The Day After

On September 12, 2001, Americans woke up in a different country. Things had changed. There was an eerie stillness in the air. It wasn't just that the only things flying at that time were the birds in the sky. The entire nation was in a state of collective shock.


I spent that morning like most of us did...eyes glued to the non-stop news coverage of the devastation and the ever-growing body count from the attacks. We were a country operating on auto-pilot, holding our breath waiting for what could or would happen next. Many went back to their jobs, trying to resume some semblance of normalcy in a world that had fundamentally changed.


We drove, we shopped for groceries, we ran errands, we moved forward from nothing more than sheer inertia. 


That day, my mother had an appointment at a local hospital to have a carotid angiogram. It's a procedure where a special dye is injected into the bloodstream to help an x-ray locate possible blockages in the arteries. In the majority of cases, the procedure is perfectly safe and is performed with no ill effects. 


Not this time.


I dropped my mom off at the hospital for her appointment. We were told the procedure would take at least an hour, so I went to a nearby record store to look around while my mom was having the angiogram. When I got back to the hospital, I asked the nurse on duty if she knew when my mom would be done. She got a strange look on her face and asked me to wait a moment. Seconds later, a doctor came out and told me what happened.


The dye they injected dislodged a tiny piece of arterial plaque that traveled into her brain. My mom suffered what is called a TIA or Transient Ischemic Attack. In effect, she had a mini stroke and had to be admitted to the hospital. I rushed up to her room and I saw her there, sitting up in the bed. She smiled at me and I asked her how she was. She didn't answer.


She couldn't answer.


The mini stroke had left my mother unable to speak. Her mental faculties were not impaired in any way, but she had become aphasic. Now, my mother was never the most emotionally accessible person. She didn't like outward displays of affection and hardly showed her feelings to anyone. She took out a notepad one of the nurses had given her so she could communicate. She wrote something on the pad and handed it to me;


'I love you.'


I pretty much lost it after that.


I spent the next four weeks with her as she struggled to get her power of speech back. Every day she got a little better, her words came a little bit more easily. She seemed changed by the experience. While the rest of the world was dealing with the aftermath of 9/11, I was dealing with being a caregiver. I had to be her voice. We bonded in a way we hadn't before. 


I didn't know at the time that those few weeks would be her last. 


One month later, on October 11, my mother had a cerebral hemorrhage. In the middle of the night, my mother awoke with a terrible migraine headache. I called an ambulance and watched as the paramedics put my mom on a stretcher and lifted her inside. Before they closed the doors, she told me to be sure to look after her purse.


It was the last thing she said to me.


My mom had been on blood thinners to prevent another stroke while awaiting a surgical procedure to remove the plaque from her arteries. She developed a brain bleed that could not be stopped. The doctors told me that the damage to her brain was too severe and she would never regain consciousness. On October 12, I had to make the most difficult decision of my entire life;


I had to have my mother taken off life support. I held her hand as I watched the numbers on the heart monitor slowly count down to zero. 


Looking back on those dark days, I am grateful for a few things.  My future wife dropped everything, put her own life on hold and flew out from New England to be by my side. She was a real source of strength for me. My brother also came out to help me make all the necessary arrangements. I never could have held it together without their support.  


I am especially grateful for those last few weeks I had with my mother and would not trade them for anything. 


While September 11, 2001 changed the lives of all Americans, my own life began a transformation the day after. I would soon leave the bright, brash confines of Las Vegas and venture eastward to begin a new life and start a new family.


I still miss my Mom, but I see her every day in the face of my own daughter. I only wish they could have had the chance to know each other.

My 9/11 Story

September 11, 2001 was an awful day for America and all Americans, myself included. I don't need to remind anyone of that. Thousands died that day and many more have perished since then during the two wars we have waged in the aftermath. For an entire generation, this has become the 'Where were you when...?' moment in their lives.

I am old enough to remember where I was when I heard Elvis Presley had died, when President Reagan and John Lennon were shot and when the space shuttle Challenger exploded shortly after takeoff. All were moments in time that will forever be burned into my memory. None compared to the horrific events of 9/11.

And yet, my memories of that day are dim at best.

I remember having to go into work early that day. I was living in Las Vegas and had a crappy call center job to pay the bills while I pursued a career as a TV producer. It was just before 6AM local time when the first plane hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Shortly afterwards, word made it to the call center floor that there was some kind of explosion in NYC. I had a pocket radio (remember those?) with me and I tuned it to the local NPR station to hear the coverage. I remember listening intently at the news coverage, both as an interested party and as a former journalist.  

You see, I spent 1991-1997 as a news writer/producer at KTNV-TV 13, the ABC affiliate in Las Vegas. For three of those years, I was producing the morning newscast; Good Morning Las Vegas. I was a news junkie. I loved the immediacy of it, the rush of experiencing information as soon as it happened. I felt part of the action, even though I was in a control booth wearing oversized headsets and trying (with limited success) to get the news anchors to stick to their scripts. I'd seen raw video of some truly awful things...things that could never be shown on the air.   

So, I had learned through the years to look at terrible events with a certain detachment. That's how I felt just after hearing the initial report.

It wasn't until the second plane hit a few minutes later that people started to realize that this wasn't an accident. That's when my detached curiosity quickly turned to fear and confusion. This was deliberate? Who could do such a thing with impunity? Who was capable of an act? What were they going to do next? As additional reports came in, it was clear that the worst of it was yet to come. There was word of evacuations in Washington D.C.  The White House and Capitol Building were being evacuated. Were they also being targeted? It was like something out of a Hollywood hugh-concept action movie.

Less than a half-hour later, the Pentagon was hit. My heart sank. I felt physically sick to my stomach. From that moment forward, I could only think about one thing...where is my brother?*

My older brother Michael was a colorful guy, to say the least. He joined the Navy to avoid some potentially serious legal trouble and wound up making the military a career. After leaving the service he became a computer security specialist. Not long before September 2001, Michael and his wife moved to Arlington, VA because he had a new job as part of a government contract. 

On September 11, 2001 my brother was moving into his new office space. At the Pentagon. 

I spent the rest of that day trying to find out if my brother was dead or alive. The phones there were not working, obviously, and those days (I say those days like it was a long time ago. Oh wait, it was.) not as many people carried cell phones. It wasn't until later that evening that my brother was finally able to reach me. As it turns out, he was in an adjacent building when the main structure was hit. 

Sadly, my brother's life would be cut short by failing health eight years later. I wonder how he would've commemorated this anniversary. I wish I had the chance to find out.

As I said, my memories of the day itself are fuzzy at best. Yes, September 11, 2001 was a terrible day to be sure.

For me, however, the following day was much, much worse. 

To be continued...

*My future wife was in NYC that day, with her Mom and sister. They had tickets to see a taping of The Rosie O'Donnell Show. They never made it to that taping. They endured a terrifying ordeal while scrambling to leave a city in total chaos. Amazingly, they managed to drive out of NYC before it was locked down. I forgot they were going to the city for the day. In a strange way, I'm glad I forgot.

Midnight in the Kindergarten of Good and Evil

The day started with a sleepy optimism as my young one slid out of her bed like a blond-haired Slinky® to prepare for her first day of really-real school. I was pleased by the lack of nervousness and apprehension at the breakfast table. I'm talking about my child, of course...I was a nervous wreck. The first day of Kindergarten qualifies as a Big Damn Deal. It marks the end of toddler-hood and the beginning of a new and scary and amazing and scary and momentous and scary and exciting time.

Oh, did I mention scary?

This is the point where parents lose control of their kids. A time when teachers, coaches, volunteers and other children begin to have a more direct impact on your child's daily life...an impact that can be for good or ill. I don't mind admitting that the idea scares the hell outta me.

NOT my kid's school entrance. Thank God.

What if she makes friends with a kid I don't like?

What if she makes no friends at all?

What if she learns bad words or bad manners or bad habits from the other kids?

What if she doesn't learn anything at all?

What if I worry too much? Too late...

What if she winds up like me?

When I was the age my daughter is now, I was a superstar among my family. I could already read and write. I could memorize and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. My parents thought I was some kind of child prodigy. By the time I was ten, it was obvious that wasn't the case. I peaked at around eight years old. After that, my poor social skills, non-existent math ability, recurrent stuttering and ADD-driven lack of focus kicked in full gear. It was not a winning formula and very frustrating to my parents who had seen such 'potential' in their son early on. Their disappointment was palpable and it left scars that still haunt me today. I don't want my kid to experience that kind of stress and pressure.

So yes, I am a basket case. I know it's only Kindergarten. I simply don't want this to be the first day where life starts to drain the joy from her spirit, one drop at a time. I want to hold on to the bright-eyed, optimistic ball of energy that makes me smile every single day.

While I was at work, I got a text message from Mrs. F. Not all good news.

My little one's first day was long and tiring and she didn't make friends as easily as she usually does. The light had dimmed a bit. But, she's a real trouper. No complaints, no whining and she's ready to go back and do it all over again.

She'll be fine. No one gets through childhood unscathed. I know this. I also know that she will always have people she can rely on when things get rough. The Spawn has a strong support system of family and loved ones who will keep her on the right track and love her unconditionally.

Yes, she will be fine.

The jury is still out on me, though...