This story was originally written on the 10th anniversary of the attack on the WTC. Some stories bear repeating. This is one of them.
This originally appeared as a series of comments. I removed the author's name, not because he sought to hide his identity. But because his words are powerful enough they do not need the imprimatur of his name to give them weight. He did not write this for accolades or celebrity. He wrote it to remember. I share it so it will not be forgotten.
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September 10, 2011 at 2:05 pm
Tuesday Morn
When the first plane struck, I made my morning cup of coffee; when the second plane struck, I when out to walk my dogs (another day in New York, I thought). When the first Tower fell, I went into auto drive and become the doctor- it was not a political crisis, but a medical emergency. I prepared to dress for the part: Armani suit, silk tie, suede Ferangamo shoes. To my chest, I slapped on every Hospital badge and ID like a soldier adorning himself with medals and epaulets.
I knew in the chaos, conventional medicine would be useless and “looking the part” was all important. In retrospect- it was hubris and futility.
On staff at the only hospital near the World Trade Center, I automatically headed downtown (in the opposite direction of the evacuating movement). And living next to Rescue One-the famous “Fireman to the Fireman” unit, I asked to “hitch a ride”. “Sure, doc, hop on board”….only we detoured from the hospital and charged right for the “site”. After a five minute delay secondary to engine trouble-FIVE minutes-our truck loaded with solders for battle or perhaps more like a pen of enraged bulls clueless why they follow the red cape, chased a giant red fireball one-quarter of a mile in the sky. We careened through the city, slaloming down the West Side Highway at break-neck speed–as if an extra minute would make such a life-saving difference. Hubris and futility.
We arrived at the site and looked for “parking”. As fitting to our unit’s high ranking status, we bypassed a long red phalanx of fire trucks and parked dead center: the point zero of ground zero. A small area between the two Towers. I gulped a liter of water because the other firefighters did the same: monkey see, monkey do. The North Tower loomed above me, like a giant match stick aflame. I was so near that I could see the debris so clearly…but why did falling debris have flailing arms and legs? The bright orange fireball belching at will and without restraint seemed greater than anything seen on TV.
A fireman handed to me a large metal pick axe: I had reached Manly Heaven, Macho Nirvana, cocaine Bliss -a primitive violent heavy tool in my soft doctor hands- I was accepted into the Club. Like the Charge of the Light Brigade and the Magnificent Seven and the Dirty Dozen we strapped on our macho finest and strode into the burning North Tower. I never said brave or smart: after two fire-bomb plane crashes and a complete tower collapse, we headed into a blazing building defying the laws of gravity (as if my pick ax and Armani would protect me).
I craned my neck for my gaze to reach the 105 stories above my head as I asked the fireman by my side, “how do you guys get up there?”. “We have our ways”. Right on cue: Tower One’s antenna gave a subtle tilt before beginning its piercing descent-and heading for the street.
One of the world’s tallest buildings was falling before my eyes-and over my head. It was so bright and clear, it took me a moment to realize the scene was NOT a movie. No fear, only amazement (in fact a nameless firefighter had to yank me from my trance and instruct me to run for your life). When I saw a stampede of rough, brave, uniformed rescue workers running AWAY, I knew it was time to go
September 10, 2011 at 10:07 pm
Tuesday Morn (continued)
Thousands of husbands and wives watched the television as their spouses escaped the collapse; my wife watched knowing we were heading in to that very photo op, just as 1,400 feet of man- made might disappeared into a cloud of dust. We started to run, but we were not faster than the hailstorm of concrete and steel. A nameless fireman body checked me to the ground and towards the closest car. “Crawl under (or die)” .The dirty street, I thought, what about my Armani pants! Hubris. The first thunderous shower of steel meteors sent me to my knees and belly. “Wait…” Then the seconds wave, a torrential downpour of broken glass ripped the protective car above us. “Wait…” a third wave, the deceptively dangerous dust cloud engulfed us all. The grey particles consumed the very sunlight of that morning creating instant darkness; the coarse aerosol of crushed concrete and cremated humans penetrated the safety of our shelter and then my lungs. With damage from chemotherapy and asthma, my lungs went into instant bronchospasm. I had my last breath. I calculated how much air I had remaining and how distant was the nearest ambulance. I did the math: I would not make it. I lay down to die. I did not see my life before me; I saw my Armani pants, silk tie and all those badges- the hubris, the futility. Not only would I not save anyone, I would die in a pile of dirt- literally.
With acceptance comes calm. With calm, the ability to think and survive.
September 11, 2011 at 9:43 pm
Tuesday Morn After the Fall
His arm blindly thrusting through the darkness, the nameless fireman trapped underneath our car handed me some gauze to shove down my throat. I took thimble-sized breathes through the makeshift filter until the blackness became grey. I bolted to where I remembered the ambulance to be and spying a soldier receiving treatment, I instinctively perceived his weakness and ripped the oxygen mask from his trembling face and placed it on my own. I sucked in the sweetest breath: I was reborn.
All of us who survived that moment, galvanized by heat, dust and history, felt a sort of Valhalla invincibility. After two plane crashes, two tower collapses, multiple fires, threats of future car bombings, loss of medical supplies, breakdown of leadership and communication we went into the next burning building. When the Fire Captain said Get Out, we did not listen; when trucks broke down, we walked; when our shoes melted, we took a pair from the dead. (True, an explosion can knock a person out of their shoes, thus the plaza – devoid of human life- was littered with empty, perfect shoes) Our medical expertise (and hubris) was useless to those already Lost, and injured rescue workers refused to leave their positions, thus into the breach, crevices, caves, piles, and burning structures we went.
My service to the dead would come not from my medical training, genius or bravery. My gift that day was to do what other men-firemen, policemen, soldiers who are trained to face death and violence- could not do. Not a hero, but a ghoul, a sociopath, an automaton with no “off” button; a surgeon who can cut, a dog who can dig. When someone stepped away, I stepped in. When I came home, my body and clothes were soaked- not with my hard working sweat- but the secretions and body fluids of the “Lucky”‘ because they were the ones found. Unlike images of the dusty American flag or twisted-steel crosses, what was seen those first few hours will not become iconic…or be seen at all.
I rode in a parade with the Governor, stood with the Mayor on the steps of St Patrick’s Cathedral (for the funeral of the Captain of Rescue One), watched Howard L. inspire in a synagogue; work the flaming piles of the site and the piles at the Staten Island landfills. I did pet therapy with my dogs in the tents on the West Side Highway and did 20 medical shows on television. I went to reunions for Cantor to secretly put a face on the bodies I dug up. I collected dust from the site to plant with a tree for our classmates on campus.
My fellow rescuers (all doctors or ex military) are all divorced or are PTSD. I was expelled, detained or arrested by the military, Port Authority or NYPD at various times for returning to work the site (automaton with no “off” switch, remember). I still have my shoes and Armani suit.
I obsessed always and wrote never for ten years…thus I thank you.