Monday, November 12, 2001
"The world opened up an swallowed me on November 12…" Those words begin an essay I wrote about November 12, 1985, the day my school bus got in an accident, and two police officers were shot and killed in Springfield.
That’s sort of how I feel today. God, God, God. Sometimes I feel as if my mind will explode or my heart will be crushed.
This morning, sitting at my desk, I hear Elzbieta call out from her computer, "Plane crash in New York City!"
"What?!" I shriek, jumping out of my chair. My heart starts racing. Oh no. Not again. For a few minutes, I feel as if it’s September 11 all over again. The adrenaline, the jittery feeling, the lightheadedness. Once again I’m trying to check Internet sites that won’t load; once again we’re watching the Today Show in Conference Room 504. Once again, we’re watching smoke fill the New York City sky.
As of tonight, they don’t think it’s a terrorist attack. But 255 people are dead, plus 6 on the ground where the plane landed. In Queens, where so many World Trade Center victims lived.
This poor city. How much more are they going to have to take? Never mind the anthrax cases.
Then tonight. Dad calls to tell me Lucy from church died of some kind of overdose. My heart just aches. One of her sons found her. Those two boys. If only I could do something. And Judy. Imagine losing your only daughter. It’s just so sad. People say it all the time, but when these things are so sudden, you think, "I just saw her…"
I did just see her yesterday. She went out of her way to call out to me as we were leaving.
"Have a good week!" She waved.
"You too!" And I blew her a kiss. Something I NEVER do.
God, God, God. My head hurts. Help them God. Help all of these hurting people.
Wednesday, November 23, 2001
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and tonight I was rolling out dough for a pumpkin pie. Right in the middle of things, I realized my pie plate was missing. So I had to stop and drive to Big Y.
The last time I had to do that was September 10. The evening comes back to me so clearly. I remember how infuriated I was that they had forgotten to give me my magazines. I marched back there in such a huff.
I kept reminding myself of that, driving in the car. Dear God, I hope and pray we retain the lessons of September 11. What else will it take for us to enjoy every moment, to live outside of ourselves? Let me not care more about a magazine than people or silly petty needs like having to have my favorite snack.
Let me cherish Thanksgiving and its meaning always more than I did before 9/11.
Let me not forget all of the "empty chairs around tables tomorrow," as Tom Brokaw put it on the news tonight. As always, I feel this desperate sadness that I can’t help all the hurting people. But here, closer to home, there is Judy and Becca and Grace and the boys, grieving, and I can help them.
God, look down on America tomorrow and show mercy. Hear our repentant hearts. Don’t forget us. Look out for us. Especially those lonely ones.
Sunday, November 25, 2001
On the outside, everything seems fine. And maybe it is for some people. But I’m struggling. I don’t know what’s quite wrong. But I don’t like it.
First, the news. I have to turn it on first thing in the morning. I have to know – did we catch Bin Laden yet? What’s going on? Did anything else bad happen? I end up watching for a half hour, flipping through channels.
Then there’s the World Trade Center. It haunts me more than ever. There are calendars, postcards, framed pictures of it for sale everywhere. I watch old movies, scanning for it. I read blurbs about it in old travel books. Sometimes I just stare at the pictures. I scan the news for the latest on Ground Zero. Have the numbers of dead/missing changed? How much debris has been removed? What will they rebuild there? I think about the people all of the time. Today on MSNBC Dan and I saw this report. They were six stories underneath, in the subway. You could see a sign that said "World Trade Center." You could also see a pile of debris. This man said 5 stories, each of which was spaced 14 feet apart, had been compressed into 3 feet when it collapsed. Three feet. I keep thinking about that. God, the people.
At night, I dream very similar dreams. The buildings are crashing, or I’m at the rubble, or we’re talking about what to rebuild. I wake up and think, "they’re really not there anymore."
And I didn’t even live in New York or even visit them. Ever. They weren’t part of my life. What’s wrong with me?
I guess I still feel like: move on? How can I completely? How do we go on? We can’t act as if nothing ever happened. But we can’t live in fear. We can’t stay grief-stricken, and we can’t be obsessed, like I am. So what exactly do we do? I hope I’m not the only one who feels this way. I know it won’t always be like this. These are just…extraordinary times. I just want to do more than survive through them.