Nine years and one month ago, I was a brand new mommy. My perfect baby girl was just 3 days old. I was blissfully happy. Being Addy’s mommy was a lifelong dream come true. I would look at her and get tears in my eyes thinking about how perfectly my life had turned out. I was full of hope for her and our family and excited about the adventure ahead.
Nine years and one day ago, my sweet baby was barely a month old. Those first few weeks were surprisingly easy for me. She was fussy every night, but she ate well and she slept well and I took the advice of everyone and everything I read and I slept when she did, and I was madly in love with this little person who now took up all of my time and energy. Motherhood was everything I imagined it to be and I couldn’t wait to see what was next.
Nine years ago, my phone rang a little before 9am. Addy and I had been up early and then gone back to sleep. It was my mom calling from work to tell me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. She didn’t know much and I was half-asleep but I did go out to the living room and turn on the TV. I watched as a second plane flew into the South Tower. It was all so strange and hard to comprehend. It was obvious at that point that NYC was under attack. How was that even possible? Tom had been in California for a couple of days and was due to stay until the end of the week. I called him soon after the second plane crash. It was only 6am for him, so he was sleeping. I was panicked and upset as I told him to turn on the TV and briefly explained what was happening. We didn’t talk long, he needed to wake up and I was glued to the TV.
Not long after there were reports of an explosion at the Pentagon and then confirmation that it was a third plane crash. At that point I was terrified. I was looking at my perfectly new, innocent baby girl and wondering in what kind of world was she going to grow up. I desperately wanted Tom to be home with us and somehow I knew that wasn’t going to happen quickly.
Like everyone else in the world, I couldn’t stop watching. I watched the firemen bravely enter the buildings, it seemed like there were hundreds of them, and I gasped and cried as the first tower fell and my very first thought was of all those firemen…more victims…
Could it possibly get any worse? Then came the report of the fourth plane crash, Flight 93 had crashed in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania. I didn’t know what to think at that point. Were we at war? Was it ever going to stop? New York, Washington DC, now Pennsylvania, where was the next target?
And so began the waiting game…the world was waiting to see what the United States would do, the nation was waiting for reassurance that we were safe, countless loved ones were waiting for news about their husbands, wives, sons, daughters, friends, and I was waiting in my little house for word that Tom could come home and I could have my family back together again safe and sound.
That day changed me, changed the way I looked at the world, I knew it even then. We had witnessed pure evil in real life on a grand scale, and we were watching it replay over and over 24/7 for days and then weeks, what do you do with that? For a long time I didn’t know. I thought about the possibility of Addy growing up in a country where terrorist attacks were a fact of life. Up until then, as far as I was concerned, that was something that happened on the other side of the world, to people I had little in common with. If we went to war, would it be fought on American soil and how would that affect our daily lives. I had nightmares for weeks. I would get nervous in public, especially in crowds or if I was sitting in a movie theater, or on an elevator…and I admit, there was discomfort and uncertainty when I saw people who were Middle Eastern. I didn’t fly for 6 years and I hated when people I knew and loved did. Of course, life went on. People found their way back to normal. Our day-to-day activities weren’t really affected so much after all. I chose to have two more babies and I don’t worry that they will be victims of a terrorist attack, or collateral damage in a war fought on American soil, and I still feel fortunate to live in this amazing country, but I will never again believe that it can’t or won’t happen here.
I believe everything happens for a reason, that there is something to learn even in tragedy, that good can be found in the darkest places…but I’ll admit I worry about this one…I will forever wonder why? Did we learn the lessons we were supposed to learn? Are we doing enough to keep the memory alive or will all of those heroes be forgotten? Have we really found the good, or has it only bred more hate, division, and intolerance in the world? Have we healed?
Until later…
