Reflection on the 10th Anniversary - 9/11

The Amazing Grace Series
AMAZING GRACE FOR FATHERS
Copyright © 2006 Ascension Press, LLC

A FATHER’S LOVE ... 9/11

Why me? It’s a question often posed to God by people forced to endure hardships. Ironically, it is the exact same question often asked by people who survive a catastrophe while others die. It is the very question that haunted me after I escaped from Tower 1 of the World Trade Center in New York City on September 11, 2001.
Why me? Why did God allow me to narrowly escape and return to my family? I knew that my colleagues loved their spouses and children as much as I loved mine; but so many never had the chance to see their families again. When I returned home after the surreal terror of 9/11, embracing my wife and children and thanking God for my life were the only things that mattered to me. But…why me? Why was I granted such a blessing beyond measure while so many others lost their lives and their loved-ones.
I do not recall many of the details of my ride on the Long Island Rail Road to Manhattan that morning. I loved my job as a money market broker with Garban Intercapital, a brokerage firm, so I likely was thinking of what I was going to do at work that day. Often, I prayed a Rosary for my family. They were everything to me. Roxane and I had married in 1989. We had three children: Nicholas, age nine; Brianna age 5; and the baby, Samantha, would be one in December. I grew up in a strong Catholic family. Although there had been an ebb and flow to my religious practice, once I experienced the all-encompassing love of fatherhood, God became my all. Fatherhood was the core of my being now and I became painfully aware that my infinite love for my family was not enough, I could never love my children enough to fully protect them physically and spiritually. I had to do my best and then trust God to do the rest.
As I stepped out of the subway that Tuesday morning, I was greeted by a perfect fall day. The air was crisp enough to put a jaunt in everyone’s step as we headed to our destinations under a clear blue sky. I took the elevator up to the 25th floor, headed to the trading desk and quickly got on the phone with a customer amid the din of a busy trading floor. It was business as usual. Then, just before 9 a.m., a deafening explosion or some sort of impact rocked the building. I literally fell out of my chair. The building swayed like a reed but then righted itself. Outside, glass and paper showered from above. Screams pierced the air as horrified faces looked around trying to make sense out of what had just happened. My best guess was that maybe the restaurant at the top had experienced an explosion or perhaps a small helicopter had crashed into the building.
Within seconds, terrified people began evacuating. I stayed and answered the phone, explaining to a customer that something bad had happened and we did not know what it was yet. Then thirty seconds after the first impact, there was a second explosion. Later, I learned that after the first plane hit, jet fuel spilled down the elevator shaft and ignited. A ball of fire careened down the shaft and exploded when it impacted the lobby. Again, the building shook. An old friend and colleague, Marie, shouted like a drill sergeant ordering everyone to get out. My boss, Nick, was the last to leave the trading desk, following right behind me.
At that point, everyone quickly began filing out. My body had stiffened but I felt no panic. That all changed when I tried to get onto the stairwell and discovered that people were packed like sardines. I could not even get on it. Ceiling tiles were cracking and displacing, and smoke drifted into the hallways.
For the first time it registered that I might not get out alive. “Dear God,” I pleaded. “Please let me see my family again.” I frantically looked around. My eyes met a colleague, Omar, who called to me.
“I know another way out,” he told us. We gratefully followed him into a stairwell across from the men’s room. It was much smaller and narrower. I had always thought it was the door to a closet. Although this stairwell was filling up, we could still get in. Relief filled me as we headed down the stairs, trusting that we would soon get out. There was even some lighthearted banter as we hurried down the stairs, trusting that we would soon get out. But when I arrived at the 16th floor, the second tower was hit. No one had any idea what was going on, but we felt the impact and inhaled the smell of jet fuel. Now, it was clear that whatever was happening was no accident.
My only thoughts were prayers to God, pleading to see my family again. Yet, panic clouded my head, making prayer difficult. “I’m sorry God,” I said in frustration, struggling unsuccessfully to pray a coherent sentence. My being longed for two things: to get home in the embrace of my family and get to church in the embrace of God. I knew He was with me, but I could not mentally verbalize anything. I knew God felt my feelings and that was all I could manage. I thought of an aunt and uncle, both of whom had recently died. Somehow, I felt their presence and I pleaded for their help.
When I reached the 12th floor, a voice echoed up the stairwell, commanding us to leave. It was the fire department. My survival instincts refused to consider such an option. There’s no way I’m getting of this stairway, I thought, fearing I’d never get back on. It’s the only way out. No one was willing to budge. The firemen were forced to squeeze their way past us. I flattened myself onto the railing and watched the seemingly fearless lieutenant mount the steps. Behind him were a dozen young men in fire suits and helmets, carrying axes and fire hose. Their eyes revealed something terrible but we knew not what. We absorbed their fear and the stairwell went silent. After they passed, my heart raced to a dizzying pulse. “Please God, let me get home,” I begged. In my mind, I saw my wife and children and felt their embrace. I desperately pleaded to God to get me home to them.
A woman just behind us struggled to help a man in his 60s down the stairs. He was asthmatic and the smoke that was descending had rendered him almost helpless. Another colleague, Bruce, and I each took an arm and helped him down. Water from the sprinkler system make the stairway slick, so each step to survival had to be carefully measured. But we were almost there. Finally, the door to the mezzanine level of the lobby opened like a river releasing a flood of people. The chandeliers overhead rattled and the surrounding window glass lay around us in shards. A police officer who saw us helping the older man took over. He warned us not to look around – to just get out. But it was impossible to avoid seeing pockets of fire and charred body parts strewn about.
My mind could not process what my eyes took in. The police directed the survivors away from the building. We had to wait for a police officer, across an open-air breezeway from the North Tower to 6 World Trade Center, to call us over. He was looking up to make sure we were clear of falling debris and falling bodies. From 6 World Trade Center we went to a pedestrian highway overpass. When I got to the overpass there was a thunderous roar. People screamed. I thought to myself, “My God, not again.” But it was the sound of U.S. fighter jets that had made it to The World Trade Center.” Then there were crashing sounds. I looked over to my building and saw someone go crashing through the overhang. People were jumping. The police kept directing us away. We crossed the street to The World Financial Center and proceeded to the promenade on the Hudson River. Once there, I finally stopped and looked up at the towers. I could see where the impact was on Tower 1. Smoke billowed out of both towers, which now glowed red with flames. People below the impact zones were waving handkerchiefs and jumping. I saw people holding hands jumping together. One man – who was engulfed in flames when he jumped out the window – went down in a stream of smoke. It was incomprehensible.
I was still with my boss and three colleagues as we were directed to keep moving. We were about 200 yards from Tower 1, directly west. My boss lived in New Jersey, so he told us to get on a ferry so we could all go his house. Two ferries pulled in at that moment so we got right on. The boats filled to capacity within minutes. As our ferry pulled out, I couldn’t take my eyes off what was happening. My boss turned his back, unable to watch. A few minutes into the trip, Tower 2 went down. Dust and debris filled the air. Lower Manhattan completely disappeared from view.
Like stricken war refugees, people were exhausted and numb, many of them crying. Our group quietly got off the ferry together and boarded a train to Nick’s home in Franklin Lakes, NJ. My first instinct was to reach Roxane, but the cell networks were overloaded with calls. She’s afraid I’m dead, I thought. Dear God, I prayed, please comfort Roxane. Help me get through to her.
Two hours after we boarded the ferry, I sat with my colleagues at Nick’s house. It was a beautiful day in a quiet neighborhood, as if the unimaginable nightmare we had just escaped from had never even happened. I was finally able to get through to Roxane on my cell. “Honey, I’m OK,” I cried. “I’m at Nick’s house.” The relief on finally connecting with her opened a floodgate of emotions. Words escaped me. Roxane, too, could not speak. For many minutes we sobbed together on the phone. Many of our friends and relatives were at our house with her. I longed to get home, but I was so grateful that we had finally made contact.
Transportation to and from the city was blocked, so it would not be until the next day that I found a way home. A cousin, who was returning from business in Chicago, came through to get me. When the car pulled up in front of my house, late Wednesday morning, again my emotions flowed. Roxane and the kids came running out to meet me, along with my mother and mother-in-law and other relatives. “Daddy” my kids screamed and jumped into my arms. Hearing them say “Daddy” was the sweetest sound I had ever heard. Roxane and I sobbed as we embraced. I was overcome with gratitude to God and sheer joy at being reunited with my loved ones. I saw every aspect of my life as a priceless treasure that I had been privileged enough to return to.
I felt physically weak and mentally exhausted, but my spirit soared in the embraced of my family, I spent the day surrounded by people, crying and sharing my story. The next day, I wanted to take Nicholas to his school. St. Agnes, and then attend morning Mass.
“Bye, Dad,” Nicholas said giving me a huge hug. But when he pulled away and saw tears streaming down my cheeks, he became concerned. “Are you OK, Dad?” he asked. “Yes” I insisted. “I just love you very much.” I kissed and hugged my precious son again and told him I would see him after school.
I got back in my car and drove to the church entrance. But as I walked to the church door, all my strength drained from me. I literally needed to support myself on each pew as I pulled myself up to the front of the church. Then, I collapsed in the front pew and cried harder than I have ever cried in my life. All my emotions – fear, joy, thankfulness, love … everything – poured forth. And guilt. I had been blessed beyond measure to be reunited with my family, but what about all of the others. Fifty members of my community never returned home. At that point I did not know the numbers, but I had no doubt that those who did not make it out had loved their family as deeply as I loved mine. Someone from behind me rubbed my back as it shook and heaved between sobs. They never said a word but their touch consoled me.
Tears flowed continuously throughout Mass. Thankfully, the priest always brought communion to those sitting in the front pew: I would not have had the strength to get up. After people received Holy Communion, they all made contact with me by patting my back, or squeezing my hand. I did not know who they were, but I appreciated their desire to comfort me.
After Mass, Msgr. Caldwell, the celebrant, came over and talked with me. Through tears, I admitted that although I had never wanted anything more in my life than to survive, now I struggle with the question, Why me?
“What makes me so special?” I asked. “So many of my friends and colleagues died that day. They had young kids just like me. Why didn’t they survive as I did?”
Msgr. Caldwell patted my arm. “That is something you do not need to know,” he said quietly. “God has plans for you. It’s not meant for you to figure it out.” I know Msgr. Caldwell was right. His words brought me comfort, but my grief for the others was still tinged with guilt.
A couple of days later, our company set up temporary operations in another office space. Everyone was invited to return to work as they felt able. For the next few days, I stayed home with Roxane, playing with and reading to the kids and helping them with their homework. Physically, I still felt weak; as if I was recovering from the flu. But, by the following Wednesday I returned to work. For weeks, the work seemed meaningless, but the camaraderie was intense. We would go out for long ‘therapeutic’ lunches and share our stories and emotions with one another. I still could not completely shake the guilt, but it was reassuring to be with friends who survived also.
Life gradually returned to normal, although it was never the same. Then, a year and a half later, in April of 2003, Roxane was diagnosed with a brain tumor on her left optic nerve. An MRI revealed it was benign. On May 5th she went in for what was expected to be a routine operation as far as brain surgery goes. The surgery lasted 10 hours; three hours longer than expected, but her recovery looked good. By the following day, however, fluid began to build up on her brain and her condition became critical. The situation worsened to the point that we did not know if she would live or die. It was necessary to put her in a medically induced state of unconsciousness while the doctors worked furiously to control the swelling. I again prayed for survival; this time for Roxane’s.
On the day of Roxane’s surgery, a priest had come to visit the hospital. I shared my 9/11 story with him and confessed that I still carried a lot of guilt that I had survived while so many others did not. “Don’t you see,” he said to me. “Who would take care of Roxane and the kids if you were not here? Your family needs you,” he said. “God still has work for you to do.”
As I stepped in and took over for my family, acceptance and understanding grew in me. Previously, I had mentally understood the reality of God’s will, but now I was experiencing on a deeper level. I was here because God still had a purpose for me in this world. It doesn’t mean that those that died are not missed terribly, but it is God’s call. There is always pain and loss beyond our choosing. I do not need to feel guilty for still being with my family. I am a husband and a father, here at God’s bidding to love and serve those in my life.
Since September 11th, my desire to serve others has increased tenfold – beginning with my family. God still wants me here for a purpose. It is not for me to question, but only to meld my will to His and bask in the blessings He gives me.
Roxane eventually made a full recovery. Our trials have been our triumphs. Life’s joys have been magnified since our brush with death. As for me, not a day goes by that I don’t think about 9/11 to one extent or another. I would have never chosen to go through it, but I have grown because of it. My thankfulness runs much deeper. I see also that it has brought out the best in people. Immediately following the tragedy, there was a great outpouring of love and caring. In a city where people rarely acknowledge one another, Churches filled and people wanted to reach out and help others in need.
When Roxane needed to be taken care of for a while, our community rallied around us with meals, cleaning and a multitude of help. Our children have witnessed the response of adults. They have learned that comforting others also brings comfort to you.
When I recently brought Nicholas to volunteer at a soup kitchen, we both loved the experience. I believed in helping others before, but it’s different now. Those of us who experienced 9/11 live life on a deeper level than we did before. We understand that love is what matters most; and that is a blessing.
• Michael Fineo