The wound, freshly opened, the pain, almost suffocating her as she drives along the freeway — the young girl wonders if it’s possible that the reality unfolding on the airwaves could potentially be just a nightmare she can escape by opening her eyes.
September 11th, her generation’s JFK’s assassination day – the day everyone remembers exactly where they were when they first heard the news that New York’s twin towers had been struck – the day that will forever be burned upon her mind revealing her vulnerability.
If only she hadn’t turned her radio on.
–
Her thoughts return to that morning.
It’s a beautiful, fall morning – the sky, a brilliant blue, the air, fresh and alive.
Running out of the house, she grabs her well used travel mug, filled to the brim with steaming coffee, and hops into her hand-me-down silver escort station wagon, tucking her full-length skirt around her legs as she readjusts her rear view mirror, her long blonde curls framing her face.
With habitual movement, she turns on her cd player, but it doesn’t work. Looking at the clock, the young college student, a freshman at the University of Michigan-Dearborn, realizes she is running late to her first class of the day, so rather than play around with the cd player, she turns the radio on. As she speeds out of her driveway, her mind is distracted with a million thoughts – thoughts of her father, thoughts of upcoming assignments, thoughts of what she was going to do with her afternoon after classes let out.
And then, into her habitual routine of stop, go, look to the left, turn, accelerate, her stream of consciousness is abruptly interrupted as she hears a drama being played out on the radio. Confused, she turns her attention to the unfolding drama – a plane has hit the world trade center. She furrows her eyebrows as she double checks the call letters of the radio station. “Didn’t I put it on 760 AM?” she asks herself.
And then, it slowly dawns on her that the drama that is unfolding in front of her on the airwaves is not a drama but is actually happening.
She hears the second air plane crash into the second tower.
Gripping the steering wheel tighter, her body rigid, she drives methodically to school, barely paying attention to the cars zipping past her on the freeway or the turns she makes. She wonders if she’s in a dream.
Two planes are missing; two planes have hit the building; frantic reports; no one understands what is going on.
And then, the pain that grips her heart as she listens to the radio broadcasts drowns out the voices and live updates. Not only is it the pain of a nation, but it is her personal pain.
–
Once again, she is standing in her parents’ bedroom. It is a bright, sunny Saturday morning. Spring is announcing her arrival in all her glory. The leaves outside are budding; the flowers are blooming. The birds are singing their doxologies.
A stark contrast to the scene unfolding before her.
She stands before her father’s bed as he breathes his last; his spirit, one second there, another second, gone.
A chill enters the room.
In a haze, she’s vaguely aware of her six younger siblings, gathered around as they sob — their best friend, their teacher, their father, gone. The youngest, only a year and a half, is passed around from sibling to sibling; the 11-year-old brother, now man of the house, comforts his older sisters. Her mother, a beacon of strength, rests her hand on her shoulder.
The family says “goodbye.”
Embraced by the fifty visitors who have shown up upon hearing the news, her family files slowly out of the room, but she hangs back.
And she finally allows herself to grieve; this moment has been a long time coming – years of chemo appointments, radiation appointments, hopes and dreams raised and then dashed – refusing to accept reality until she could no longer hold on to hope. Her best friend, her teacher, her confidant, her beloved “Daddy” – gone.
Oblivious to the friends and family waiting just outside the room, milling about the rest of the house, springing into action planning the funeral arrangements, she flings herself upon her father’s chest.
His body, cold, rigid, the warmth fleeing from his strong frame, a frame that belies the two year battle he fought against cancer, she sobs and bids him goodbye.
–
Her mother enters and wraps her arm around the 19-year-old’s waist, and together, they walk out of the room. The hearse lies in wait outside.
Three days later, the young girl walks methodically down the aisle of the sanctuary; hundreds of friends and family – mere blurs as she allows the tears to flow freely and takes her place at the front of the church.
Numb, her heart races as she questions “Why?”
With a sharpness, as she goes through the motions of that day, she realizes that the only thing that matters is relationships.
Time is short.
Her father’s achievements – class president, valedictorian, all-city diver, co-captain of the football team, best doctor of southeastern Michigan – all these milestones mean nothing.
Only her father’s heart for his patients, the friendship with his coworkers, the love for his friends and family, matter. His relationship with God – his relationships with everyone else. The only things tangible; the only things that count.
Her view, forever changed, her perspective, flipped upside down.
–
Fast forward four months. She reenrolls at school as a freshman. Going through the motions, her heart still aches as she works through her grief.
A homeschool graduate, so much new, so much to learn. A new venture. Dow-eyed, but hardened by the reality of sitting with her father through incessant chemo and radiation treatments. Forever changed by entering the adult world too early, she doesn’t fit in with her classmates. Her world is not one they can understand.
And on this bright fall morning, she climbs into her car, unaware that her world will once again be forever changed.
–
Methodically, she goes to class, too naïve to know she could skip. Her professor, briefly acknowledging the unfolding national tragedy, in shock, turns to lecturing for an hour and a half about political science. All the while, the young girl does not know if more targets have been hit, if when she walks out of the classroom, she will find out that more lives have been lost, more targets have been attacked, that the horror of the moment has an even greater scope.
Her peers, walking around in a daze. others, in fear, frantically running home. Searching for security. Searching for comfort. Searching for answers to “why?”
The nation’s tragedy, mirroring on a larger scale her own personal tragedy, forces the girl to once again acknowledge her vulnerability; no longer does she have a strong father figure to run to for protection. No longer does she have someone assuring her everything will be alright. No longer does she have strong arms to wrap herself in, even as the tragedy unfolds across television screens around the nation.
And she realizes that she cannot live in fear — the fear that grips her friends, her family, her classmates. Slowly digging its claws into their hearts, into their minds, into their lives, paralyzing them. Burdening them.
Time is short; she realizes that whether by cancer or terrorist attacks, her life could be taken, just like that.
And with a sad smile, she realizes that she no longer has fear; through her grief, she has been released. She realizes she must live life passionately; she must live it to its fullest; she cannot be held back by the “what ifs?” She cannot dwell on the loss, allowing it to cripple her.
Only after tasting death is she truly freed to begin living. Free to embrace life with abandonment.
September 11th, – a milestone — the day a nation began mourning, the day a girl realized we are not guaranteed time; we are only guaranteed the freedom to choose how to live.
-Christen Patterson
