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2002-09-11

I'm writing this on the first anniversary of the attacks, and I can hardly believe it's been a year- so much has changed, and yet so much is the same.
One year ago today, I was a third year Family Practice resident at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN. I was working in our primary care clinic in Kasson, a small town just west of Rochester. My first inkling of what was happening back East came from my friend Nima, a New Jersey native. I myself grew up in South Florida (often jokingly called the Sixth Borough for good reason), and we were the only two Easterners in the clinic that day. She told me a small plane had hit the WTC, and while we thought it was odd, we weren't overly alarmed. Then news came that it was a commercial plane. That's when my heart leaped into my throat, because my father is a commercial pilot. Then there was a second plane. We had no TV and no radio in the clinic, so our only source of news was the patients coming in for their appointments. Even when I realized that my father couldn't have been on one of the planes, I felt ill; I have always worried about hijackings and crashes, and I knew instantly how the families would feel. I knew the instant I heard it was commercial jetliners that it was a hijacking and that the pilots had been killed long before the planes hit the towers. That made me feel even worse. The Pentagon attack startled me even more. By the time I heard about the crash in Pennsylvania, I was staggered. But that was also the first time I felt hope: we all looked at one another as we listened to what the passengers had said on their cell phones, and we knew: _They fought back. And they won._ It wasn't enough to save themselves, but they saved God only knows how many others- and they were the first heroes of a war that is still going on. They were the ones to prove to us all that the enemy is not infallible- that they can be beaten. I admire those passengers more than words can say. If any of their family members read this, I want them to know that.
The towers fell, and the mad rush to find everyone we know and love in NYC began- which, from the Midwest, was nearly impossible. Phone lines were down or jammed. But then, people suddenly remembered the most powerful form of communication in the US: "The Grapevine" became a mighty conduit for information. And it worked. Networks of friends, families, and neighbors set out to spread what news they had, and to give comfort where they could. Then everything started flowing to New York: supplies, fire departments, volunteers, blood, money, everything. And America pulled itself together in a way that I know would have made the Founding Fathers proud.
Things in Rochester were tense for several days, with several security scares. Mayo was considered a possible target for a brief period, though the FBI had no specific information; fortunately, nothing came of the worries. Mayo held a memorial ceremony that involved the closing of the front doors of the Mayo Clinic. They never close, to symbolize that the Clinic is always there for those in need. They have only been closed a handful of times, and the last one was for JFK's assasination in 1963. In the days after the ceremony, a makeshift memorial began to build itself outside the doors, with rubble and grit and chunks of concrete and steel appearing as if from nowhere, along with flowers and flags and notes. It's still there on display, in the basement of the Gonda Building; it's moving, and lovely, despite the grimness of what it symbolizes, and a reminder that even a small Midwestern town has ties to the rest of the world.
And then there was the small matter of my wedding. We were getting married on October 6 in a town just north of Boston, and the Boston airport was closed down. My dress was still in New York, and no planes were flying to get it out of the City. And we had no idea if anyone would be able to come, with cancelled flights and closed airports and fear of flying at an all-time high. Worst of all, I felt incredible guilt at trying to plan such a happy event in the midst of such grief. I left it lie for over a week, overcome myself, and finally decided that life had to go on. My dress arrived Fed-Ex and Logan Airport reopened, and then it was just a matter of hoping everyone would come. It looked for a while as if no one could.
But then, a week before the wedding, people realized that this was a chance to see, to talk with, to embrace the loved ones they had worried over for so long. Two and a half weeks of grief and pain needed relief, and everyone suddenly determined to come to our wedding, no matter what. They needed something to feel hope and joy over, to remind themselves that there is still good in the world. And they came. They came by car, by plane, by train, by bus, and by the skin of their teeth, in more than one instance. One friend could not come, because her position as an active duty Air Force officer called her overseas. I missed her- but she knows how grateful I am to the men and women who, like she does, answer the call of duty and country.
It was the most wonderful day. That single day we all had to tell everyone we loved them, to look at them and know that they were really all right, was the best wedding gift we could have had. It helped me to start healing, and I know it made all the difference in the world to everyone who was there. They've told me so.
Our honeymoon, which included stops in London, Edinburgh, and Paris, was definitely less than crowded, which was nice. When asked if I wasn't afriad to fly, I replied that I was not- for anyone foolish enough to try anything would find themselves confronted with 348 very angry passengers- and me at the front of the line. After the bravery of the passengers on Flight 93, how could I do less? I still don't worry much about flying. I know they're talking about arming pilots; part of me wants the pilot's job to be to fly the plane, and someone else's job to defend it. But the rest of me knows that, if it's a plane full of Americans, that plane and that crew have as many defenders as there are seats.
I am blessed with a wonderful husband and family, a country of which I am so incredibly proud, and fellow Americans who are made of the same tough stuff as those 226 years ago, who founded this idea on a dream. Those people are you- the people reading this story now. I am so proud of you- of us, of this nation, and all that we can do together. One year later, the phoenix rises from the ashes, and it's as beautiful as ever, swathed in flames of red, white, and blue.