MSN, RN, and Certified Women’s Health Coach
It was a beautiful, crisp September morning in New York. The kind of Tuesday morning that hinted at fall-like weather. It made you savor the simplicity of life — grateful for the quiet times, like walking my two school-age children to the bus stop.
Their little voices echoed down the sidewalk as I kissed them goodbye, waved, and watched them disappear to start their school day. I could still feel the warmth of their little hands in mine as I returned home.
Just as I stepped through the door to my home, the house phone rang. It was 2001, and while we all had flip phones, we weren’t as tethered to them as we are now. The phone’s sharp ring pulled me out of my peaceful morning.
It was my youngest sister. Her voice trembled with panic as she tried to explain that a plane had flown into a building in New York City. My mind raced to make sense of her words. What building? A real plane crashed into it? I had so many questions.
I needed to see it for myself, to understand what she was talking about.
As the images flashed across my television screen — smoke escaping from the North Tower of the World Trade Center — my sister’s voice pierced the fog in my mind.
“Damian,” she said.
Her husband. My brother-in-law.
That morning, he had rushed to catch his usual train to Manhattan for an early meeting at his office. But there was a chance he didn’t get to the train in time.
My sister was hopeful. Trying to convince herself that maybe, just maybe, he had missed his train. Maybe he was OK and hadn’t arrived yet at the World Trade Center — soon to be known as Ground Zero.
I could hear the optimism in her voice, clinging to that thin thread of hope. But deep down, we both felt it — the suffocating weight of ‘what if’ pulling us down.
That morning would be the beginning of an ordeal that would change us and our country forever.
My sister hung up in a hurry, saying she was going to try Damian again — another desperate attempt to reach him. As she hung up, I could hear her 18-month-old son, my sweet nephew and godson, babbling in the background.
I imagined her grasping the phone with one hand, while her other rested instinctively below her chest, protecting the new life growing inside her — their second child, the one that would possibly never meet her dad.
As we hung up, I felt ill. I couldn’t fathom what was happening. I tried to shake the feeling that our world was changing before my eyes. Wishing I could wake up from this nightmare. Wishing we could go back in time.
I jumped as my phone rang again, forcing me to stop thinking the worst. It was my husband on the other end of the phone. Sean, a New York City police officer, called to tell me what he knew. I was so incredibly relieved to hear his voice.
He assured me he was OK and nowhere near the World Trade Center. Neither of us knew at that moment how quickly that would change, how more unthinkable events would continue to unfold.
I held my phone tightly, hanging on his every word. In real-time horror, the nightmare continued. I gasped as I watched on television a second plane barrel into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. I screamed, “No!” This tragedy continued to worsen by the second.
What about all of those people on the plane, in the building, and on the streets of New York City? I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. What was going on in our world? I was barely hanging on.
My husband said he had to go as he and his colleagues were being summoned into a mandatory meeting.
I quickly told him not to forget to call again later. He needed to talk to our children. They needed … we needed to hear his voice. I could picture their young faces asking if Daddy was OK.
I prayed for the victims on the planes and in the buildings. I prayed I had good news about their Uncle Damian when my children arrived home.
As hours passed, I talked to friends and family to be sure everyone was OK. I was deep in thought about Damian but was again jolted back to the present when another call came in.
This time, it was the hospital where I worked. They needed more nursing staff on call as the inevitable overflow of victims arrived at our hospital from the World Trade Center attacks.
I explained my situation but promised I would work when I could. They promised they would stay in touch and were thinking of me and my family.
I rushed off the phone. I needed to reach out to my sister again. I hated to ask the same question when the answer remained the same. Damian was still missing.
On Sept. 11, 2001, 2,750 people were killed in the World Trade Center attacks. Sadly, my amazing brother-in-law, just 32 years old, was one of those victims. One of the happiest, most loving people I’ve had the privilege of knowing.
He worked on the 92nd floor of the North Tower, the first building to be attacked. The plane tore through floors 93 through 99, just above him. Sadly for him, but fortunately for others, 99% of the people below the 91st floor survived.
In the days that followed, my husband joined the search and rescue efforts at Ground Zero, which soon turned into search and recovery. In October 2001, my sister called me early one morning to say rescuers found her husband’s body. He could finally have the send-off he deserved.
In the years that followed, the lack of proper safety equipment would take a toll on my husband’s health. I felt fortunate to have used my nursing skills to help him heal from multiple surgeries. He is one of the fortunate first responders to live a full, healthy life in retirement, enjoying his grandchildren.
So many years have passed, but my sister continues to heal. I see glimpses of her husband, our brother-in-law, when I look at her two amazing young adult children. Through pictures, videos, and stories, they learn of the wonderful man their dad was. Someone they never truly got to know.
Over the coming weeks, I would get back to work as a nurse, but I was forever changed. The shockwaves of what had occurred not only affected those directly who lost a loved one but so many more. Many people have been touched by September 11th in some way.
I learned to be more patient and listen to my patients and their families differently. Losing a loved one so tragically gave me a new perspective on life, one rich with empathy and compassion.
I recognized that many people I care for are battling silent struggles I don’t always realize — loss and grief that have made them who they are.
To this day, what happened to our country on 9/11 has deepened my sense of connection with the people around me.
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