Dad and the nearly 3,000 victims of 9/11 faded from existence over 4 years ago. My dad died 9 days before 9/11. So, unfortunately, these two tragic events which changed my life forever are eternally linked.
My father was suffering from diabetes-related pneumonia, which would eventually kill him. He also had a nasty smoking habit, which began in 1957 while he was in the Army. He was bed-ridden for two months, and was on a respirator. A tracheotomy had been done, and the breathing tube was inserted into his throat. His arms and legs were tied down so that he wouldn't try to yank out the tube in his throat or get out of the bed. And during one visit, he wrote down that he wanted cigarettes. I don't smoke. I knew cigarettes were awful, but it wasn't until that moment that I realized how evil they were. Here was my father, not able to breathe on his own-and yet he wanted cigarettes. He died on the evening of September 2, at 8:50 p.m.
Nine days later, on the morning of September 11, 2001, thousands of families would join me in grief. What made their loss worse was the fact that their loved ones were butchered by heartless, misguided fools-sent on their ghoulish mission by a monster from a far-off land, under the guise of religion.
As I was about to head out with my mother that morning, a friend of mine called, telling me that a plane-a 737-had crashed into the World Trade Center. He invited me to his house. I rushed over. We went to the top of his building, which is across the river, in New Jersey. Upon reaching the top, I saw an eerie, horrifying sight. I will take it to my grave.
The top of both World Trade Center buildings were enveloped in thick, black smoke. Huge tongues of flame erupted from the floors immeditately below. My friend had binoculars. I asked for them, and took a closer look.
If you looked at the World Trade Center from the west, the tower to your left had a huge antenna on it. I was looking at the one on the right. About halfway down the side of that tower, there was a large hole, where flames were erupting forth. Smoke billowed high into the clear morning sky.
I then gazed at the left tower. Just below the smoke, whole floors were on fire. I estimated the flames were anywhere from 150 to 200 feet high. As I looked between the buildings, I could see debris falling from the south side of the north tower. One piece of debris stuck out. It was a large section of building, almost the size of a football field. It tumbled through the air, down towards the streets below. A chill unlike anything I've ever felt went through me. I realized I was watching thousands of people dying. And I knew that some of the debris I was observing had to be people.
I'll tell you this. No matter how many times you've seen this disaster on TV or in photos, it pales in comparison to seeing it actually happening live before your very eyes.
I briefly went downstairs with my friend, and caught some footage on CNN. We got his police scanner, and turned it on. As my friend and I were climbing the stairs to the roof, we heard something absolutely chilling on the scanner. It was a firefighter. His statement was loud and abrupt.
"The south tower has collapsed. I repeat-the south tower has collapsed."
My friend and I stared at each other in horror. We rushed upstairs in a flash. Upon reaching the roof, the right tower was gone. In its place was a massive cloud of grayish-white smoke. I took my friend's binoculars, and looked at the remaining tower. The fire continued to spread down, from floor to floor. The flames were huge. I turned to my friend. "That building will collapse, too." I said. "As the fire spreads downward, and the structures begin to fail, each floor will fall on top of the other." We headed downstairs again, to my friend's apartment. As we turned on CNN, we saw footage of the second building crashing down into the earth in a thick cloud of grayish-white smoke. Unfortunately, I turned out to be right.
I quickly did some shopping, figuring that perhaps folks were preparing for some sort of attack here. I went by Christ Hospital, where my father died. Rows upon rows of stretchers were waiting for the wounded. Across to the east, a great roiling cloud of white smoke rose from where the twin towers once stood. The rest of the day was absolutely surreal. We watched the news, and listened to the scanner some more. One policeman, his voice trembling violently from emotion, spoke about finding some of his comrades pinned under a car.
I have taken the train through there many, many times. Years ago, I stood at the top of the right tower. It was an incredible view. It chills me that I could easily have been among the thousands of dead. I was a witness to the greatest terrorist attack in world history. It was the most horrific thing I've seen in my life. I never want to see anything like this again. It's not something anyone should be subjected to.
The lowest point of this period-and of my life-came when I had to bring my father's clothes to the Salvation Army. There were six bags in all. I brought them upstairs to the second floor. I looked at the young man behind the booth. "Where do I put these bags of clothes?" I asked. "In the dumpster-down the hall." he replied. I proceeded to dump the clothes in there. I felt like I was tossing trash. These were things that belonged to my father-my own flesh and blood. It was ripping my insides out. I left the Salvation Army. As I drove off, I thought about what I had just done. Then I looked towards the New York City skyline, where that massive white cloud rose from the World Trade Center ruins. I realized that thousands of families would have to do what I just did. I pulled off to the side of the road and cried like a baby for a solid twenty minutes. It was just too much to bear.
Now, four years have passed. Each anniversary has been difficult. Time dulls the pain but it never goes away completely. I can't afford to get car insurance, so I haven't been able to visit my dad's grave. I'm not sure I would visit it anyway. What would the point be? My father doesn't exist anymore, and I would only get depressed if I went there. I think about him often, though-and that's how I celebrate his life.
I have been to every 9/11 anniversary. I could have died that day, given how often I went through that part of New York City. I always travel into New York for an escape. I do a lot of bike riding there-I've been cycling around New York City for over 22 years. If I was depressed, I could count on New York as a way to forget my troubles, at least temporarily. Not around the time of 9/11. At home, I was surrounded by death. My mother was hysterical with grief. Then I travel to New York, and there is more death. Everyone is overwhelmed with grief, fear and rage. I have never been more severely tested in my life. There were times during that black period where I seriously thought that life wasn't worth living. But my mother needed me, so I made an effort to walk the gauntlet.
Oddly, today was similar to 4 years ago, in terms of the weather. It was bright, sunny, and mild. In fact, every 9/11 anniversary had been bright and sunny. I remember the first anniversary of 9/11 being very windy as well, with dust devils swirling up from Ground Zero. Once more, all the names of those who died were read, one by one. Relatives often choked up as they read the names, and spoke their minds to their departed loved ones.
Police were there from all over the country, as well as some from Toronto and England. I spoke with one British police officer, expressing to her my condolences over the recent attacks in London that left 52 people dead. She turned to me and said, "Oh, but you folks have had it much worse."
We shared a moment, and we offered each other sympathy.
A little later I saw this group of British police officers marching down Broadway. I followed them on my bike from a distance. They ended up at the New York Police Museum, located at 100 Old Slip. This is down near the South Street Seaport, on the southern tip of Manhattan. A small memorial concert took place, with a few graduates from Oxford University singing songs. It was here that I learned of the British Memorial Garden being constructed nearby. The woman behind its construction is Camilla G. Hellman. You can learn more about the memorial at the following URL:
http://www.britishmemorialgarden.org
A British gentleman came up to the podium. I think he was involved with the Memorial Garden, but I don't recall his name. He mentioned that the British police who were here represented the 67 British citizens who were killed on 9/11. He also went on to say how deeply moved the British were with our sympathy over the recent terrorist attacks in London.
Overall, it was a very moving day. I used this time to remember my father, as well as the 9/11 victims and their families. My father's death and 9/11 taught me some hard lessons about life. I'm reminded yet again of how important it is to cherish what I have. You can never take anything for granted in life-your family, your friends, or the roof over your head. They can be gone tomorrow. One only needs to look at the Hurricane Katrina disaster, which may turn out to be the greatest natural disaster in American history.
Life is cruel and unfair. And yet we all have to walk life's gauntlet and make the best of it.
