September 11 Digital Archive

nmah5427.xml

Title

nmah5427.xml

Source

born-digital

Media Type

story

Created by Author

yes

Described by Author

no

Date Entered

2003-02-04

NMAH Story: Story

My name is Michele Okamoto. I am a trauma nurse who had just moved to Battery Park, a few blocks from the WTC, a couple of weeks prior to the terrorist attacks. This is the email I sent after 9/11.

Dear Family and Friends,
Today I finally have the opportunity to write and share with all of you who care so much, my own small story of involvement in a tragedy which affected us all. The week started normally.
On Sunday, Jennifer (daughter) arrived at the PATH station (under-the Hudson-river-train) from visiting Kyle (son) at college in Hoboken, right across from the WTC. Jerry (husband) and I strolled up to the World Trade Center area along the water, and through the Winter Gardens, a giant atrium with palm trees. We made our usual comments about missing Hawaii, grateful for these reminders of our former home. I ate a Krispy Creme donut; we bought books and some items at the drug store. There was a free ballet program in one of the squares. We enjoyed the art, the pretty people and the hint of fall in the air. The WTC is a big part of daily life, whether for shopping, eating at the falafel stand across Liberty, catching the subway or buying something special to cook for dinner nearby at the Amish Market (we always smile at the name, as all the workers are fresh off the boat from God knows where- not from Pennsylvania!)
The next day, Monday, I awoke with a very bad headache, and so decided not to go to the WTC to catch the PATH train to get the papers out of the Kyle's car, which I needed to register. I could go on Tuesday. I did put my birth certificate, SS card and marriage license into my purse to use as ID for the DMV registration, since in getting my temporary NY driver's license, my Hawaii one was taken. (They came in handy in the days to follow.) I commented to the woman that I would now be without photo ID. She replied with a smile, "Just don't fly anywhere for a couple weeks." Decided to put up the pictures on the wall, to make our apartment feel more like home.
Tuesday morning, Jerry went to work in Midtown, and Jennifer to her 5th day at her new school in Clinton (formerly Hell's Kitchen). Both areas around 2+ miles away from what I call the blast site. I was in the shower, and didn't hear or feel the first strike. On emerging, the phone rang. It was my dear friend Cathy from California, warning me in horror. I turned on the TV and became frantic with shock and fear. I was getting dressed in a hurry when it felt as though something crashed into our building. I found myself screaming "I'm scared, I'm scared, what's happening!"
I ran into the living room and saw the second tower aflame on TV. (My windows face the river to the west, the WTC is due north, about five or six blocks). I grabbed my keys and camera off the desk and hurried down the nine stories to the lobby. Jack, our calm and kind doorman, was on the phone, and allowing refugees fleeing from the WTC and surrounding areas into the building to get out of the smoke and ash (at least that's what it looked like). I took a picture of the burning tower (south tower, the second one hit) from the sidewalk. I witnessed a touching reunion of a woman whose husband escaped from the blast area (her newborn's tiny body completely enclosed in a tummy pack).
It got smokier and dimmer. I went inside, and huddled with others in uncertainty. A tall, well-dressed woman, the intricate woven braids of her hair highlighted with a light dusting of ash, sat by me on the steps. I suddenly got over my paralysis and invited her to come up and use the phone with me; thinking the air would be clearer than the lobby, with people and smoke streaming in. (And I did not want to be alone.) We climbed up the nine flights, reaching the top and gasping for breath.
Entering my apartment, I was dismayed to realize that I had forgotten that Jennifer sleeps with her bedroom window wide open. Smoke filled the rooms, and a powder coated everything. My mother, Jerry and Kyle called. Kyle yelled to go to the ferry and get out, as he had an incredible view of the conflagration from his dorm on the riverside. (I found out later that Jerry had to forcefully convince Kyle not to try to get to our area to rescue me.) I told my mom and Jerry that I had to get out now, as it was hard to breathe. The woman used the phone while I grabbed all Jerry's bandanas and handkerchiefs, wetting them in a bundle, and put bottles of water into my purse. The cable was out.
Just as we were leaving, a terrible and ominous rumbling sound began. I could feel the sort of internal vibration I felt as a kid when planes took off on the aircraft carrier we visited. We clutched each other's forearms and squealed in fear; words like "Is it planes, what is it, what's going on?" Night seemed to roll in. We ran down the nine flights again, the power still blessedly on, but entered an alien place of darkness, smoke and debris. No one knew what had just happened. Even inside, the air was choking.
I walked out of the building, breathing through Jerry's favorite red bandana that he has had since college. The world began to gray a bit, thank god. It was silent, I think. A figure appeared by me, a young business man. He gratefully accepted a handkerchief. I said, "I'm a little scared, do you mind if I walk with you?" We comforted each other and expressed our disbelief.
We got to the archway where they had a salse concert last week. I saw two apparent maintenance workers with masks on. I asked if they had any more, and they gave us each one. Grit and smoke made our eyes hurt and burn. Nothing could help that. I did put my sunglasses on; it made it even darker, but provided some relief. We arrived at a large crowd gathering by the railing on the river. I handed out the last of the handkerchiefs I had, including one to a woman with asthma, scared but breathing OK. A young man asked if I had anymore. I replied, "Only the one I used, do you want it?" He did.
I saw some people hustling a group of unnaturally quiet preschooler's into the building behind this group. I assisted, but did little more than hold the door. I walked back toward the rail group, when I saw through the pall of ash and smoke a small, low ferry butted up against the waist-high railing! It was nearly full, mainly with the able-bodied able to climb the railing. I stood up on a park bench and called for crowd control volunteers, to allow people with medical problems and children to board. I said something like "Do we want to be like the cowards who took the children's places in the life boats on the Titanic?" Dumb analogy, but some people in front moved aside, and my woman with asthma was brought forward, as were a very elderly couple. I wanted to send someone for the kids, but had to watch with a sickened heart as the ferry began to pull away, four or five men in business suits jumping off the railing onto its deck as it debarked in silence. Those were the only acts I saw that day that were other than selfless.
I heard the mournful call of the Staten Island Ferry, but could not see it through the gloom. Quite a number of people calmly asked my advice on what to do. I said, "You could try the ferry to Staten Island, go to South Ferry, or walk across the bridge to Brooklyn." Only a couple of people left. The group was very quiet and calm. Faces were blank. But the wind was beginning to shift the debris to the southeast towards Wall Street. The sounds of sirens began to return, growing more insistent. I had no idea where the nearest hospital or medical setup was, but I knew how to find one.
I walked up to an ash coated ambulance emerging south on West Highway (straight down from the WTC, but all was invisible through the smoke) out of the devastation. I walked up to them to ask my question. They yelled something like "Get out of here, the second tower is going." They turned east. I followed on foot, no one else in sight for that short way. My sandaled feet looked strange puffing through the gray powder coating everything and everyone. My shallow, rapid breaths rasped straight up into my burning eyes through the ill-fitting mask.
I walked along the road between Battery Park and Wall Street. It was lined with what looked like hundreds of emergency vehicles. (I later found out that when the first tower crashed down many such vehicles were crushed. The remainder evacuated to a safer distance, hoping to be available to remove survivors.) I followed the line to the Staten Island Ferry station. Medical supplies were being unloaded from NYFD trucks, SUVs and from ambulances. I told a fire department paramedic that seemed to be in charge that I was a trauma nurse who'd just moved to Battery Park City, and would like to help. He said, "Help us set up. Hundreds of our brother firemen and police are ......(he paused for a moment) …the tower collapsed on them." I, stunned, braced myself against the pain. Then I got to work. Taking some comfort from something familiar to do, my heart slowed to a normal rate. On the job now, I prayed I could help.
At the top of a long ramp, on the second story, there was a huge room filled with heavy oak benches. We brought the supplies up, moved the benches and set up what basically amounted to a triage/staging area. I, along with a Dr. Mark Heath, looking remarkable with his coating of debris, filthy scrubs and calm demeanor (a cardio thoracic anesthetist from Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, whose video has made him famous) mainly set up the "critical" area. I believe I was the only nurse there. Patients would be tagged red, yellow or green by the paramedics, and sent to the appropriate area for treatment and further medical evaluation, stabilized and then transported to area hospitals- worst first.
The worst patient we saw was a probable pelvic fracture. He seemed a bit confused, but was difficult to evaluate due to language barriers. He screamed and flailed his arms whenever we tried to get him to release his briefcase. I believe they tagged him with a yellow, along with one exert ional chest pain/shortness of breath ( now pain-free) who had to run down twenty-four flights with a pacemaker rate set at only seventy-five. I think all the other patients were "greens," mainly fractured extremities, sprains, minor smoke inhalation and glass cuts (backs and feet mostly). I did not pay any attention to much of that, since, in reality, there were so many doctors; I guess it is more natural for a physician to give orders to a nurse than to a paramedic, as there is an ease and rhythm to it with which we are all familiar. I just passed them along, as I only have two hands. There were quite a few people coming in for what I call "a place to be." They stayed out of the way and were quite calm, at least on the outside.
We saw maybe forty to fifty, but there were that many trained personnel at least. Bellevue Hospital even sent a team of doctors over to us. We sent them away. Overall, I felt of little real use. As the hours went by, the reality of there being so few survivors after the first tower collapse was dawning on us. We had no television, and were inundated by rumors regarding planes being shot down, a thousand survivors in the parking garage, etc. We saw no dramatic pictures like all of you did. But we knew instinctively that few patients was the worst sort of sign. The doctors and I discussed this in hushed tones as time went on. We did not speak of our suspicions of the worst to the fire department or police personnel.
The police (including the hard hit Port Authority officers), firemen, EMTs and paramedics began to use this as a rest and recovery station. Their stories were astounding, such as diving under a truck as a fireball "rolled over our heads." They would come into the room shouting out for colleagues..."Did John make it...." One female FD paramedic lost her rig when eight ambulances were crushed. She looked noble and calm to me. A medic named Larry told me she was there as the bodies plunged down. She and others saw things that will haunt their nights for the rest of their lives
I was treated so kindly by all the rescue personnel, introduced around as the nurse from Hawaii that just moved here. A few half-hearted jokes about welcome to New York. Many told me their stories of the day, seeming to need to talk. One of the paramedics (or EMT, I am not sure), was from Queen's ER. Charles; tall, slim, young haole guy. He recognized me right off. Small world. The rescue workers seemed amazed by the coincidence, and told newcomers about it. Anything was a welcome distraction from a disaster that altered lives too fast, too profoundly, too soon to take in.
Around 3:30 p.m., I think, I fought an overwhelming desire to "go home." I felt the tears of the day, staved off, now threatening. I did not want any of these brave people to see me cry like a baby. I said good-bye, grabbed a box of masks, and left with Dr. Glenn Fennelly, a pediatric infectious diseases specialist who lived a block or two closer than I to the WTC. (He had been a little nervous when we were first setting up, as he had not worked with acute adults for ages. I reassured him, and vowed to myself to give him an extra hand if the need arose. It never did.) We walked to his building first, through what seemed to be an alternate universe or a post-nuclear Armageddon, sharing our shock and disbelief with each other. No stories did we have of death or death-defying feats for us, just two people whose homes have become inhabitable. Two people walking through "ash" nearly a foot deep in places. Papers littering every inch of the roads. Lost communications from departed souls. We came upon police officers using their burly forearms to knock debris off nearly buried vehicles. We gave out masks to the other few wanderers. It appeared that a strangely altered snowstorm had struck out of season. In front of Glenn's building, police were arresting a looter. The doctor could not get into his place.
We went to my apartment. The doorman was there and gave us a weak flashlight to use to climb up in the pitch-black stairwell. He said to hurry, as the National Guard was coming in to get control of the area and enforce the evacuation. We used the phone, surprised that it worked (the area did not lose service until building number seven was lost). I gave Glenn a clean shirt, grabbed a change of clothes for my family and realized there was no water at all to wash the ash off my aching, filthy feet. I dunked them in the toilet, dried them on the rug and put on my sneakers. I said farewell to my new friend, and took off through the altered, lunar landscape alone.
I was turned away along the river, north of my apartment, just too close to the WTC. I could see water arcing up out of the river onto the fires. I walked back to the Staten Island Ferry staging area to get another box of masks to hand out, and began a long trek through the Wall Street area. I said a few words to some reporters in the flat, unemotional tone I use when dealing with a bad situation at work. All feelings buried, to be felt later. But inside I was lonely, sick at heart and so tired that I felt that every step to be an arduous task, when a kind young man with some type of middle-eastern name (I wish I could remember) in dress slacks and shoes, and a debris-covered T-shirt, came along and helped me with my bag, which kept hanging up on the ash and papers blown from the trade center. It felt so good to be with another person while walking through that littered, strange Wall Street I barely recognized. There were many police, a few doormen/security types, and weary firemen resting in doorways from their labors. We later saw a fight between newsmen for position, truckloads of men in hardhats bearing shovels like ancient warriors with lances, a huge gathering of policemen near City Hall, and medical personnel standing and waiting outside NYU Downtown Hospital
We told the stories of the day. He had been across the street from the WTC on Liberty, on his way to work at Deutsche Bank, when the first plane hit. He helped a burned woman who was not serious enough to get an ambulance ride in the initial chaos. Only criticals were being transported. He took her into a place on that street, helped her wash her back, and gave her his clean dress shirt. When they came out, the south tower began to collapse. A fireman got them behind his vehicle (I think it was in the Liberty St. fire station). They made it out OK. He eventually got her on a ferry to Brooklyn. We stayed together, walking for miles, it seemed. Grabbed a subway at 14th St., I believe. He got off at Penn Station.
In midtown (finally) I looked about in amazement at the clean people. Every person I had seen the whole day, including myself, was coated with the powdered remnants of destruction. I made my way to Grand Central Station. (The hotel Jerry set us up with is by there, a lovely old place on Madison Avenue, full of New York class.) Police surrounded Grand Central, as it was considered a possible target. I still worried about the statue of Liberty.
I was so glad to see Jerry and Jennifer when I arrived at the hotel around 7:30pm. Both were exhausted in different ways. Jerry had six employees missing and presumed dead, and had helped coordinate efforts to restore emergency phone service to lower Manhattan. He arranged for places to house his displaced workers, and to bring in the families of the missing. After showering at the hotel, I turned on the TV and was stunned at the sights.
At the bottom of the screen there was a statement that St. Clare's Hospital was looking for volunteers, overwhelmed by the overflows from St. Vincent's. I dressed, got a cab, and headed over. They put me on a list, saying they thought they would need me in the a.m. for the "second wave" of casualties (presumably pulled from the rubble). I said nothing, went back to the hotel and knew in my heart that I would not be needed.
That night I tossed and turned, too tired and sore to sleep. I eventually lightly dozed, awakening to every strange sound, preternaturally alert. I listened for planes. I worried about Jennifer, starting a new life in New York, attending a new school in senior year, and now this disaster. I tried to put away the thoughts of innocent people being herded into the backs of planes; being sent to an ignominious death, like sheep to the slaughter. I tried to force myself not to think of suffering, choking and burning people. I tried not to see the day.
Wednesday was a lost day. We needed clothes, so I went to Macy's, wandering aimlessly, unable to make decisions. I couldn't eat. My eyes and legs were sore. Tears sprang to my eyes at odd times.
Thursday I woke up feeling the need to go home. I had been unable to get all we needed, including Jerry's medicine and our cell phone chargers. I nibbled at breakfast, and then took a subway for a few blocks. The city was still mostly deserted, few businesses open. I got as close as I could, made my way on foot along the gauntlet of police roadblocks. I eventually found an officer who allowed me through. I think he liked nurses.
I walked through China town and finally got to Wall Street. The two inch coating of gray powder had been partly turned into slurries of wet concrete by the clean-up underway. The streets everywhere were filled with activity. Fire, Police, FBI, Hazmat, gas, electric and phone trucks…. I was amazed at the rapidity of the mobilization of resources and manpower. I was proud of New York, working to rebuild as the smoke still rose in the sky.
Upon reaching Old Battery Park, (below our apartment area) I was taken aback by the masses of National Guard troops, all armed. They were young and serious, some smiled kindly. Attack dogs, rather than poodles and chihuahuas, raised their legs against tree trunks. I had to show my identification about every fifty feet. It took about a half hour for me to go the hundred yards past the green. I was escorted to my building, thrilled to find the maintenance man camped out inside. I went up to our place, took the full twenty minutes I was allowed, and chose items carefully. It was very heartening. I walked back to the nearest operating subway. My journey had taken six hours.
Friday the president came and the city was comforted. Fighter jets soared overhead. It felt safer.
Saturday we were officially allowed to return to our apartments for the first time. We traveled as a family. Jennifer was especially happy to get her favorite teddy bear and other small, girlish things from her room. The food had rotted in the refrigerator. The smell was bad in the building, though the maintenance man assured us that he had removed things like meat from the freezer. They told us that it will be a minimum of another week until we can go back home, though more likely longer.
Today is Monday. We moved out of our hotel into a one bedroom suite with a kitchen, two bathrooms, and a sleeper sofa in the living room, near Penn Station. I finally got to do some laundry and to finish this long email to those I care about. The most touching thing about the move was my cabbie. He was a Pakistani who shared his horror that someone who professed to believe in god could do such a thing. I told him of my September 11th experiences. He insisted on returning the tip to me, stating, "No, no, you helped people."
I hope people in the rest of America don't forget about the horror of the attack on the Pentagon and the WTC. Though not dead or injured, we have been impacted severely by this atrocity. My family was scared for us, my children burdened. This was our home, and the World Trade Center a big part of our lives and our pleasures, the centerpiece of the neighborhood. I hate that we will have to continue for at least eleven more months to pay a staggering sum to live with the daily reminder of mass murder scarring the land. As a woman, I feel there is something so personal about being driven from your home. I feel a bit selfish, as I did not suffer anywhere remotely as much as those who lost loved ones and friends, or who burned and died. But, still, I am mad as hell.
Well, mad is a better way to be right now. Got to run. I think of all of you, and am grateful for your caring calls and emails. You are a part of the fabric of our lives that give comfort and support. Thanks.
Love, Michele

NMAH Story: Life Changed

Maybe I stop and smell the roses more. I believe more; in God, in country, in people's innate goodness.

NMAH Story: Remembered

I wrote a poem several months late that I think is appropriate. IN HEAVEN'S SIGHT


As morning broke September bright,
Towers gleamed in last sunlight.
Then planes they flew to tear and rend
A hurt so deep it cannot mend.
To city great on island fair,
Death came rushing through the air.

Once proud, now fearsome, towers stood
Burning over neighborhood.
Past sundered wall and smoking stair,
Calls home to those who waited there,
Mothers, fathers, loved ones sighed,
"I love you so" before they died.

Such gallant words defied fell foe
Who used our trust to hatred sow.
Acts of courage, great and small
Took place within the trembling walls
Of towers grand in city fair,
Wounded in the fall's bright air.
Deeds unsung in earthly rite
Shall ever shine in heaven's sight.

Sirens loud did ring and call
For bravery from the one to all.
Men and women strong and straight,
Marched up to the towers great
With courage pure to dare approach,
Our hearts were moved by want of hope.
The fine, the brave, the city's best
Then entered proud on selfless quest.
A nation held collective breath
As heroes sought to battle death.

Burning towers above so tall,
Defiant, but about to fall,
Then shining steel that stood for years
Did crumble into dust and tears.
Vows of brotherhood, once taken,
In life or death are not forsaken.
Thus the mighty searched the site
For months of days and longest nights,
The fallen borne away to rest
With honors all, as city's best.
Some of them may ne'er be found,
Hence this seems as hallowed ground.

With noble deaths we were so gifted,
By their acts our souls were lifted.
Where towers stood, so fair, now riven,
We grieve for all the lives so given.
When eyes stray up to gaze on high
To where is naught but empty sky,
Seek a place where flag doth soar
And remember them forevermore.

Michele Okamoto
Battery Park City
New York, NY
5/27/02

NMAH Story: Flag

I wear patriotic pins on my nursing uniform. I live in an apartment, so I can't fly a flag. My feelings about the flag have never changed. For me it is a symbol of the freedoms we earned as a country; not without great cost. I hate it when a flag is burned, but that, too, is a symbol of our freedom.

Citation

“nmah5427.xml,” September 11 Digital Archive, accessed November 27, 2024, https://911digitalarchive.org/items/show/45076.