Sometimes its therapeutic to put into words the thoughts and emotions that churn inside, and it can be especially so when those emotions are associated with a life-altering event. Like 9-11.
Varifrank brilliantly weaves his association with Manhattan and the World Trade Centers into a recurring dream, a dream of the dead.
Will Franklin dots the i's on every detail of his day that day, noting that
"People will also begin to lose touch with those memories, especially if the establishment media want us to forget about 9/11-- and we allow them to "help" us forget. We can't let that happen."
Rick Moran reviews the myths surrounding 9-11, and how they affect perceptions today.
It was, in fact, a bright sunny crisp and clear day in New England, the starting point for the two planes that hit the towers. A day much like today. I thought that this morning as I drove to the hospital to take a patient with a broken leg to surgery.
In 2001 it was a Tuesday. I was assisting my partner with a joint replacement, a hip I believe. Beverly, the operating room's circulating nurse for that case, had left to get a piece of equipment as we busied ourselves with preparation of the bone and placement of the femoral stem, cementing it into position. Beverly returned shortly, looking quite a bit less cheerful than usual.
"Hey, did you hear that a plane just hit the World Trade Center?" I was silent.
"In New York?", asked my partner.
"Yeah, it's on the news now." I was still silent.
Some additional questions were asked that no one could really answer. Speculation. Could the plane have been in distress? Was it a small plane off course? Had the pilot had a problem. We continued our work.
I was silent. Something felt very wrong. I thought of my brother, my family's horrible connection to terrorism. The cement had hardened, and the surgery was largely complete. Finally I spoke.
"I've got to scrub out, Tom." Our physician's assistant, Scott, was also there to help.
"Go ahead, I can finish up."
I took off my gloves and gown as I stepped away from the table, and found two step stools up against the wall to sit. I just knew this was a terrorist act. I didn't know there would be more that day.
After a minute or two I got to my feet and went to the surgeon's lounge. It was standing room only, literally, with everyone standing and staring at the television affixed to the wall tuned to CNN. Within a minute or two the next plane hit the South Tower to an audible gasp in the room, just after 9 AM. I sat down. Others guessed at the cause, but I told them, no, this was terrorism. I think almost everyone knew, but were hoping for a different answer.
I don't remember much else that day, except that my afternoon office was cancelled and I went home shortly, to be with my wife and two daughters. I don't remember driving home, but I got there. By then the Pentagon had been hit, and Flight 93 had crashed in Shanksville, Pa. The girls were one and nearly three at the time. The eldest has always been ahead of herself, and seemed to understand almost too well when we explained that bad men had flown planes into the buildings.
Yes, that was it. Bad men had flown planes into the buildings.
My wife and I talked about a lot of things that day. We talked about wanting to have our daughters grow up safe, secure. We talked about how America would respond, how it should respond. We talked about New York City, where her sister had just moved about a week earlier - we had heard that she was safe. We talked about our trips there together. And we talked about my brother. She never had the chance to meet him, yet she seems to know him.
She knows him very well, almost eerily. You see, they share the same birthday.