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.