I simply didn't have time to blog yesterday. I might have otherwise. I avoided the media coverage. (Not owning a TV makes that easier.)
A flash back to September 11th, 2001:
Irving Place the blog didn't exist yet. My blog at the time was a sad little specimen whose name I will not invoke.
I woke early, earlier than I would have otherwise, it being a day off for me. My roommate was knocking at my door. "They've bombed the Pentagon and the World Trade Center." I lay sleepily in bed for a few moments, considering rolling over and going back to sleep. The world could wait, and my pillow was soft.
My curiosity got the better of me, and I stumbled downstairs, where Brian was trying to get our dinky little TV working with a borrowed antenna. The scene that greeted me was one you all know. I don't remember if the second tower had been hit yet (it probably had) but I remember the smoke. I was awake then, no question. Going back to bed was no longer an option.
The sky was so improbably blue, and the smoke was so black. None of the commentators made sense.....they were in shock and had only sketchy info as it was. All we could do was watch. Then the collaspe. Then the other collapse. Then the rising cloud of grey that enveloped the island. Outside, our midwestern sky was clear and free of planes.
Part of me screamed that it wasn't real. Part of me screamed that our government was behind it or that even if the government didn't do it, our foreign policy led to it. Most of me was numb.
Brian went to work. Gretchen went to work. I had nowhere to go. I was on a 4 day week, due to economic hard times at work. I got on the internet and went ot the message board I frequent. Many of the posters I knew lived on the coast. Many lived in DC or New York. One worked at the Word Financial Center. Messages were posted, people checked in and sought news of each other. Details were exchanged. For hours, that was the only human contact I had. I thought about going in to work anyway, but decided that wouldn't be a good idea.
Got got tired of staring at the words onscreen, and I went to the back porch, where I fell asleep in the warm September sun. I dreamt of the images on the TV screen and the words on my computer screen.
I had to get out of the house, so I drove to the Red Cross and joined the throng of people giving blood. I hate giving blood, but I always did it anyway. This time around, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach was no different than the sick feeling I already had. The crowd chatted, watched the news reports, made quiet phone calls to loved ones. We gave, though we knew (deep down) that none of those who were in the buildings when they fell would be needing any blood. We gave anyway.
My pint taken, I drank the lemonade and ate the cookies and went home.
My friend Anandi had been battling cancer since the spring, and was finally nearing the end of her course of treatment. She was well enough to go out, and we had been planning on attending the regularTuesday night Pat show, which she hadn't been to in a long while. I called her up.
"I doubt that there will be a show tonight, but even if there is, I can't think of going."
"Me neither. Would you like to get together for coffee?"
We met at Perkins. We ate, we drank, we talked, we made shaky jokes. We took comfort in the presence of another person. She told me how her treatment was doing. I told her about my frustrating crush on a co-worker. We hugged and went home. Sleep took forever to come.
The next day was when I started to cry. I hadn't cried the day before. "Brown Eyed Girl" on the radio got the tears going. Then it was off to work.
It seemed strange to be going to work when the world had just ended, but it was good to be around people again. I gathered more details. Learned of the box cutters. (We use them all the time at work, and one of our sales women used to carry one in her purse when she flew to tradeshows...you never know when you will need to open a box.)
The next day, the 13th, the weather finally seemed appropriate. It was grey and chilled and raining. Just before noon, my supervisor asked me to come with her to see *her* supervisor. I was laid off. I wasn't the first and I wouldn't be the last, but that didn't make it hurt less. From that point on, I was balancing personal hurt with national tragedy. It was a strange and alien feeling and very sickening. My self-pity felt petty in contrast with what had just happened, but I felt it anyway.
I got through it. I moved on. I kept living.
Fast-forward to yesterday:
I woke early, earlier than I would have otherwise, to the sound of plane from the airport so near my apartment. I lay in bed and listened. No roommates this time, but my radio came on in time for the moment of silence to mark the first plane's impact, followed by a rendition of God Bless America.
The sky was improbably blue, but there was no smoke to mar it. I went to work, the same work as last year. Back again. After work I made dinner for a friend. We talked about advertising graphics and music and pretzels. This day also ended with hugs, this time filled with more sweetness than bittersweet. Sleep came easily.
Time heals.
