Tuesday started out like any other day, with one notable exception. Jim and I had had a silly tiff the night before and I was uncharacteristically silent as I drove him to the train station. He kissed me on the cheek, got out of the car and said, "Love you, hon," as he always did.
I wanted him to suffer a bit longer, so I said sarcastically, "Yeah, yeah, right." He shut the car door and walked away quite cheerfully, knowing I would call him when he arrived at work.
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How can I explain the fear that gripped me? After the initial hysterical tears, I began to think about all the good times we've had together, and the fact that we've had so few problems during our 24 years of marriage that we were due for a big hit. And, inevitably, it occurred to me that I had not told him I loved him that particular morning. |
That was the last time I heard his voice for six agonizing hours.
When the towers collapsed, I was frantic. I knew that he always passed through the World Trade Center on his way to work, and I was afraid he had gone back there to try to exit the city.
My ever-active, too fertile imagination went into overdrive and I pictured him crushed beneath tons of rubble. I tried to call his office, but to no avail. He was missing in action. His building had been evacuated and he was somewhere on the streets of New York City.
I began to get phone calls from dear friends around the country who wanted to know if he was safe. I could only keep repeating, "I don't know, I just don't know." A friend who works farther uptown in Manhattan called with his address and told me that if Jim called, I should tell him to meet him there. The city was in a panic, the bridges, tunnels were closed, and Jim would need someplace to go, he said.
How can I explain the fear that gripped me? After the initial hysterical tears, I began to think about all the good times we've had together, and the fact that we've had so few problems during our 24 years of marriage that we were due for a big hit. And, inevitably, it occurred to me that I had not told him I loved him that particular morning.
We plod through our days so complacently, and then suddenly everything changes. All those ordinary people who left for work Tuesday had no idea that within an hour or two, they would be dead, injured or wandering like hollow-eyed zombies through the streets of Manhattan.
Tourists who were enjoying the sights and sounds of New York City witnessed a horror they'll never forget, one that will change their lives forever. Innocent passengers and crews on four airplanes experienced a terror in their last moments that nobody should ever be subjected to (except, perhaps, the terrorists themselves).
Yesterday, my happy little world suddenly became hostile and insane. Every time the phone rang, I grabbed it and gasped a hello, only to have my hopes dashed as I heard the voice of one or another of my friends.
My wonderful friends ... how do you tell them "Thanks for caring, but keep the damned phone clear"? I was being ravaged by a plethora of emotions.
I was sure Jim was dead. When you're married to someone for 24 years, don't you just get a gut feeling about these things? My imagination had bamboozled me into thinking I could physically feel the absence of his soul. He was gone forever. I cannot tell you how strongly I believed he was dead. (He will probably be upset if he reads this and finds out I had already figured out what music would be played at his funeral.)
At 3:30 p.m., the phone rang and I heard his beautiful voice (the voice that I had once mean-spiritedly joked was too high-pitched). I burst into tears and sobbed as he told me he was safe and was on his way home. He had walked six miles and was limping, but he was alive!
Lines at telephone booths were long and when he did finally get a free line, the circuits were tied up. At one point, he thought he had gotten through, but our line was busy. I cried harder, knowing I was probably chatting with a friend.
And at the station, I hugged him and wetted his shirt with my tears and told him that I would never fight with him again, that he could leave the toilet seat up anytime he wanted to, and that I would mow the lawn for the entire following month. In short, I acted like an incoherent loon. He held me tightly.
Later that night, the realization hit me that I was so very, very lucky. There are thousands of people whose spouses, children, parents, siblings or friends will never walk through that door again.
There will be no more loving kisses, Sundays in the park, or bedtime stories. There won't be any more hugs, dinners in restaurants, or birthday celebrations. There are folks waiting by phones, hoping for a phone call that will never come, or dreading the phone call that will.
My prayers go out to those people because having experienced that sort of fear Tuesday, even if for only six hours, I know what they are going through. Never again will I be able to be detached when I read breaking news about a tragedy, because the victims and their families will no longer be faceless strangers to me. They are me. They are all of us.
If one thing good comes out of this whole tragedy, it may be that we never again take for granted the next sunrise, a child's kiss on the cheek, or a soft spring rainfall.
If we can hug the person nearest to us and say, "Thank God I have you for one more day, one more hour or one more minute," all will not have been lost.
This article is copyright 2001 by Minx McCloud and appears here with permission.
May we also suggest:
The American Red Cross home page