I was only three years old when I learned what death was. It was September 11th, 2001. My father worked for Morgan Stanley in their office on the 60th floor of the south tower. The morning started off as any other had. My father left early to get into the office by 8am while my mother dropped my two older siblings and I off at school.
Enjoying the beautiful clear blue sky and crisp morning air, my mother rode home with the windows down as she blasted and sang along to the music on the radio. As she thought to herself what a beautiful September morning it was, her thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of the radio host frantically reporting that a plane had just flown into the World Trade Center. A plane? What kind of plane? Which tower? How bad is it? A mix of fear and confusion washed over her. She pulled over into a gas station to collect herself. While she was there, she called my dad’s cellphone. No answer. Starring at the television at the gas station, she learned that it was the North Tower that had been hit and that it was a commercial airplane. While reporters guessed how an accident like this could have happened, she felt in her gut something wasn’t right. She tried calling his work phone at his desk instead. This time, he answered. My father was still at his desk on the 60th floor when my mother called him. He and some colleagues had gotten word that the North Tower had been hit and tried to leave. When they got to the stairwell, there were guards blocking them from exiting. They told everyone to go back up to their desks, that their building had not been affected and it was safe… so that’s what they did. Upon returning to his floor, one of the remaining colleagues there was waving his phone saying someone was on the line for him. My mother was frantic, demanding that he not follow their orders and leave. As my father tried to comfort and assure her that he was packing up and getting ready to go, the news reporter on the television started screaming that a second plane was heading towards the towers. My mother watched on as the news camera panned showing the plane hit my father’s tower. The line with my father disconnected immediately as it did so.
The south tower was the second building to get it, but the first to fall almost 56 minutes later. My mother, glued to the screen watching it all happen live, began to count the floors as it collapsed. As she watched on in horror, she calculated that were was no way between when she had last spoke with him on the phone to when the building starting collapsing that he had made it out alive in time.
I am 26 years old now. I think about this specific moment often. I wonder how my mother had the strength to get back into the car and drive to pick us all up from school…how she had the strength to keep it together for her three young kids who were equally as scared of the unknown as she was…how she waited for hours for any kind of update on his whereabouts but was met with nothing but radio silence…how she had to look her three young children in the eye at the end of the night and tell them that their dad might not be coming home, but we would be okay because we had each other.
It was around 11pm when my dad walked through the door that night. My mother was in disbelief and shock. How could it be? She had watched his tower collapse. She had counted the floors. Could this be exhaustion? Hallucinations? It was none of the above. It was a pure miracle.
After the phone line disconnected, the building started to sway but then miraculously, it bounced back. Once it did, my dad and his colleagues made a run for it. They ran as fast down the stairwell as they could, my dad even managing to pick up and carry a woman he found unconscious in the stairwell on their way down. They made it out with minutes to spare. As the tower began to collapse, my father ducked into a Verizon store to avoid the giant cloud of smoke and debris that smothered the area. He stayed there until it cleared up a bit, walking aimlessly until he found someone who could help him navigate getting back home to us.
When my father walked through the door and into our arms that night, we counted our blessings, thanked God and prayed that more families had the same miraclous outcome as ours. It was a terrible day but the worst would be behind us now. September 11th was a day which almost took our dad from us but he was untouchable now. This day would no longer affect us. We were wrong.
7 years after September 11th my father was diagnosed with stage 4 non-hodgkin's lymphoma as a result of 9/11 related illness. The debris that filled the air on September 11th and the days after was invisible poison, inhaled by all those that got tangled up in its path. To this day, 22 years later, people who were there are falling ill and are being newly diagnosed with cancer and other illnesses. I was 10 years old when my father was diagnosed. I remember the day my parents told me. It was a crisp fall day, raining and dreary outside. My parents asked me to come downstairs from my room and speak with them at the kitchen table. I thought it was strange because of how formal the request was. I thought I was in trouble. Man, how I wish that had been case. As I got to the table I saw the look on their faces and I instantly knew something was very wrong. I can still see their expressions clear as day when I replay this memory over in my head. As they told me of my father’s diagnosis and how serious the odds were of him possibly not beating it, moments from September 11th flashed back into my memory. I don’t remember much from September 11th as I was only three years old but I will never forget the moment when mother sat my siblings and I on the counter and told us dad might not be returning home. The very same emotions from that memory reignited within me. I felt confused, angry and terrified once again. I ran to my room and cried hysterically. I knew in that moment September 11th was always going to be a dark cloud that hovered in the background of my life. It was never going to be something I could walk away or fully heal from. September 11th was a day that almost took my dad from me and now 7 years later the aftermath of it was trying to do so again. I was so angry at the world. Why do these things happen to good, innocent people? Hadn’t he suffered enough? The reality I learned at a young age was that life isn’t fair and it’s short. You won’t always have the answers and you can’t control what happens on your journey, but you can control how to react to it. My dad fought a hard, long battle with cancer. Despite the cards he was dealt, he kept a positive mindset throughout the entire process (something he swears helped him beat it). He taught me that love is rare, so grab it. Fear controls you, so face it. Memories are precious, so cherish them. Life is short and you only get one shot at it, so live it to the fullest.
It will be the 23rd anniversary coming up this September. I look at how much this moment in time affected my life and how it ultimately shaped me into who I am today. I often used to wonder why my dad survived and so many others were not as fortunate. We will never know the answer and I wish there was a way I could share the miracle my family experienced with so many others. What I do know is how I can lead my life doing good in their honor and memory…how I can take something positive away from something so negative. Participating in events like the Tunnel To Towers 5K helps keep their memory alive - to remind society that they were more than a statistic in a news segment. They were someone, just like you and me and we will never forget them. Or the survivors still with us. Or those who have fallen sick and are still struggling with 9/11 related illness. Or those who passed away from 9/11 related illness. Or the families of victims still reeling without their loved one. Or the soldiers who risked their lives to protect ours after 9/11 overseas. When we say “Never Forget”, we are remembering much more than a day on a calendar or a single group of people, we are remembering them all. “No day shall erase you from the memory of time”- Virgil.
Born from the tragedy of 9/11, the Tunnel to Towers Foundation carries forward a legacy of courage and heroism. Built upon the mantra, “While we have time, LET US DO GOOD,” the Foundation supports our nation’s fallen and catastrophically injured first responders, military heroes and their families.
Please help me support the Tunnel to Towers Foundation and America's heroes by making a donation through my page. The process is fast, easy and secure. Thank you for your support, and please don't forget to send this page to anyone who may be interested in donating!
