My 9/11 Memories

 September 11, 2001 was one of those days that you remember exactly where you were and what you were doing.

September 11, 2001

My mother had been in Monmouth Medical Center in Long Branch, New Jersey, since the day before, when she underwent surgery for colon cancer. The news was grim. It was already going to be a hard day.

My mother shared her hospital room with a woman who had undergone a double mastectomy. The woman didn’t have health insurance and told us that she was not permitted to have reconstructive surgery. She hadn’t even been given the small basin of toiletries—lotion, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a comb—that patients ordinarily received. My mother gave the woman her own basin and comforted her as she spoke. Even while facing her own frightening diagnosis, my mother was thinking about someone else. That was who she was.

That morning was gorgeous. The sky was crystal blue and cloudless, there was no humidity, and it was a perfect beach day. I was at my mother’s house getting ready to go to the hospital when my sister called.

“Turn on the TV. A plane has crashed into the World Trade Center,” she said.

I, like everyone was in a state of disbelief.

She called again when the second plane hit, and we realized, like so many others, that this wasn’t an accident.

As I drove the few miles to the hospital, I turned on NJ 101.5. Jim Gearhart, the morning commentator, was relaying bits and pieces of information as he received them. No one knew what was happening. It was chaotic. I remember praying out loud as I drove.

Up in my mother’s room, the television was tuned to the horror unfolding across the river. The windows in her corner room faced the Atlantic Ocean to the east and New York City to the north. When we looked to the left, we could see smoke from the World Trade Center in the distance.

There was a little boat on the ocean. It was a beautiful day, and the sunlight danced across the water like tiny diamonds. I remember wondering whether the people on board were oblivious to what was happening just 33 miles away.

The doctor came in and told us that our mother had only nine to eighteen months left to live. Throughout the conversation, she was incredibly positive and comforting to us. It should have been the other way around, but that was her way.

As we watched the first tower come down, my mother said that what she was going through paled in comparison to what was happening in New York.

Later that afternoon, the hospital discharged patients with non-life-threatening illnesses or injuries to make room for patients expected to arrive from downtown Manhattan.

They never arrived.

As we bundled up our mother and took her home, we noticed that the roads were empty. Police blockades had been set up along the roadside in preparation for the traffic jam that never happened.

After settling Mom into the recliner in her sunny great room, I drove home. The faces of the few people I passed on the Garden State Parkway were grim. As I crossed the Driscoll Bridge, I could see the smoke in the distance. For just a moment, I panicked that someone might blow up the bridge.

Once home, my family gathered together. We went to Immaculate Conception Church in Somerville, New Jersey, and prayed for all the souls lost in New York, Washington, D.C., and Pennsylvania.

Several days later, we began attending funerals. Around us, nearly everyone knew someone who had been lost in the horrific attacks.

I will never, ever forget that day.

September 11 will forever remind me of my mother, but it also brings to mind the days that followed—when we came together as a country to mourn our losses and stand united against those who had tried to destroy us.

Twenty-five years later, we seem to have forgotten some of that unity. Perhaps one way to honor those we lost is to remember that, beneath our differences, we are still one country. We once held one another up during an unimaginable time. I pray that we can learn to do so again.

On September 11, 2001, 2,977 innocent souls were lost. Yet the loss did not end that day. In the years since, many of those who searched for survivors, cleared the debris, fed the workers, and provided care at the sites have developed and died from cancers and other illnesses.

My chiropractor was one of those helpers. He went to Ground Zero every day to provide chiropractic care to the exhausted rescue workers. He later died of cancer, which his wife believes may have been connected to his time at Ground Zero. He was one of the countless people who saw a need during those terrible days and stepped forward to help.

May we always honor them. May we always remember and may future generations be taught what happened and understand why we must never forget.