It almost feels contrite to say that we all remember where we were on September 11th, 2001. Of course we do. Every year people tell their stories. The consistent profundity of their stories amaze me. It seems like everyone was doing something important or ironic when they heard the news.
My story isn't any more or less profound than anyone else's but it's mine Somtimes with traumatic events, it helps to say it outloud. In part to remember and in part to make it feel real.
I was working at a domestic violence shelter in mid-Michigan. Driving to work was a little harder than usual that day. It was around 8:00 AM. Working at a shelter is hard, but it's uplifting and rewarding and worth every minute. It wasn't my job wasn't dragging me down that day. That morning I was going to talk to my boss and tell her that I needed to take a leave of absence to go home and be with my family while my mother was dying of terminal cancer.
She'd been sick for three years and I'd known this part was coming. It was time to stop my life and face the facts. She wasn't going to get better and we didn't have much time left. Saying it out loud, taking time off of work meant admitting that it was real. She was going to die...soon.
Needless to say, I pulled into the parking lot with a heavy heart and dragged myself out of the car. It felt like I was wearing magnetic shoes walking across a metal floor. I was half-way across the seemingly endless pavement when a client called out to me. "Thank god you're here!" The next two hours were a blur. In addition to the woman shouting for me in the parking lot, there were three more women waiting in the front office to see me. Four women in desperate situations needing help. I chose not to even bother going upstairs to my office. I comandeered a room on the first floor and helped put out fires, offered some empowering words, and soothed a crying baby. While in the office, I'd heard murmers that something crazy was going on, but at the time all I could see were the women and children in front of me trying to find peace in their own violent worlds.
It was after 10 AM by the time I made it out of the front office. I thought about going directly to my boss Susan's office, but thought better of it. Maybe I'd just go to my office, put my stuff down and breathe deeply a few times before I told her about mom. Maybe I'd just steal a few more moments of peace before my world changed forever.
I turned the key and pushed open the door to the suite of offices I shared with a co-worker. Rather than being tucked away like she usually was, my co-worker was planted on the sofa in the main room looking shocked with tears in her eyes. "Jude, why are you crying?" Just then, I saw it. She was staring at a small television on the coffee table watching as a plane struck the second tower. It was a replay. Silently, I dropped my bag and sat down next to her. We watched in horror as the replays stopped and we watched the second tower fall.
We stayed that way for a long time. After a awhile we decided to self-medicate with milkshakes and french fries. It didn't help. We sat in silence for a long time. It felt empty and cold. I felt out of place in my own skin.
Finally, I said it outloud, "I'm going to go talk to Susan. I need to go home to be with my mom for awhile. Things aren't looking so good." She barely looked at me and in a flat voice, she said "You might want to wait. Her brother works in the World Trade Center and she hasn't been able to get ahold of him this morning. "
There I was fretting over the prospect of having to say good-bye to my mother, while another woman was wringing her hands over the possibility that she might not ever have the chance to say good-bye to her brother.
A few hours later, he called. He was running late that day and hadn't yet made it to work. He was safe. Their good-bye would wait for another day.
If I learned anything from the morning of September 11th, I learned that life is precious and the opportunity to say good-bye is a gift.
Shortly thereafter, I went home to say good-bye to my mom. We had a month together to say good-bye before she died. While she was able, we talked and laughed. When we had to, we cried. The night she died, I held her hand for the last time, kissed her forehead and said good-bye. When I think about September 11th, I can't help but think of the nearly 3,000 people who didn't have that chance to say good-bye.
