September 11th

Many of us in the New York area can tell you exactly where we were and what we were doing on September 11^th when the first plane hit.   What I have learned is that for those of us who can easily share our stories, there probably is a happy ending.  When that's not the case, it’s no longer just a story, but a tragedy and one that is not readily told.

Although, mine does not have a disastrous ending—thank God—it was still a precarious day as our then three-year-old son, Christopher, was scheduled to receive chemotherapy. He had been diagnosed with leukemia six weeks before. 

My plan that morning was to wake up early and go for a run before my husband, Rich, left for work and we came to the clinic. When I opened my eyes, Rich was already dressed in his running clothes.  As he grabbed his sunglasses and walked out the bedroom door, I almost called after him to say that I needed to run more than he did.  He likely would have relented, but for some reason, I decided I'd skip it that day. 

Around 8:50am, as I was rushing out the door with Christopher, the phone rang.  I told my babysitter to let it go to voicemail.  Later, I would learn that it was my husband calling. He worked in the World Trade Center One.

When we walked through the clinic door, every seat in the waiting room was filled with an adult watching the news when we arrived.  This struck me as both odd and rude as only children’s programs were supposed to be shown on this TV.   Clutching Christopher’s hand, I asked the room, “Can I switch to Blue’s Clues?”

A man sitting against the wall looked at me and said, “You don’t know, do you?” I shook my head.  “A plane just hit the World Trade Center.”  My eyes shifted towards the TV where smoke was emitting from the first tower.   My vision darkened and the words that slid through my mouth muttered “I think my husband works in that building.”

The next thing I remembered is that Christopher and I were taken to a patient room down the hall. There, we were joined by a nurse, and our social worker.  Eventually, Christopher’s child-life specialist came and took him to the playroom.   

Our social worker asked me for my husband’s phone number.  Biting my lip, I paused, then slowly said, “201- 499 - 4.…” I couldn’t remember the rest.  None of my important numbers were written down, as I was always able to memorize them.  My husband referred to me as a walking telephone book.  Now in this moment of panic, my mind was blank.  I couldn’t remember anything.    Eventually, I think she called our babysitter to get his number.

It felt like I was caught in some cosmic landscape.  I was pretty certain my husband worked there, but a part of me wasn’t sure.   Weeks earlier, over dinner one night, I thought he may have mentioned something about his technology team at Lehman Brothers moving to the World Trade Center, but with Christopher’s recent diagnosis, my focus wasn’t there.   

Now, a voice inside me was screaming: How could you not have paid attention?   At the same, I wouldn’t let my brain consider the possibility that he might have been in that tower.   It was just too awful.

Around 11am, a call was patched through from the hospital. It was my husband.  I froze.

As I walked over to the nurse’s station to pick up the phone, I told myself – at least he is alive.   Thankfully, he wasn’t even hurt -- his call had only been patched through the hospital’s main number – and he was on the train returning home.

Apparently, he was on the ferry when the first plane hit.  He was late for work because he had gone running.  

In fact, he was more concerned that we were at the clinic and wanted us to leave immediately.   There was so much uncertainly and who knew where the next target might be.

After I hung up the phone, I turned and saw Christopher walking down the hall, now clutching a black lab stuffed puppy. He too was ready to go home.  We found his nurse, Noreen, and asked if we could just do the chemo another day.  Surely this wouldn’t be a problem, I thought, given what was happening in the world.  

Once again, I was reminded of the seriousness of Christopher’s condition.   We could go home, after he received his treatment. 

Now as I sit on my deck wrapped in a blanket, I think about that day eleven years ago.  The worries of this morning seem to pale in comparison.  So much has transpired since that day. 

Sadly, I’ve learned there is a difference between sharing a story and recounting the tragic moments of your life. The latter is not given away easily.

But I am thankful that on September 11, 2001, we were lucky enough to have a story that is not too difficult to tell. 

Remembering the details: How could I have been so wrong?

Over the last few years whenever I looked at this photo of Christopher with his full chubby cheeks and his round belly sitting with my sister Elizabeth on the blanket in our backyard, I felt such sadness in my heart.  Sheer pain ripped through me with each glance. Until just last week, I thought I had remembered the day so clearly.  Now I wonder, how could I have been so wrong? 

It was August of 2001 when my younger sister, Elizabeth, came from Colorado to spend time with us after Christopher was discharged from the hospital.  Three weeks earlier, on July 23, our seemingly healthy three-year old was diagnosed with leukemia.  Every moment thereafter was a struggle to live in this new space – a place I never visited even in my darkest nightmares.  Kidnapping was always a fear.  Cancer? Never.   

With each day, our hearts broke a little further as the life-saving treatment took effect on our child’s body.   His naturally skinny and energetic body became round and fatigued from all the steroids and chemo.

“Mommy, can I go upstairs and rest in my bed?” Christopher asked during dinner one evening the week after he came home from the hospital. I turned to him, my face full of anguish and said, “We can go with you.”   “No Mommy. It’s okay.  Stay with Ryan,” he said as he pushed the wooden chair back and climbed out of his booster seat.

Walking became difficult so often Christopher would just lie on the couch.  Eventually I had to carry him the few feet from the kitchen to the living room.  He didn’t even have the energy to fight with his little brother, Ryan. 

Over the years, the image of this photo would appear in my mind from time to time and I would wince internally. Then last week while rummaging through some old journals, I found an entry that described the day the photo was taken. 

I realized that my overall pain had overshadowed the reality of the day.  It wasn’t a day of sadness and suffering, but rather the first time in weeks that Christopher felt strong.  Here is the journal entry from that summer day:

Christopher is so cute – he has full chubby cheeks and they jiggle when he laughs and he laughed a lot today.  At lunch time, he suggested, “Mommy let’s go on a picnic in the backyard.” Elizabeth laid out a sheet on the grass in front of the jungle gyms and we carried our lunch of sandwiches, animal crackers and juice boxes outside. Later, Christopher said, “Let’s take a walk.”   We only got as far as the driveway, but still he wanted to go out.  I love the fact that despite all that Christopher is going through, he is still the same little boy.

Wow, what a difference.  My memory was incorrect on almost every account.  Somehow my brain recalled only the harsh side effects of the treatment and forgot my little boy’s amazing spirit. Maybe it was my sister’s visit that encouraged Christopher to want to celebrate, but somehow he found the strength to do so.   

Now, when I look back, I remember the hope and joy I felt that day and how we sought to live each moment.  

How could I have been so far off in my memory?  

Is this the case with other memories any of us may have? 

Do we just apply a general feeling to our past memories?  If it was a hard time, then do we mostly remember the struggles?  I won’t kid myself into denying how incredibly difficult that first month was.  But how did I forget the joy on that sunny afternoon?  Thankfully, I have other journals to remind me of the truth.   But this experience has helped me to realize how important it is to not only record our lives in picture but also in print.