![[dr. bob]](/dr-bob-sm.gif)
Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 17 of 17. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
My father is still alive.
Until yesterday, his office was on the 78th floor of One World Trade Center, the North Tower and the first to be hit. His office faced south. Had it faced north, he would be dead. I phoned him within the first minute of my seeing the news break on CNN. It was fortuitous that I had decided to switch the channel to watch the news. I had become disinterested in the episode of a M.A.S.H. rerun that I was watching, for I had already seen it a dozen times or so. My father had no idea what had happened. He and his co-workers were not terribly alarmed before I called. They knew something had happened, for they felt the building shake a bit. However, they were not terribly alarmed. At first, I figured the building had been hit by one of the many small private planes that frequently fly up and down the Hudson River, usually at altitudes substantially lower than the top of the building. My father often remarked at how strange it was to be able to watch these planes fly below eye level. I wasn't particularly alarmed either, especially in light of how a similar event occurred at the 86th floor of Empire State Building years ago with very little sequale.
No sooner had I hung up the phone, when one of the commentators reported that it might have been a Boeing 737. I immediately called him back. By that time, he and his co-workers had decided to leave the building. I actually delayed their departure by thiry seconds or so because my father had to return to his office to answer the phone. I went back to watching CNN. As I was watching, the silouette of an airplane caught my eye coming into view from the right. I remember thinking that it was just someone in another of those those small planes flying by, probably there to gawk at the damaged building and the and fire that was raging between the 80th and 85th floors. Within seconds, a huge explosion occured on the left side of the screen. It was Two World Trade Center, the South Tower. I hadn't made the connection, but I was worried that my father might just be reaching the floor opposite this fireball. Still, I was not terribly worried. The World Trade Center was invincible. February 26, 1993 proved it. Then, CNN said something about two planes being involved. Why should I worry? It was probably just some other fool in a Cessna.
I didn't know what to be more afraid of - the burning of the building or my father having to climb down 78 flights of stairs. It had been only three weeks since he underwent cardiac surgery to place a stent in a previously grafted bypass. Somewhere in my mind, I hoped that he would die quickly, and prayed that he shouldn't be burned alive. I figured it might be too much to hope that the elevators might be working. For some reason, though, I began to think and act as if everything would be alright, and that my father would call and come home that evening - just like always. This was not some sort of justified optimism. I don't think my mind would permit any other thoughts.
He had just stepped out the door, exiting the lobby, when he was literally blown back through the door by what must have been a hurricane-force wind. The South Tower had just at that moment collapsed. Lethal debris blew by him harmlessly, as he watched from the other side of the glass. Had he arrived at the door thirty seconds earlier - the thirty seconds I had delayed him with my second phone call - he would be dead.
By this time, I was already with my mother at my parents' house. It was difficult to know what to think, how to think, what to feel. I guess I am by nature a positive person. I think this is somehow different from being optimistic. I began to develop a timeline of my own in my mind, looking at my wrist-watch every few minutes as I monitored the events unfolding on the television. I knew the building. I had been in it or under it almost every day for several years. I had walked through the maze of unfinished corridors, ever-changing and partitioned by walls of hastily-erected green-painted plywood, as year by year they constructed the underground shopping mall and beautified the new subway stations. I approached the whole thing with a sort of logic based upon my knowledge of the building and its surroundings. As each minute passed, I became more and more optimistic that my father would make it. I prayed that he would think to leave the area rather than remain near the building to watch what was going on a thousand feet over his head.
There reached a point in time when I predicted he would just be reaching the bottom of the building and on his way out. He was safe, as long as he would retreat to a location sufficiently far from the building to avoid the falling debris. I had in my mind an image of him standing across the street in the park on Liberty Street, just across from the Merril Lynch building at 140 Broadway, or perhaps on Church Street near the coffee shop on the corner. This was far too close. However, I couldn't imagine that he would do anything different than what New Yorkers usually do. Watch.
Then something monstrous happened. A cloud of orange-brown smoke filled the air with explosive force. A panoramic view of downtown Manhattan showed it to be almost entirely lost in a cloud of what looked like dirt. I couldn't figure out what had happened. I couldn't believe that any kind of bomb could produce such an event. How can this be? I had to assume that it was indeed a bomb, because no other idea came to mind. What I couldn't figure out, though, was the color of the smoke. I couldn't account for it. There were no buildings in the area built of red bricks - at least, not for many years. I told my mother that I was now very much more worried about this new explosion than the events occuring above in the towers. If my father was indeed in the park or near the coffee shop, he would surely be dead. Thirty seconds.
As the cloud began to discipate, it became horrifically evident that the South Tower was gone. It had imploded and collapsed to the ground. Now, I hoped that I underestimated the time that it takes to climb down 78 flights of stairs. Logically, I knew that if everything had gone just right, he could possibly still be alive. Logically, it *was* possible. I explained to my mother how things might have happened, and that Dad was still OK because he was probably still in the North Tower when the South Tower collapsed. To have hope, and to releive us of the hysteria that had been building up to a crescendo, we were counting on my father still being in the North Tower. We enjoyed several minutes of reprise. I remember my lungs filling completely with air as I sighed with relief. Then, right before our eyes, we watched in disbelief as the second tower, an icon of the indestructable and a mammoth of invincibility, collapsed like a house of cards into nothingness. In our minds and hearts, so went my father. My mother began to cry. I hugged her with console with the recognition of defeat and irreconcileable loss.
I don't know what allows me to become so strong in times of family crises when I cannot leave the couch the moment before they occur. It has always been my role to be the director and manage these situations. It is hard to believe that I become the one most capable of functioning in this capacity, but I do. Still, I hoped that somehow my father would emerge from this catastrophe unscathed. He always seems to land on his feet and beat the odds. We expect him to. He did. He called from a hotel located 5 blocks uptown. At the time, my mother was in the kitchen and I remained in the den, continuing to watch the television. People were calling the house every few minutes - friends, family, co-workers. Suddenly, mother began screaming hysterically. Without a doubt, it sounded as if she had just received confirmation that her husband - her lifemate - was dead and gone forever. But I knew better. Logic dictated to me that it was my father on the phone, for a confirmation of death so soon under the circumstances of tumult and disorganization surrounding the events was unlikely. I smiled with relief and my eyes filled with tears of joy, even before my mother stopped screaming and gave hint that it was indeed my father on the phone.
Within 15 or 20 minutes, I returned to my more usual state of depression, and became mute and vegetative. It's amazing what a little crisis can do every now and then.
It is fortunate that things didn't develop in such a way as to have demanded more of me. I don't think I could have climbed much higher a mountain. I am so infuriated by the limits imposed upon me by this illness. God damn it.
Thank God that today, my family and I are still living the lives that are familiar to us.
I guess I just wanted to relate what it was like to be so close to such a disaster. We are so lucky. So, so lucky.
My heart aches for all of you who were not as lucky as we were. I don't know what else I can say, except I'm sorry. I can grieve with you because for a short while, I did.
Sincerely,
ScottPlease forgive my lack of proof-reading.
Posted by fluffykitty on September 12, 2001, at 12:36:55
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
> My father is still alive.
>
Im very happy to hear and thanks for the narrative. Apparently someone I knew and worked with some years ago was on flight 11 that hit the WTC. Its horrific.fk
Posted by tina on September 12, 2001, at 12:41:21
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
I'm glad to hear that your Dad is ok, Scott.
Im up in Canada so i only know what I've seen on tv and the net.
Your post sure made it "real"
warm thoughts to you and your family
> My father is still alive.
>
> Until yesterday, his office was on the 78th floor of One World Trade Center, the North Tower and the first to be hit. His office faced south. Had it faced north, he would be dead. I phoned him within the first minute of my seeing the news break on CNN. It was fortuitous that I had decided to switch the channel to watch the news. I had become disinterested in the episode of a M.A.S.H. rerun that I was watching, for I had already seen it a dozen times or so. My father had no idea what had happened. He and his co-workers were not terribly alarmed before I called. They knew something had happened, for they felt the building shake a bit. However, they were not terribly alarmed. At first, I figured the building had been hit by one of the many small private planes that frequently fly up and down the Hudson River, usually at altitudes substantially lower than the top of the building. My father often remarked at how strange it was to be able to watch these planes fly below eye level. I wasn't particularly alarmed either, especially in light of how a similar event occurred at the 86th floor of Empire State Building years ago with very little sequale.
>
> No sooner had I hung up the phone, when one of the commentators reported that it might have been a Boeing 737. I immediately called him back. By that time, he and his co-workers had decided to leave the building. I actually delayed their departure by thiry seconds or so because my father had to return to his office to answer the phone. I went back to watching CNN. As I was watching, the silouette of an airplane caught my eye coming into view from the right. I remember thinking that it was just someone in another of those those small planes flying by, probably there to gawk at the damaged building and the and fire that was raging between the 80th and 85th floors. Within seconds, a huge explosion occured on the left side of the screen. It was Two World Trade Center, the South Tower. I hadn't made the connection, but I was worried that my father might just be reaching the floor opposite this fireball. Still, I was not terribly worried. The World Trade Center was invincible. February 26, 1993 proved it. Then, CNN said something about two planes being involved. Why should I worry? It was probably just some other fool in a Cessna.
>
> I didn't know what to be more afraid of - the burning of the building or my father having to climb down 78 flights of stairs. It had been only three weeks since he underwent cardiac surgery to place a stent in a previously grafted bypass. Somewhere in my mind, I hoped that he would die quickly, and prayed that he shouldn't be burned alive. I figured it might be too much to hope that the elevators might be working. For some reason, though, I began to think and act as if everything would be alright, and that my father would call and come home that evening - just like always. This was not some sort of justified optimism. I don't think my mind would permit any other thoughts.
>
> He had just stepped out the door, exiting the lobby, when he was literally blown back through the door by what must have been a hurricane-force wind. The South Tower had just at that moment collapsed. Lethal debris blew by him harmlessly, as he watched from the other side of the glass. Had he arrived at the door thirty seconds earlier - the thirty seconds I had delayed him with my second phone call - he would be dead.
>
> By this time, I was already with my mother at my parents' house. It was difficult to know what to think, how to think, what to feel. I guess I am by nature a positive person. I think this is somehow different from being optimistic. I began to develop a timeline of my own in my mind, looking at my wrist-watch every few minutes as I monitored the events unfolding on the television. I knew the building. I had been in it or under it almost every day for several years. I had walked through the maze of unfinished corridors, ever-changing and partitioned by walls of hastily-erected green-painted plywood, as year by year they constructed the underground shopping mall and beautified the new subway stations. I approached the whole thing with a sort of logic based upon my knowledge of the building and its surroundings. As each minute passed, I became more and more optimistic that my father would make it. I prayed that he would think to leave the area rather than remain near the building to watch what was going on a thousand feet over his head.
>
> There reached a point in time when I predicted he would just be reaching the bottom of the building and on his way out. He was safe, as long as he would retreat to a location sufficiently far from the building to avoid the falling debris. I had in my mind an image of him standing across the street in the park on Liberty Street, just across from the Merril Lynch building at 140 Broadway, or perhaps on Church Street near the coffee shop on the corner. This was far too close. However, I couldn't imagine that he would do anything different than what New Yorkers usually do. Watch.
>
> Then something monstrous happened. A cloud of orange-brown smoke filled the air with explosive force. A panoramic view of downtown Manhattan showed it to be almost entirely lost in a cloud of what looked like dirt. I couldn't figure out what had happened. I couldn't believe that any kind of bomb could produce such an event. How can this be? I had to assume that it was indeed a bomb, because no other idea came to mind. What I couldn't figure out, though, was the color of the smoke. I couldn't account for it. There were no buildings in the area built of red bricks - at least, not for many years. I told my mother that I was now very much more worried about this new explosion than the events occuring above in the towers. If my father was indeed in the park or near the coffee shop, he would surely be dead. Thirty seconds.
>
> As the cloud began to discipate, it became horrifically evident that the South Tower was gone. It had imploded and collapsed to the ground. Now, I hoped that I underestimated the time that it takes to climb down 78 flights of stairs. Logically, I knew that if everything had gone just right, he could possibly still be alive. Logically, it *was* possible. I explained to my mother how things might have happened, and that Dad was still OK because he was probably still in the North Tower when the South Tower collapsed. To have hope, and to releive us of the hysteria that had been building up to a crescendo, we were counting on my father still being in the North Tower. We enjoyed several minutes of reprise. I remember my lungs filling completely with air as I sighed with relief. Then, right before our eyes, we watched in disbelief as the second tower, an icon of the indestructable and a mammoth of invincibility, collapsed like a house of cards into nothingness. In our minds and hearts, so went my father. My mother began to cry. I hugged her with console with the recognition of defeat and irreconcileable loss.
>
> I don't know what allows me to become so strong in times of family crises when I cannot leave the couch the moment before they occur. It has always been my role to be the director and manage these situations. It is hard to believe that I become the one most capable of functioning in this capacity, but I do. Still, I hoped that somehow my father would emerge from this catastrophe unscathed. He always seems to land on his feet and beat the odds. We expect him to. He did. He called from a hotel located 5 blocks uptown. At the time, my mother was in the kitchen and I remained in the den, continuing to watch the television. People were calling the house every few minutes - friends, family, co-workers. Suddenly, mother began screaming hysterically. Without a doubt, it sounded as if she had just received confirmation that her husband - her lifemate - was dead and gone forever. But I knew better. Logic dictated to me that it was my father on the phone, for a confirmation of death so soon under the circumstances of tumult and disorganization surrounding the events was unlikely. I smiled with relief and my eyes filled with tears of joy, even before my mother stopped screaming and gave hint that it was indeed my father on the phone.
>
> Within 15 or 20 minutes, I returned to my more usual state of depression, and became mute and vegetative. It's amazing what a little crisis can do every now and then.
>
> It is fortunate that things didn't develop in such a way as to have demanded more of me. I don't think I could have climbed much higher a mountain. I am so infuriated by the limits imposed upon me by this illness. God damn it.
>
> Thank God that today, my family and I are still living the lives that are familiar to us.
>
> I guess I just wanted to relate what it was like to be so close to such a disaster. We are so lucky. So, so lucky.
>
> My heart aches for all of you who were not as lucky as we were. I don't know what else I can say, except I'm sorry. I can grieve with you because for a short while, I did.
>
>
> Sincerely,
> Scott
>
>
>
> Please forgive my lack of proof-reading.
Posted by akc on September 12, 2001, at 12:46:39
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
Scott,
Thank you for your story. I am glad you got a miracle.
akc
Posted by Krazy Kat on September 12, 2001, at 13:19:45
In reply to Re: My father is still alive. (long), posted by akc on September 12, 2001, at 12:46:39
What a wonderful, but horrific story. Your poor father. What a strong, and collected man. You as well.
We feel certain we've lost a few business friends.
Was right next to our old neighborhood in the city.
Will never be the same.
It's very hard to fathom.
Posted by Cam W. on September 12, 2001, at 13:26:05
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
Posted by shelliR on September 12, 2001, at 14:00:25
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
Posted by Adam on September 12, 2001, at 15:00:51
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
My best wishes to you, Scott. That is a remarkable story, and horrific. I'm so happy to hear that your father is alive and safe.
-Adam
Posted by susan C on September 12, 2001, at 16:56:33
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
Posted by triedit on September 12, 2001, at 20:26:40
In reply to Re: Thank you for sharing, this is a special group (nm) » SLS, posted by susan C on September 12, 2001, at 16:56:33
thank you Scott. You are strong--for calling, for going to your mom, and for posting this.
my cousin hasnt checked in yet, but we are hopeful as we know he wasnt due to work yesterday. he is likely volunteering and hasnt thought to call home.
please keep us posted, as the effects of these things arent over in a day.
Posted by Elizabeth on September 12, 2001, at 21:17:16
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
> My father is still alive.
Scott -- I have only an inkling of the horror you must have felt when you learned about the bombings -- my sister and my boyfriend were both in New York, though not at the WTC. I rejoice with you for your father (congratulate him for me for all the exercise he got climbing down all those stairs, too :-) ).
I think that this will go down in history as one of those moments when everyone remembers where they were, like the Kennedy assassination. It makes Tim McVeigh look like a petty criminal.
> I guess I am by nature a positive person. I think this is somehow different from being optimistic.
I agree. And this sort of event -- something major, shocking, hard-hitting -- seems to bring out the best in people. It gave me the motivation to keep trying to call family and friends, when all the phone lines were down. I did get my parents, in NC, on the phone and so found out pretty quickly that my sister was safe. Then, later, I was relieved again to learn that my BF's workplace isn't anywhere near the WTC, but I was still intensely worried about him because I hadn't heard from him and neither had any of his friends and family. When he finally called, I contacted his family and then collapsed, exhausted. He came home a few hours later (he reports that his feet were killing him from walking all over Manhattan trying to find a way to get out of the city).
I was getting phone calls from friends all day just as you were, wanting to know if my BF was safe. It was such a pleasure when I was finally able to tell them that he was safe for sure.
> I couldn't believe that any kind of bomb could produce such an event.
Two words: jet fuel.
> In our minds and hearts, so went my father. My mother began to cry. I hugged her with console with the recognition of defeat and irreconcileable loss.
I have an almost superstitious belief in Murphy's Law. Even though I had no idea how close they were to the site (not very, it turned out), I was terrified for my sister and my lover.
My sister is six years younger and is one of the nicest people I've ever known. She's smart and creative. I believe she will make great movies if she does end up choosing that career (she's a film student at NYU). I think she could become President easily if she wanted -- she has the charisma (and lack of skeletons in the closet) to be a successful politician, and the intelligence and wisdom to be a great leader. If she had died, it would have been a horrible loss, I think, to the world as well as to our family. In spite of the age difference (or maybe because of it), I'm very close to her. She's always been there for me -- even though she's not had the debilitating depression that I suffer from, she has always been supportive and empathic.
My boyfriend has it so hard. He gets up early in the morning to commute to the city for work. He hardly sees his children. And he has this girlfriend who's such a downer! < g > Seriously -- he's had a hard life in a lot of different ways, but we're working hard on building a good life for ourselves, and I think we're making some progress. The point is, I don't know where I would go or what I would do if I were to lose him.
> I don't know what allows me to become so strong in times of family crises when I cannot leave the couch the moment before they occur.
Me neither. (I guess it has something to do with catecholamines.) I didn't have anybody here to "direct" -- I was alone in my home all day.
> I guess I just wanted to relate what it was like to be so close to such a disaster. We are so lucky. So, so lucky.
We are. < virtual hug >
-elizabeth
Posted by Chris A. on September 13, 2001, at 0:11:32
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
Thanks for sharing your story. I am so relieved for you and your family.
Chris A.
Posted by Craig on September 13, 2001, at 2:32:54
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
Scott, you have a great talent for writing. What you have written is so special that I think it deserves a wider audience. In addition to posting this online, have you considered sending it to a newspaper?
Posted by Jackster on September 13, 2001, at 5:07:16
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
Thank you
Even at the other end of the world in NZ - we are shaken to the core by this.
Peace.
Jackie
> My father is still alive.
>
> Until yesterday, his office was on the 78th floor of One World Trade Center, the North Tower and the first to be hit. His office faced south. Had it faced north, he would be dead. I phoned him within the first minute of my seeing the news break on CNN. It was fortuitous that I had decided to switch the channel to watch the news. I had become disinterested in the episode of a M.A.S.H. rerun that I was watching, for I had already seen it a dozen times or so. My father had no idea what had happened. He and his co-workers were not terribly alarmed before I called. They knew something had happened, for they felt the building shake a bit. However, they were not terribly alarmed. At first, I figured the building had been hit by one of the many small private planes that frequently fly up and down the Hudson River, usually at altitudes substantially lower than the top of the building. My father often remarked at how strange it was to be able to watch these planes fly below eye level. I wasn't particularly alarmed either, especially in light of how a similar event occurred at the 86th floor of Empire State Building years ago with very little sequale.
>
> No sooner had I hung up the phone, when one of the commentators reported that it might have been a Boeing 737. I immediately called him back. By that time, he and his co-workers had decided to leave the building. I actually delayed their departure by thiry seconds or so because my father had to return to his office to answer the phone. I went back to watching CNN. As I was watching, the silouette of an airplane caught my eye coming into view from the right. I remember thinking that it was just someone in another of those those small planes flying by, probably there to gawk at the damaged building and the and fire that was raging between the 80th and 85th floors. Within seconds, a huge explosion occured on the left side of the screen. It was Two World Trade Center, the South Tower. I hadn't made the connection, but I was worried that my father might just be reaching the floor opposite this fireball. Still, I was not terribly worried. The World Trade Center was invincible. February 26, 1993 proved it. Then, CNN said something about two planes being involved. Why should I worry? It was probably just some other fool in a Cessna.
>
> I didn't know what to be more afraid of - the burning of the building or my father having to climb down 78 flights of stairs. It had been only three weeks since he underwent cardiac surgery to place a stent in a previously grafted bypass. Somewhere in my mind, I hoped that he would die quickly, and prayed that he shouldn't be burned alive. I figured it might be too much to hope that the elevators might be working. For some reason, though, I began to think and act as if everything would be alright, and that my father would call and come home that evening - just like always. This was not some sort of justified optimism. I don't think my mind would permit any other thoughts.
>
> He had just stepped out the door, exiting the lobby, when he was literally blown back through the door by what must have been a hurricane-force wind. The South Tower had just at that moment collapsed. Lethal debris blew by him harmlessly, as he watched from the other side of the glass. Had he arrived at the door thirty seconds earlier - the thirty seconds I had delayed him with my second phone call - he would be dead.
>
> By this time, I was already with my mother at my parents' house. It was difficult to know what to think, how to think, what to feel. I guess I am by nature a positive person. I think this is somehow different from being optimistic. I began to develop a timeline of my own in my mind, looking at my wrist-watch every few minutes as I monitored the events unfolding on the television. I knew the building. I had been in it or under it almost every day for several years. I had walked through the maze of unfinished corridors, ever-changing and partitioned by walls of hastily-erected green-painted plywood, as year by year they constructed the underground shopping mall and beautified the new subway stations. I approached the whole thing with a sort of logic based upon my knowledge of the building and its surroundings. As each minute passed, I became more and more optimistic that my father would make it. I prayed that he would think to leave the area rather than remain near the building to watch what was going on a thousand feet over his head.
>
> There reached a point in time when I predicted he would just be reaching the bottom of the building and on his way out. He was safe, as long as he would retreat to a location sufficiently far from the building to avoid the falling debris. I had in my mind an image of him standing across the street in the park on Liberty Street, just across from the Merril Lynch building at 140 Broadway, or perhaps on Church Street near the coffee shop on the corner. This was far too close. However, I couldn't imagine that he would do anything different than what New Yorkers usually do. Watch.
>
> Then something monstrous happened. A cloud of orange-brown smoke filled the air with explosive force. A panoramic view of downtown Manhattan showed it to be almost entirely lost in a cloud of what looked like dirt. I couldn't figure out what had happened. I couldn't believe that any kind of bomb could produce such an event. How can this be? I had to assume that it was indeed a bomb, because no other idea came to mind. What I couldn't figure out, though, was the color of the smoke. I couldn't account for it. There were no buildings in the area built of red bricks - at least, not for many years. I told my mother that I was now very much more worried about this new explosion than the events occuring above in the towers. If my father was indeed in the park or near the coffee shop, he would surely be dead. Thirty seconds.
>
> As the cloud began to discipate, it became horrifically evident that the South Tower was gone. It had imploded and collapsed to the ground. Now, I hoped that I underestimated the time that it takes to climb down 78 flights of stairs. Logically, I knew that if everything had gone just right, he could possibly still be alive. Logically, it *was* possible. I explained to my mother how things might have happened, and that Dad was still OK because he was probably still in the North Tower when the South Tower collapsed. To have hope, and to releive us of the hysteria that had been building up to a crescendo, we were counting on my father still being in the North Tower. We enjoyed several minutes of reprise. I remember my lungs filling completely with air as I sighed with relief. Then, right before our eyes, we watched in disbelief as the second tower, an icon of the indestructable and a mammoth of invincibility, collapsed like a house of cards into nothingness. In our minds and hearts, so went my father. My mother began to cry. I hugged her with console with the recognition of defeat and irreconcileable loss.
>
> I don't know what allows me to become so strong in times of family crises when I cannot leave the couch the moment before they occur. It has always been my role to be the director and manage these situations. It is hard to believe that I become the one most capable of functioning in this capacity, but I do. Still, I hoped that somehow my father would emerge from this catastrophe unscathed. He always seems to land on his feet and beat the odds. We expect him to. He did. He called from a hotel located 5 blocks uptown. At the time, my mother was in the kitchen and I remained in the den, continuing to watch the television. People were calling the house every few minutes - friends, family, co-workers. Suddenly, mother began screaming hysterically. Without a doubt, it sounded as if she had just received confirmation that her husband - her lifemate - was dead and gone forever. But I knew better. Logic dictated to me that it was my father on the phone, for a confirmation of death so soon under the circumstances of tumult and disorganization surrounding the events was unlikely. I smiled with relief and my eyes filled with tears of joy, even before my mother stopped screaming and gave hint that it was indeed my father on the phone.
>
> Within 15 or 20 minutes, I returned to my more usual state of depression, and became mute and vegetative. It's amazing what a little crisis can do every now and then.
>
> It is fortunate that things didn't develop in such a way as to have demanded more of me. I don't think I could have climbed much higher a mountain. I am so infuriated by the limits imposed upon me by this illness. God damn it.
>
> Thank God that today, my family and I are still living the lives that are familiar to us.
>
> I guess I just wanted to relate what it was like to be so close to such a disaster. We are so lucky. So, so lucky.
>
> My heart aches for all of you who were not as lucky as we were. I don't know what else I can say, except I'm sorry. I can grieve with you because for a short while, I did.
>
>
> Sincerely,
> Scott
>
>
>
> Please forgive my lack of proof-reading.
Posted by Simcha on September 13, 2001, at 8:22:18
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
Scott,
I am so sorry that you and your family had to go through this. Please take good care of yourself. Make sure that your doctors know what has happened. If you have a support group make sure that you talk about this stuff with them. This is a time where we need to take care of ourselves and the people around us. I hope that this gets easier for all of us.
Take Care,
Simcha> My father is still alive.
>
> Until yesterday, his office was on the 78th floor of One World Trade Center, the North Tower and the first to be hit. His office faced south. Had it faced north, he would be dead. I phoned him within the first minute of my seeing the news break on CNN. It was fortuitous that I had decided to switch the channel to watch the news. I had become disinterested in the episode of a M.A.S.H. rerun that I was watching, for I had already seen it a dozen times or so. My father had no idea what had happened. He and his co-workers were not terribly alarmed before I called. They knew something had happened, for they felt the building shake a bit. However, they were not terribly alarmed. At first, I figured the building had been hit by one of the many small private planes that frequently fly up and down the Hudson River, usually at altitudes substantially lower than the top of the building. My father often remarked at how strange it was to be able to watch these planes fly below eye level. I wasn't particularly alarmed either, especially in light of how a similar event occurred at the 86th floor of Empire State Building years ago with very little sequale.
>
> No sooner had I hung up the phone, when one of the commentators reported that it might have been a Boeing 737. I immediately called him back. By that time, he and his co-workers had decided to leave the building. I actually delayed their departure by thiry seconds or so because my father had to return to his office to answer the phone. I went back to watching CNN. As I was watching, the silouette of an airplane caught my eye coming into view from the right. I remember thinking that it was just someone in another of those those small planes flying by, probably there to gawk at the damaged building and the and fire that was raging between the 80th and 85th floors. Within seconds, a huge explosion occured on the left side of the screen. It was Two World Trade Center, the South Tower. I hadn't made the connection, but I was worried that my father might just be reaching the floor opposite this fireball. Still, I was not terribly worried. The World Trade Center was invincible. February 26, 1993 proved it. Then, CNN said something about two planes being involved. Why should I worry? It was probably just some other fool in a Cessna.
>
> I didn't know what to be more afraid of - the burning of the building or my father having to climb down 78 flights of stairs. It had been only three weeks since he underwent cardiac surgery to place a stent in a previously grafted bypass. Somewhere in my mind, I hoped that he would die quickly, and prayed that he shouldn't be burned alive. I figured it might be too much to hope that the elevators might be working. For some reason, though, I began to think and act as if everything would be alright, and that my father would call and come home that evening - just like always. This was not some sort of justified optimism. I don't think my mind would permit any other thoughts.
>
> He had just stepped out the door, exiting the lobby, when he was literally blown back through the door by what must have been a hurricane-force wind. The South Tower had just at that moment collapsed. Lethal debris blew by him harmlessly, as he watched from the other side of the glass. Had he arrived at the door thirty seconds earlier - the thirty seconds I had delayed him with my second phone call - he would be dead.
>
> By this time, I was already with my mother at my parents' house. It was difficult to know what to think, how to think, what to feel. I guess I am by nature a positive person. I think this is somehow different from being optimistic. I began to develop a timeline of my own in my mind, looking at my wrist-watch every few minutes as I monitored the events unfolding on the television. I knew the building. I had been in it or under it almost every day for several years. I had walked through the maze of unfinished corridors, ever-changing and partitioned by walls of hastily-erected green-painted plywood, as year by year they constructed the underground shopping mall and beautified the new subway stations. I approached the whole thing with a sort of logic based upon my knowledge of the building and its surroundings. As each minute passed, I became more and more optimistic that my father would make it. I prayed that he would think to leave the area rather than remain near the building to watch what was going on a thousand feet over his head.
>
> There reached a point in time when I predicted he would just be reaching the bottom of the building and on his way out. He was safe, as long as he would retreat to a location sufficiently far from the building to avoid the falling debris. I had in my mind an image of him standing across the street in the park on Liberty Street, just across from the Merril Lynch building at 140 Broadway, or perhaps on Church Street near the coffee shop on the corner. This was far too close. However, I couldn't imagine that he would do anything different than what New Yorkers usually do. Watch.
>
> Then something monstrous happened. A cloud of orange-brown smoke filled the air with explosive force. A panoramic view of downtown Manhattan showed it to be almost entirely lost in a cloud of what looked like dirt. I couldn't figure out what had happened. I couldn't believe that any kind of bomb could produce such an event. How can this be? I had to assume that it was indeed a bomb, because no other idea came to mind. What I couldn't figure out, though, was the color of the smoke. I couldn't account for it. There were no buildings in the area built of red bricks - at least, not for many years. I told my mother that I was now very much more worried about this new explosion than the events occuring above in the towers. If my father was indeed in the park or near the coffee shop, he would surely be dead. Thirty seconds.
>
> As the cloud began to discipate, it became horrifically evident that the South Tower was gone. It had imploded and collapsed to the ground. Now, I hoped that I underestimated the time that it takes to climb down 78 flights of stairs. Logically, I knew that if everything had gone just right, he could possibly still be alive. Logically, it *was* possible. I explained to my mother how things might have happened, and that Dad was still OK because he was probably still in the North Tower when the South Tower collapsed. To have hope, and to releive us of the hysteria that had been building up to a crescendo, we were counting on my father still being in the North Tower. We enjoyed several minutes of reprise. I remember my lungs filling completely with air as I sighed with relief. Then, right before our eyes, we watched in disbelief as the second tower, an icon of the indestructable and a mammoth of invincibility, collapsed like a house of cards into nothingness. In our minds and hearts, so went my father. My mother began to cry. I hugged her with console with the recognition of defeat and irreconcileable loss.
>
> I don't know what allows me to become so strong in times of family crises when I cannot leave the couch the moment before they occur. It has always been my role to be the director and manage these situations. It is hard to believe that I become the one most capable of functioning in this capacity, but I do. Still, I hoped that somehow my father would emerge from this catastrophe unscathed. He always seems to land on his feet and beat the odds. We expect him to. He did. He called from a hotel located 5 blocks uptown. At the time, my mother was in the kitchen and I remained in the den, continuing to watch the television. People were calling the house every few minutes - friends, family, co-workers. Suddenly, mother began screaming hysterically. Without a doubt, it sounded as if she had just received confirmation that her husband - her lifemate - was dead and gone forever. But I knew better. Logic dictated to me that it was my father on the phone, for a confirmation of death so soon under the circumstances of tumult and disorganization surrounding the events was unlikely. I smiled with relief and my eyes filled with tears of joy, even before my mother stopped screaming and gave hint that it was indeed my father on the phone.
>
> Within 15 or 20 minutes, I returned to my more usual state of depression, and became mute and vegetative. It's amazing what a little crisis can do every now and then.
>
> It is fortunate that things didn't develop in such a way as to have demanded more of me. I don't think I could have climbed much higher a mountain. I am so infuriated by the limits imposed upon me by this illness. God damn it.
>
> Thank God that today, my family and I are still living the lives that are familiar to us.
>
> I guess I just wanted to relate what it was like to be so close to such a disaster. We are so lucky. So, so lucky.
>
> My heart aches for all of you who were not as lucky as we were. I don't know what else I can say, except I'm sorry. I can grieve with you because for a short while, I did.
>
>
> Sincerely,
> Scott
>
>
>
> Please forgive my lack of proof-reading.
Posted by Zo on September 13, 2001, at 18:02:42
In reply to My father is still alive. (long), posted by SLS on September 12, 2001, at 12:22:00
Send this to salon.com immediately. See their submissions page. Don't worry about proofing it or anything, just email it. PLEASE!
All my best,
Zo
Posted by Elizabeth on September 14, 2001, at 7:17:32
In reply to Re: My father is still alive. » SLS, posted by Zo on September 13, 2001, at 18:02:42
This is the end of the thread.
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