Thursday, September 11, 2014

Historical Relativism Regarding 9-11

Perhaps it is just that this year has been especially stressful; or that the news has been rampant with killings and mass murders and beheadings and speculation. But I have been more preoccupied during the last couple weeks than I have in a very long time, and it came to a climax today, September 11, 2014.

Last night I was watching a movie on cable and my husband and dog were on the floor of our family room sleeping soundly and blissfully resting. I was staring at both and beginning to feel the personal ritual that plays in my head every year feeling more and more intense.

In 2001, I awoke in my Midtown apartment near the United Nations on Manhattan's East Side to a phone call from a lovely woman named Michelle who worked with my husband at the time. “Hello?” I said. “Turn on your TV!” she replied. I found the remote and did just that and found MSNBC just in time to see the second plane hit the World Trade Center (WTC). “Hello?” I said again; however the line had gone dead. At that point I began to awaken more completely when I realized the terrifying fact that my husband was supposed to be at a meeting inside WTC. I took a few minutes to try to call him on his cell to no avail. Then I tried to reach my mother, then his parents.

After determining that those efforts were futile, I began to internally debate my next steps. It did not take long for me to realize, that there were only two likely scenarios. My husband was dead or not. If he was alive, I needed to stay where I was and wait for him to return home. As I held my grey tabby Kiddiot and watched the commentators try to come to a comprehension of what was happening, I looked outside my window and could see the smog (for lack of a better word) all around my block. I then sat back on the bed watching the rest of the incident play out. When I saw the structures completely collapse and the gigantic vibration that seemed to emanate throughout my body at the same time, I simply discussed internally with myself the wisdom of my choices and what my next steps should be. Once again, I determined that the wisest course of action was to do nothing. For the record, doing nothing goes against every personal philosophy and instinct I have ever known except for one: That my husband, if alive, absolutely needed for me to be here if/when he arrived, or it would destroy him. So I waited.

To be honest, I still am not entirely clear how long the time passed. I am sure there are specific historical facts in all the newspapers and websites even as I write this, but frankly, it is irrelevant. I am not sure if shock, or disassociation or what was happening to me; but I was not reacting outwardly at all. Well, except for the realization after close to an hour that Kiddiot had been being nearly strangled accidentally by me while I watched everything on television and when I noticed, I relaxed my grip and she looked extremely grateful.

I tried a couple more times to make calls to no avail and then I walked around our apartment trying to think of contingency plans that I could make at that point to determine when an alternative course of action was required and/or when I should begin to reevaluate the situation. Meanwhile the news media chose to play the 911 impacts and collapse over and over and over again on the TV. I had even begun to count them in my head and was up to around 10 when the world changed.  It was a quiet sound of a key in our apartment door.

My poor tabby was almost flung against the bed pillows while I bolted for the door and wrestled it open to find a woman named Linda, a man named Jeff, and yes, my husband holding a six pack of beer. Before I had a chance to say any of the thousands of things that were going through my head at the time, I simply grabbed the six pack exclaiming, “Mine!” I then ran into the kitchen, opened and downed a beer in almost 12 seconds and then ran back to where they stood warmly saying, “Hello! Who are you and why are you with my husband? Welcome! Come have a seat and I am so glad to see you!” I honestly know how utterly egregious that behavior sounds. It looked almost like a very weird episode of Monty Python’s Flying Circus. After all of us sat and readjusted for a few minutes and they all watched the 11th and 12th replay of the incident and the latest speculation by the commentators all over the airwaves, my husband and our new adopted brother Jeff, decided to go in search of a way to take positive action, so they went off together to Red Cross to see if they required blood donations. I sat with Linda and tried to regain my rational equilibrium that I generally maintained constantly.

I have in the years since that day listened to thousands of experiences of others that day. In the years that followed, my husband became an Emergency Medical Technician, an Auxiliary Policeman and an Instructor for American Red Cross. I went directly to Red Cross and offered to assist in any way I could, which began as an IT professional and moved toward media relations after I began to realize that the equilibrium that I somehow maintained in my body and mind while I had no control that day was a rare aptitude that I should use to help others. So I consciously chose to change my career path to emergency response and crisis communication and when I instruct volunteers for Red Cross and other organizations I am often asked what started me on that path.

I went to many memorial services, funerals, wreath-laying events and numerous others over the years, but the one I found impossible to participate in until more recently, was the 911 memorial each year. I remember annoying a volunteer recruiter one year who asked me why I did not feel I should be involved in the memorials. I thought it through and simply replied, “Look. I am unwilling to look a spouse, child, friend or other loved one of the 2,977 people who did not survive and try to tell them I can understand or truly empathize.  I cannot. For whatever reason, my beloved came home. He lived, and he still lives. So on every anniversary, I must admit, I pray for all of those who lost their loved ones, then I thank God that he came through that apartment door. I do not feel worthy of being part of a ceremony that I am honestly too blessed to deserve. The memories and the spirits are far more important than the anxiety of a woman as lucky as I was. So I simply give back everything I can to the people I can help, and I do everything I can to offer myself as a vessel to absorb their pain during hurricanes, fires, floods and even other plane crashes; but not for 911. For that, they deserve better.

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