; a lot of generous rounds flowed. Chris and an assistant chief struck a conversation, and I felt the need to remove myself to let them liberally converse. So, I walked over to a friend of my husband who I never really ever talked much to before and thought to strike up a casual conversation. Jim is always a jovial character, and tonight seemed to bring out the best of him. After a few minutes of chatter, I innocently asked what he did for a living. Jim replied that he?s a steel worker and continued to explain how he has spent countless hours the past few days operating cranes at Ground Zero for the recovery efforts. My jaw dropped. But, I encouraged him to tell me more. He told me about the site, the feelings, the horror, the hope. Who knew such an innocent question about what he did for a living would lead to this discussion?

By the end of our chat, the jukebox was almost done with its round of music selections. Jim handed me five dollars and said, ?Go pick something good.? What? OK, easy thing to do, right? I turned the lists of song choices, and everything seemed so inappropriate with some deranged connection to 9/11: ?(Going Down in a) Blaze of Glory? by Bon Jovi, ?Leaving on a Jet Plane? by John Denver, ?Free Falling? by Tom Petty, you name it! As I perused the list, I realized what an impossible mission this was: find songs that had nothing to do with anything that might trigger some connection to the week?s events. I picked some classics as best as I could and resumed conversing. Everybody had a story to tell. Again, everybody was talking and nobody was really listening. I tried to listen, tried to observe this human nature of reacting to the horror. But these weren?t just humans -- these were firefighters who were hurting.

That weekend, as yet another personal epiphany of how close to home this all was, FDNY Chief Peter Ganci?s funeral was held at the church were Chris and I were married just ten months prior. Ganci lived in the next town over and was a parishioner at that church, too. Standing among hundreds of neighbors, I witnessed my husband saluting proudly with our fire department as the funeral procession for Ganci passed under the huge American flag ceremonially held up by our fire truck ladder. His casket rode on our department?s antique pump truck, the same truck Chris rode to the same church for our wedding.

Early Monday morning, just shy of a week after 9/11, my emotions finally caught up to me. Moments before the alarm clock was to go off, Chris jolted awake gasping for air. I instantly awoke next to him. He had a horribly vivid dream of a building crashing down on him. I cannot even find words to describe how petrified I felt that morning. When I read the CNN.com reports at my desk at work that morning, I finally broke down into tears for the first time. I called my sister in Chicago for comfort, and she did her best to ease my fears. That night, she watched David Letterman break down into tears on his late-night television show, which made her realize the delayed reaction of many New Yorkers. And so, for the next few days, she called to check on me. I needed that. She even emailed me an article on coping with traumatic events and another article on how to cope being a spouse of a person with a dangerous occupation. Both were helpful in finding words that identified how I felt.

For the following weeks, it killed me to see all the Department of Transportation electronic signs along the Long Island Expressway that usually read ?Buckle Up for Safety? when they don?t have traffic jam reports. Now, they all read: ?Avoid Downtown Manhattan? in steady bright orange. Sick. It was also tear-jerking to see the outpour of patriotism across Long Island. Every single overpass was adorned with American flags, flowers, ribbons, and banners -- both professionally printed ones and hand-made with spray-paint on bed sheets: ?God Bless America,? ?We Will Not Forget,? ?FDNY/NYPD,? and anti-terrorist messages. The overpasses with a former view of the Twin Towers were especially decorated. Another memorable d?cor was the hundreds of trees that lined the Wantagh Parkway each with a single American flag affixed to it -- a few dozen are still clinging on to this day. And, every marquee on every store, house of worship, library, firehouse, police department, anywhere had similar messages of support and hope.

A week and a half after 9/11, the anthrax scares began to top the media headlines. That Friday morning, I first heard of a confirmed case. The day filled with other threats and suspicions around the country. That evening, as Chris and I headed to the firehouse to dine on some drive-through fast food, our department was called down to the firehouse for an impromptu meeting. Chris figured it was probably another update on terrorism awareness. Coincidently, there was a tone for a hazardous material situation at the United Parcel Service depot. This, in light of the anthrax headlines, put everyone over the top. I sat in the downstairs rec room to nibble on my burger and listen intently to the crew and dispatcher conversation broadcasted over the P.A. Chris, who specializes in Haz Mat calls, went to the scene with a crew. I couldn?t hear his voice in the conversation, so I had no idea where he was exactly or what he was doing. The officer of the scene reported back all the extra precautions the crews were taking while entering the building. The mood of the entire situation was peculiar -- the extra caution, the slight nervousness, the exceptional distrust in the unknown. This was beyond 9/11, and I knew this wasn?t the last of it. I was so hyped. All I could do was sit and listen and hope that the television would distract me enough to not worry -- it didn?t. Turns out, the questionable parcel was a broken gallon of concentrated acetone bound for a nearby cosmetic manufacturer. Nail polish remover is hardly a life-threatening situation, but while it was unidentified, it was treated as if it were a nuclear reaction spill -- or anthrax. Chris manned the familiar Haz Mat cleaning station outside. And, the night was left with a shrill realization that the enemy has taken on many new forms.

In mid-October, a college friend living in Kentucky emailed me to see if I knew anyone wanting tickets to see ?Beauty and the Beast? on Broadway. I found it a bit odd, but he explained that a coworker had decided to cancel a family trip to NYC in light of the turmoil. He didn?t want the tickets to go to waste but didn?t know anyone in the area who could use them. I accepted the generous offer, but the owner didn?t ask for any money. He wanted it to be a gift to someone in New York who had been through so much, and so he was particularly elated to hear they went to a firefighter. However, getting Chris to take me to the show was like pulling teeth. He was less than thrilled to head into Manhattan, and it was obvious. The tickets arrived at our house via overnight mail just three hours before the curtain rose. We dashed into Manhattan, this being his second trip into Manhattan since 9/11 and my first. We usually take the train in, but with little time to spare we drove which was odd to begin with. As the skyline peaked on the horizon, it was my first chance to see with my own eyes that the landmark Twin Towers were no longer dominating downtown -- odd, sick, heart-wrenching. We parked near Times Square, and I gave a man standing in line for tickets the three extra tickets we had. Quite to his surprise as much to ours, they were fifth row! It was an excellent performance, as only Disney can do providing everyone with a few moments of fantasy. But Chris was on edge all night. At intermission, I asked him what he was thinking, trying to provoke anything out of him. He said all he could think about is the hundreds of Brothers buried in rubble a few miles south of here.

In later months, I welcomed my husband home after he attended funeral and memorial services for several other fallen FDNY Brothers. (While most FDNY firefighters worked at Ground Zero, they relied on the surrounding area volunteer firefighters to represent and perform Firematic services at funerals and memorials.) Most notable to me was the memorial service of Ray Meisenheimer, who was a life member of our volunteer fire department (in addition to his professional career with FDNY). I never met Ray, but Chris knew of him through the firehouse and was a student in several of Ray?s many fire and tactical rescue classes. I did not attend the service or the following reception at our firehouse. At the end of the evening, our chief asked Chris to drive Ray?s wife and children home. In a sense, this was an honor for Chris -- to be regarded as a trusted member worthy of such a sensitive task. However, it was like no other task he has been given before. How do you take a widow and her children to an empty home? What do you say? As suave and tactful as Chris can be, I can only imagine what was running through his mind as he escorted her to her front door and said goodnight.

Sometime in the late fall, Chris? firehouse friend Pat was finally home long enough to invite people over for dinner, as he and his girlfriend often do. Pat is a professional FDNY firefighter stationed in the Bronx and, on 9/11, had just been relieved from duty and on his drive home when the first plane struck. When he returned to work the next day, his work routine changed to include the standard 12 hours on and 12 hours off at Ground Zero most FDNY members were assigned. At dinner that night, it was my first chance to see Pat and hear his experiences. Indeed, there was an unfathomable dimension to what he described about what he?s been doing, seeing, feeling, hearing, smelling. At first, it was unusual to see Pat without his moustache, which he shaved off in order to smear peppermint oil under his nose to try to block out the smell of death. He told his stories with as much lightheartedness an old salty firefighter can; I guess he?s immune to how cruelty works after all these years fighting fires and dealing with destruction. He tried describing a scene for me and found trouble using the right words to express it, but he then remembered he had a picture of it. He walked back from the credenza with two envelopes full of photos he took with disposable cameras. I thumbed through the hazy pictures, not sure if the haze was from the poor camera quality or from smoke or both. But it was clear enough to see the destruction through the specks of floating ash and debris swarming around like snow falling.

My first flight after 9/11 was particularly uneasy to say the least. But I was determined to go, reminding myself often that if I don?t continue doing the things I did before 9/11, then the terrorists will have won me over. A month before my trip to Chicago for Christmas, Eric, a college classmate, had a nightmare that I was killed in a ferocious explosion while trying to help people escape from a building. I had become homesick like never before, and I wasn?t going to let a little sleepless presage stop me either. I had emailed back to him that if I were indeed going to die on this trip, it had better be on the way back because I first need a good dose of home. Indeed, it was good to be ?home? for that weekend to celebrate Christmas with my family.

Sometime during the winter, when Chris and I were visiting his parents in Queens as we often do, Chris went through a pile of his mail sent to his parents? address. The quarterly alumni newsletter from his high school headlined the eighteen alumni killed on 9/11. Among those listed was Mike Marti, a classmate of Chris?. I saw the distress in Chris? face as he read the newsletter. Again, this was a victim Chris knew but I did not. But it was still another kick to the stomach nonetheless. Chris spoke fondly of Mike, reminiscing of the fun guy he share homeroom with for four years. But, I can only image what Chris was silently saying: Mike is the same age as me, comes from the same background as me, is a hard worker just like me, who happened to be working in a Twin Tower. Mike never did anything to ever deserve this. It?s just not fair.

Over Mother?s Day weekend of 2002, my parents and cousin visited from Chicago. For the past three years I had been living on Long Island, only one of their visits had included sight seeing in New York City. Since my 14-year-old cousin Juliana would be joining them and it was her first trip to New York, we planned a day to include the Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, and a Broadway show. During the discussions with my mother to plan the weekend, she had suggested a stop at Ground Zero, if I felt up to it. At first, I was against it. The very thought of it made me sick to my stomach. But, I felt it was important. It was also a once in a lifetime opportunity. I reasoned that this site will one day be as honored and visited similarly to Pearl Harbor. I went along with the idea and planned the route to walk after our stop at The Statue. This is what I emailed my college friends of that experience:

?The closer the date came to their visit, the more I felt I wanted to go [to Ground Zero]...to try to comprehend the loss, to have my peace, and to try to understand what history is being made.

?We walked from Battery Park (ferry to/from Ellis Island) up West Street toward the Financial District. This approach to the area was pretty much closed off from public viewing, so we walked around the very long block to the wire fence barricaded side.

?Indeed, as most people have said, it mostly looks like a normal construction site: bulldozers, cranes, hardhats, etc. Three of the four sides of the city block were lined with plywood sheets to block views, except for this one side. Just looked like common Manhattan construction...

?What wasn't so common...

?The fire station right across the street from the WTC site was adorned with patches from hundreds of fire departments from all around the country...and probably world. It was a powerful sight to see so many patches carefully displayed all around a posterboard listing all the men lost from that firehouse. The word "brotherhood" certainly comes to mind.

?As we continued walking, one thing that struck me was the public. Everyone seemed a bit more solemn. Not stone cold silent, just conversations a little quieter than normal. Another weird feeling was the weather. It was a clear blue day out, unseasonably warm...a day that was so beautiful and comfortable, it seems like nothing could go wrong...just like what I remember the weather was on 9/11.

?Behind us was the infamous church beside the towers that withstood the collapses. The church is surrounded by a very old cemetery and high wrought iron fence. This fence has become a sort of wailing wall...lined with posters, banners, flags, hats, t-shirts, cards, rosaries, candles, origami swans, etc. This was very moving...moving to see so many people stop to read the banners and posters: the signatures, the quotes, the written prayers and wishes by so many others. It was comforting to see so many of these items put up by so many people from around the country...Girl Scout troops from the Midwest, High School band clubs from the West Coast, Ladies Fire Auxiliary from Florida. It was a great sense of country pride and shared anguish.

?The most heartbreaking part of the visit was seeing what appeared to be a mother and her grown daughter visiting the site...tears in their eyes, tissues in hand, and walking slowly with their arms around each other. It was horrific to connect that this was Mother's Day weekend...to see a grieving mother in such pain was truly heart-wrenching.

?I didn't cry, but it hurt just the same to experience this. But, I'm glad I went. I got a step closer to really comprehending the loss of life, and I also witnessed a piece of history to something much larger. And from seeing the outpouring of mementos from around the country, I also got a little piece of inner peace.?

When the first 9/11 anniversary approached, I anticipated another outpour of patriotism with the streets adorned with ribbons and banners and marquees displaying messages of support. The day came, and to my surprise, it was rather low-key. I think most people were respectful of the date, but I guess most people didn?t know how to show it without being indecent, tacky, or insensitive to those who may still be deeply grieving. I purposely scheduled an early morning visit to a vendor?s site so that I could stop back at home at 8:30 a.m. to catch the televised memorial service. Chris and I watched as family and friends of the victims braved the mighty winds together to honor their loved ones at Ground Zero. Some opening remarks, poetry readings, and music were followed by a reading of all the victims? names alphabetically. After Herman Broghammer (our friend Tom?s uncle) was announced, I figured I had better get to work. On the car radio, they were not even half-way through the alphabet by the time I got to work almost a half-hour later. Remembering that my entire high graduation ceremony with a class of 500 students was less than 45 minutes put reading 3,000 names for 9/11 into perspective for me.

A week shy of Independence Day 2003, I once again visited Ground Zero. So much has changed since my visit over a year ago. It still looks like a ?normal? construction site, but there is no longer the make-shift feel to the area. The temporary plywood and chain link fence around the perimeter has been replaced with purposefully placed concrete barriers and steel grating. The sidewalk has been cleanly re-poured for the onlookers to view from. The next-door church cemetery fence is barren. An engraved list of all the victims hangs solemnly from the grating above. I?ve been keeping tabs on the proposed designs of the future site, and I anticipate a magnificent revival of the area to once again give shape to the skyline and, more so, to give honor to those who lost their lives.

Since the attack, I continue to pray and hope for a justified end to this chaos. I sometimes have horrible nightmares of 9/11 and the war stirring me awake in the middle of the night. I have become practically addicted to updates on the War on Terrorism, CNN news coverage, and other current events. I firmly believe in a cleaver comment I read a while ago: War is God?s sick way of making us learn geography. I praise our military even more. I had cut a bright yellow plastic table cloth into strips to tie around our tree to welcome home the troops from Gulf War II. I still have a red, white, and blue ribbon on my car antenna (replaced a few times since September 2001). I try to assimilate and comprehend how my grandparents coped with living through World War II and my parents through Vietnam, when they would have been about the same age as me now (27). I have a newly found compassion for life, death, and widows. I am grateful that our local post office was named in memory of Peter Ganci, the fallen FDNY chief. I continue to wait patiently every time my husband runs out the front door to the firehouse to attack the enemy. And, I?m even prouder to be an American.