Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life... - Posts Tagged "grief"

Author's/blogger's note: Today we remember and pay tribute to those who perished in the terrorist attacks on the United States of America 13 years ago and in the aftermath. We are eternally grateful for those who survived, and grieve with those who suffered unimaginable loss.
The following is an excerpt from my memoir, Truth Be Told: Adam Becomes Audrey. In this particular chapter, I document my own experience as a journalist living and working in the New York City suburbs on 9/11.
I am sharing it not to call attention to myself, but to serve as yet another reminder that we must never forget. Never, ever forget.
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It happened on a Tuesday -- on a warm, sunny kind of early September morning when college students lobby for class on the quad, high school seniors contemplate skipping class altogether and adults are tempted to play hooky from work.
Doing that wasn’t an option for me. I got up, changed, worked out and, with a few minutes to relax, turned my attention to the television in my bedroom. There was nothing interesting on any of the home shopping channels, or on any of the other channels, for that matter. It was almost nine o’clock, and with limited options I turned to one of the morning news shows. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“A plane has just hit one of the World Trade Center buildings,” a tense news anchor reported.
As live footage of the smoking building rolled, another plane slammed into the second tower.
“Oh, my God!” I screamed. “What the hell is going on? Oh my God! No! Oh, no! Oh, no!”
I lunged for the phone and called my mom at work. “Do you have any idea what is going on?” I shouted when she finally answered. “Turn on the television, now! Two planes just hit the World Trade Center!”
American Airlines Flight 11, en route from Boston to Los Angeles, had slammed into the North Tower around 8:46 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175, also bound for L.A., barreled into the South Tower less than twenty minutes later. Smoke poured from the buildings. Firefighters and police continued to rush towards them to try to help the people trapped inside. Even as they did, some victims jumped to their deaths while panicked New Yorkers screamed in horror and disbelief.
Chaos reigned. At 9:37 a.m., another hijacked airliner -- American Airlines Flight 77-- hit the Pentagon. United Airlines Flight 93, a fourth hijacked jet destined to cause even more carnage in Washington, D.C., crashed in a Pennsylvania field at 10:03 a.m., after the passengers learned about the earlier incidents and fought back.
Then the Twin Towers fell.
Deeply shaken and unable to understand fully the magnitude of what had happened, I only knew I had to do my job. I went straight to the Rye Police Department. The atmosphere there was unbelievable. From the lobby, I could hear occasional radio chatter and news reports on the television near the front desk. Other than that, it was quiet -- too quiet.
My hands shook as I silently accepted the police log from a secretary and began to take notes. I leafed through the pages without seeing the words, knowing the contents paled in comparison to mass murder.
“You seem to be really affected by all this. Do you know anyone who works in the Towers?”
Startled, I looked up to find the Rye police commissioner, a former New York City cop, standing in a nearby doorway.
“No,” I replied.
But for the second time in less than two years, unexpected events shattered my sense of safety and security, turning my world upside down.
I knew one of Lisa’s best friends worked on Wall Street. Not all that long ago, Adam had worked for a federal government agency with offices in the heart of the Big Apple’s financial district. I thought his dad still worked somewhere in the five boroughs, and hoped it wasn’t anywhere near lower Manhattan.
Everyone’s fine, I kept telling myself. Everyone is fine.
Our phone didn’t stop ringing that night. Relatives around the world called to talk about the terrorist attacks and ask if we were okay. As much as I appreciated their concern, I quickly
tired of answering the same questions over and over again. After all, I still had unanswered questions of my own.
Between calls, I tried to reach Lisa out on the Island, but I couldn’t get through. I was just about to try again when the phone trilled for what seemed like the trillionth time. Without Caller ID, I had no idea who was on the line. I answered anyhow.
“Hi, Alex, it’s Adam.”
“Hi. I am so glad you called. Is your dad okay? Was he in the City?”
“Yes, he’s okay. It took him forever to get home, but he’s fine.”
“I can’t believe what happened,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know.”
“Look, I’d love to talk but I’ve got to try and get a hold of Lisa. I’ve been trying all day and haven’t gotten through.” “Okay, I understand,” Adam said. “Take care.”
“You too.”
Lisa finally called me a few hours later. Her friend who worked on Wall Street and her mom, who managed a Manhattan hotel, were both safe.
I went to bed finally knowing that all of my friends and their families were okay, but the world would never be the same.
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Until next time, "That's life..."

So, last Wednesday was my dad's birthday. It was also the nineteenth anniversary of his death.
I still miss him and I always will.
I still love him and I always will.
That's not to say we didn't have our share of issues. We had plenty. In fact there were times we drove each other crazy. There were times we almost came to blows.
What can I say? He had a wicked eastern European temper. So do I. In that respect I am definitely my father's daughter.
Looking back, I had plenty of reasons to be angry.
Daddy never put a hand on me. Words were his weapon of choice. He once told me he never wanted to have children, but he "accepted me" when I was born. I don't remember if I was nine or 10 when he told me that. All I know is that I was definitely too young to understand. In my mind, my father wished I had never been born. And he told me as much.
I held it against him for a long time. Those words fueled teenage rebellion and served as inspiration when I was old and smart enough to get the best of him -- and just about everyone else -- in verbal sparring matches.
But I had a choice in the last months of his life. I could hang on to all of that anger. Or I could let it go.
By that time he was all but bedridden, his feet ravaged by neglect and type II diabetes. It was clear that he was suffering and that he would suffer more as other complications threatened to set in.
So I went to him. And we talked. And we reached an understanding. At times it was an uneasy truce. But in the end, I'm glad we made peace.
And in the end, we all have choices.
Until next time, "That's life..."