09.10.08
Remembering
I’ve been thinking a lot about tomorrow. I know I’m not alone when I say I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when the first jet struck the first of the twin towers. I remember it was a Tuesday. I was performing a procedure on a patient. It took all of my will power to stay focused on the procedure, but I could feel a numbness overtaking me. When the second plane struck, I was with another patient, performing the same procedure. It was a hectic day at work, and though I was grieving inside, and numb, and angry, and scared, I could not allow my feelings to interfere with the care of the patients. That evening when I went home, I watched the television until 4 AM and went to bed. I remember watching Peter Jennings on ABC, and I remember Diane Sawyer walking through New York as she picked up pieces of paper that had been blown out of one of the towers. I woke on the 12th at 6:30 AM and immediately turned the TV back on and watched until I had to leave for work. I remember the skies that day, devoid of jets, except the few fighter jets I watched fly overhead. All commercial aircraft were grounded.
For the next two weeks I sat glued to the TV whenever I could, wherever I could. I kept KWY, a Philadelphia news radio station, tuned in on the car radio. In the evenings while I had the TV on, I went to the major news networks web sites and read about all the victims. I looked at each face and read all of their biographies and the stories that were written about them. Then I stopped. I couldn’t watch it any more.
I was numb for months, but slowly the numbness wore off to be replaced by a deep seated, controlled rage. I wanted revenge! I watched our country prepare for war. I listened to horrible words spoken by many people about striking back, knowing that many of the words were twisting the facts, but I didn’t care, I wanted blood.
For the next two years, I supported our troops, “adopting” several individuals and platoons, and I spent thousands of dollars on supplies and postage to mail them each care packages on a monthly basis. I converted a room in my home to “the troops room” where I stored the supplies and shipping materials, and I found myself on a first name basis with the post mistress at my local post office. I wrote hundred of letters to each of my troops and learned of their birthdays, anniversaries, and when their unborn babies were expected to arrive. I even wrote to some of their wives.
Then I realized my country had gone crazy, and I stopped.
O.P.W.