This weekend marked the nine-year anniversary of the September 11th terrorist attacks. Its hard to believe that so many years have passed, as that tragic event remains firm in our collective conscious and has shaped the future of both our country and our US neighbors.
I spent some time Saturday morning reading the various tributes and comments on my favorite blog sites, and the common thread throughout was that everyone remembers where they were, what they were doing, and how they heard about it. Some stories were outright hair-raising ("I worked in the south tower but had to stay home that day to care for my sick child") or just utterly tragic ("I stood on the street a few blocks away and watched the entire thing unfold, helpless to do anything other than pray").
And so all those recollections prompted me to recall my own 9/11 story.
I was about 20 weeks pregnant with Ardan at the time, and had an ultrasound booked that morning. I had taken the day off work for the appointment but had woken up early to shower and get dressed, all that. I had the tv on for Gunnar as I puttered around the house. I remember that the show he was watching was suddenly interrupted by a newscaster, relaying that a plane had just crashed into one of the Twin Towers. At that point, everyone assumed something horribly wrong had happened to the plane's flight plan, something must have happened to cause the plan to be so off-track. I sat on the couch and watched in stunned horror, Gunnar playing toys at my feet, as the second plane hit the other tower.
By this time, it was obvious that something more sinister had happened. But the idea that it could be a terrorist attack didn't enter anyone's minds until it was revealed that another plane had hit the Pentagon, and yet another one, headed toward the White House, had crashed in a field. I just sat there, sobbing (I could blame the pregnancy hormones but I think everyone's heart was breaking). When the towers fell, I remember standing up and screaming, watching those billowing gray clouds engulf everything as people frantically ran for their lives. I was almost hysterical and the need to talk to someone was overwhelming, so I called the Advocate. Incredibly, the girl on the phone had no idea what was happening and I remember screaming to her, "Turn on the tv! Get everyone upstairs! NOW!" (The cafeteria had a tv.)
It was hard to tear myself away from the tv so I could get myself ready for my appointment. I don't even remember the childcare arrangements I had for Gunnar, probably Deanna watched him for me or a sitter, but its kind of a blur. All I remember is getting picked up by the taxi and the driver and I crying together, sitting outside the medical building and listening to the radio. It was the driver who eventually reminded me that I was going to be late.
The day before, I had been excited and anxious and thrilled about the ultrasound; I couldn't wait to find out if I was having a boy or a girl, to finally see my baby on the screen, to make sure s/he was healthy. But the events of that morning changed everything. As I lay on the bed and the technician did her thing, my mind spun in horror, shock and sadness. I tried so hard to concentrate on what the tech was saying, to appear happy with her assessment. I imagine I seemed like a zombie because that's how I felt. Disconnected with what was happening as my mind replayed the image of the towers falling, over and over.
The appointment ended and I cabbed it back home, desperate to get back to the tv and to see what was happening now. The rest of the day was spent in front of the tv crying. When real life interrupted and I had to make meals, change Gunn's diapers, find activities to keep him occupied, it was all on autopilot.
The only comfort I had during that bleak day was the printed out ultrasound pictures of my baby. I kept them in my pocket and took them out repeatedly whenever I felt too overwhelmed with sadness. Seeing my baby's tiny arms and legs, seeing the dark spot of his beating heart, were what reminded me that life carries on. For every tragic moment in life, there are miracles, too.
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