Eyes Wide Open - September 11, 2001

I went to bed on Sept. 10, 2009 thinking about what I had to get done the next day. I woke up on Sept. 11, 2009 thinking about Sept. 11, 2001. I remembered the pain, the fear, and the complete lack of security I felt that morning 8 years ago.

My personal involvement in the tragedy of September 11 was rather mundane, and paled by comparison to thousands of others. I had arrived at my office in Chicago that morning, and found everyone in the CEO’s office. They were standing in front of the big screen television. When I asked what was going on they all turned, and looked at me in disbelief. “We are at war.” Someone said. I didn’t understand the answer. Rather than explain, they moved aside so I could see and hear the CNN broadcast. We stood and stared at the television, eyes wide and mouths agape, while the towers burned and collapsed to the ground.

On the screen were the World Trade Center towers, one was ablaze. Along the bottom of the screen was the ticker scrolling that we had been attacked. We watched the second plane impact the second tower. We watched the tower erupt into flames. The moments that followed were a bit of a blur. Everyone was confused. Some were screaming and crying and shaking. I remember a number of people looked at me and asked “Aren’t you from there?”

Yes, I am from there. As a matter of fact, my uncle worked THERE, 2 of my good friends worked THERE, and my brother worked very near THERE for the fire department.

I excused myself from the room. I spent the next four to five hours, trying in vain, to complete a call back home. All of the phone lines in the NYC area were busy or down. I drove around and called, I sat still and called, I paced around a local park and called some more. Luckily, as I found out some time later, my uncle was not in the World Trade Center at the time of the attacks. My friends were fortunate enough to get out of the building unscathed.

At the time, my Mother worked for a government agency conducting interviews. She had arrived at her appointment that morning on time. The woman who answered the door was hysterical. It was a few moments before my Mom understood why. The woman’s husband worked in the North Tower and had not been heard from yet.

Instead of rescheduling the interview, Mom decided to sit with this woman and her young child. Together they sat and watched the television. They cried and prayed for the return of the woman’s husband. My Mother stayed the entire day. She was still there when the woman’s husband arrived home. He had made the last ferry off Manhattan and made his way back to his family. My Mom hugged the woman and thanked God for the safe return of her husband. She hugged this man that she had never met, and accepted his thanks for spending time with his family. The three of them sat together and prayed for the people that had not been so blessed.



On the way home, my mother took a route that had a clear view of the NYC skyline. She saw the plumes of smoke along the way. She had expected to see the skyline when she reached the top of the hill, but another site caught her attention. A crowd of people had gathered in a cemetery off to her right. They were standing there, eyes wide, and mouths agape as they stared. This group of people, who knew nothing of each other that morning, cried and prayed together, for the people they did not know.

My brother John was in the car, on his way to work, when he heard the news. When he arrived at the Paterson Fire Department he was told that they were going to support the Hoboken Fire Department. Hoboken was the first responders to head into the city to search for survivors. John wasn’t always the most cup-half-full guy around, but his heart was as big as a freight train. Everyone knew that if they ever needed anything, Big John had their back, no questions, no worries, and no strings attached. John was also well known because he played the bagpipes for the NYC Police and Fire Department Marching band. He was more of a melancholy, but loveable old-world Irishman.

It was no surprise to any of us that he was right there, going in to help when help was needed. John was at the disaster site for nearly 50 hours straight. I can’t be sure, because to this day he still doesn’t talk about it. The things John saw during his search changed him. Those things took part of his youth and made his life a living nightmare. The search results were not positive. The task was basically to find what you can. Treat anything organic with the respect it deserved, and move on. This would have been more than enough for most people, but John wasn’t done with his contribution yet.

John began to receive requests in the days and weeks that followed the disaster. First, just a few trickled in. Then, a flood of requests came in. They all asked if he could please come and play the bagpipes at the memorial services for their lost loved ones. It was an honor to John to be asked to play. He wrote personal letters back to each and every family. He accepted their requests with reverence. John played day after day. He played for friends and he played for people he didn’t know simply because someone had asked. Often, after playing, he sat with grieving loved ones and remembered better times.

John was there for every request, without fail, for over 70 families. Often times he played more than one service per day. He always consoled them, and vowed to help whenever he could. He never missed a request, and never let them see his pain. I respect him more than I could explain for the depth of compassion and selflessness he had shown. These days, therapy has healed some of his wounds. His nightmares are fewer, and his sense of humor has begun to return. I am glad to see my brother come back, I’ve missed him.

Here we are 8 years later. I spoke to him yesterday, and he told me that he was invited to play at the Ground Zero Remembrance Ceremony. He said he was honored, and he played as he always would, with his heart.

This is my story of September 11, 2001.