When you ask people what their first vivid memory is, I assume most would say some sort of joyous occasion – when they got their first pet, when their siblings were born, or something similar. Mine was September 11, 2001. I was six years old when the world stopped turning.
For my family, firefighting is the family business. My great-great-grandfather founded a volunteer fire unit more than a century ago. My great-grandfather helped start another volunteer unit. My grandfather became chief of his town’s volunteer fire department, where he still responds to fires at 84 years old alongside my uncles, my cousins and my brother-in-law. My dad started as a volunteer firefighter in that same department as soon as he was eligible. He just retired a few months ago from the FDNY after an incredible 39-year career.
When I moved from New York to South Dakota almost three years ago, I knew there would be some things I’d need to adjust to but one that continues to surprise me is that September 11 is a seemingly normal day here, not the somber day of remembrance that I’ve grown to know. This year is the first year in the past twenty-three that I won’t be spending September 11 back home with my family so I asked my bosses if I could honor the day and those lost by sharing some insights with all my colleagues about what the day means to those who were closest to it....
September 11, 2001 – I was a week into second grade, sixty miles from New York City. It was a day like today – unseasonably warm, the brightest blue sky and not a cloud in sight. My neighbor picked myself and a handful of other kids up from school during recess. We all thought we were being pulled out early to go to an amusement park or somewhere fun. That was the kind of neighborhood that I grew up in. But that afternoon, when we arrived at my house and a handful of neighbors were there comforting my mom, I learned that we also lived in a neighborhood that showed up for the bad times just as quickly as the good ones.
The next few weeks were a blur, but I remember my mom always had our portable house phone in her hand or within eyesight, waiting for a phone call that thankfully never came. She was a superhuman in every sense of the word during the weeks, months and years that followed. My dad came home on September 22, 2001, his 40th birthday. I remember being so excited to see him. Only recently did I look at the photos from that day and realize that his eyes are hollow and blank. Like any good father would, he didn’t let his 6- and 8-year-old daughters catch on that he had just spent 11 days around death and destruction. He spent the day with us, thanked us for his gifts, probably let us stay awake longer than we should have, and then he went back to New York City and back to recovering victims from the pile.
September 11 wasn’t a one-day event. It was weeks of very limited contact for families of first responders, months of recovering victims for a department that was used to rescuing them, years of PTSD and decades of 9/11 related illnesses for those who spent extended periods of time in the rubble.
Twenty-three years later, my dad still hasn’t shared many details of the things he saw during those first few months at the pile.
During an interview nearly a decade ago, he said: “Time got lost at Ground Zero. You’d be there for a couple of days, then back to the firehouse, then back to Ground Zero. It was unbelievable, you could never imagine. You can’t forget about it. A piece of me was lost that day.”
343 members of the FDNY lost their lives on September 11, 2001. Google says the average person will attend 50-70 funerals in their lifetime. My dad, and many FDNY firefighters, attended over 100 funerals between October 2001 and February 2002 – and hundreds more in the months and years following. The most recent was this past Saturday for a good friend who lost his battle to 9/11-related cancer.
Today, on the twenty-third anniversary of the tragic day, the number of members lost to 9/11-related illnesses has surpassed 343, the number lost that dreaded day. Twenty-three years later, more than 11,000 members of the FDNY are currently experiencing some kind of World Trade Center illness. Out of that, more than 3500 are suffering with a form of cancer.
Like I said, September 11 wasn’t a one-day event.
A year ago, my dad became one of the 3500 after being diagnosed with metastatic squamous cell carcinoma from that Tuesday morning in 2001 and years of exposure afterwards. Last year, instead of spending the day at memorial services, he spent September 11 in a full day of radiation and chemotherapy. Thankfully, they caught his tumors early and treatment was successful. With monitoring and follow ups, he should have decades of Septembers left.
The memories of that day in 2001 are forever engraved in my mind, the same way that the names of thousands of heroes are engraved on memorials all over the country. So today, as you go about your day, please take a minute to remember those who lost their lives in 2001 and the years since, as well as those who continue to battle, all of whom would likely do it all over again just to protect others.
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