Angel in the Rubble: The Miraculous Rescue of 9/11's Last Survivor (An Inspiring Memoir)

by Genelle Guzman-McMillan

One hundred ten floors of rugged steel and solid concrete, with thousands of human lives in its bosom, gently rocked . . . baaaack and forth . . . baaaack and forth . . . like a tree in a light wind.

To actually see those men on the stairs with all that gear, walking all that way into danger instead of trying to escape, staggered my mind. How much braver can somebody be? Their mere presence gave me hope that we were going to make it.

Why wouldn’t we have just left on our own? Didn’t the evidence convince us that we were not safe? But at the time, we were dumbstruck. There was too much confusion, and we were stunned to stillness.

But it didn’t matter in what direction anyone ran. The stairs above us were crumbling. The walls surrounding us burst open like a couple of semitrucks had smashed through them. The floor under our feet was cracking in every which way. I put my face down and covered my head with my arms as concrete chunks of every shape and size poured down from above and pelted my body, like I was being stoned to death. Huge clouds of dust rose from the ground and encircled me, burning my eyes and making it nearly impossible to breathe. With every passing second, the ferocious noise around me grew louder and louder, the shaking more and more violent.

There was no escape. I was helpless. We all were. I don’t know how I withstood the physical beating, but the emotional pain of knowing that this was the end of my life and that I would never see Kimberly or Roger again was much worse. It was over. I cried out their names as I dropped hard to my knees while the North Tower of the World Trade Center fell on top of me.

I’d been in onerous situations before but never one that was 100 percent hopeless. That was the worst part about it—the hopeless feeling.

There was no shelter I could hide under, because it was my shelter that had beaten me down.

It wasn’t something that mental toughness could overcome. There was no escape.

The terror of the collapse lasted about thirty seconds, I would guess—probably not even that long. But it felt like an eternity. Unthinkable amounts of thick concrete, heavy steel, sharp glass, and God-only-knows-what-else pummeled every square inch of our bodies. It was not just the makeup of the building itself, but everything in it: hundreds, or even thousands, of desks, chairs, filing cabinets, bathrooms, pipes, air conditioners, elevators, and appliances, not to mention the airplane that started it all. And the people. Oh God . . . the people.

“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!” It was futile. I was so locked in, probably several feet deep below the surface, that my voice didn’t even echo. It was like lying in a sealed coffin. I might as well have been screaming inside my head.

Here I was sealed in a tomb. I could see nothing and never would as long as I was in it.

The only thing that hurt more than the pain ricocheting through my body was the eerie silence. How could it be so quiet? Where was everybody? How far down was I buried? As I asked those questions, I think shock had taken over my mind. I probably should have been crying, but I wasn’t. I just stared at the darkness, fading into despair. Nobody was coming to get me, and there was nothing more I could do.

thirty-year-old woman, full of regrets, would be scared out of her mind, begging for the beeping to stop, frightened of what she’ll find on the other side of death. Depression would immediately set in. She’d be overwhelmed by sorrow and guilt, wishing for a do-over.

The time was uncertain, but there was no doubt I was in for a slow, painful, isolated demise. There was nothing I could do but quietly lie there and think about everything I was going to miss, everything I did not accomplish, everything I could have done better.

was practically blind before the tower fell, but now, wrapped in complete solitude, I could see my life more clearly than ever. I’d failed Kimberly and would likely never have a chance to make any of it up to her. I’d sacrificed our present for an uncertain future, and now we weren’t going to get either one with each other.

earlier. As I lay helpless, yearning for my daughter, it hit me hard that I was never going to see her again. I’d sacrificed the last two years with her to chase a dream that I never really tried to reach once I got to New York, and it had cost us our future together. Suddenly, that quiet, boring life back in Trinidad seemed endlessly attractive. But it was too late. I couldn’t turn back the clock. All I could do was continue wiping dirt off my face and spitting it out of my mouth; to endure the terrible pain in my head and legs, thinking about how badly I’d screwed up.

knew there was no way any of those people could have thought they would survive if they jumped from that elevation. They had to know they were leaping to their deaths, which made Roger realize just how horrifying it must have been up there.

“RUUUUUUUN!” He heard someone howl. Screams echoed from every direction. Roger turned from the tower and ran as fast as he could. He looked behind him and saw nothing but an exploding cloud of dust chasing him. He continued running until he felt the pressure of the cloud at his back, like an angry dog about to bite. He sharply turned and barged through the door of a convenience store down the block.

I treated Him more like a genie in a bottle than as my creator. And I certainly never considered praising Him and thanking Him after I got what I wanted.

If I only knew how to talk to Him about this, how to talk to Him without being self-centered. I was so confused, so desperate, so . . . just so sad. Sad that I was born and raised to believe in Him, yet I didn’t even know how to pray. Sad that I was ignorant for so long and didn’t realize it until it was too late.

For the first time since I’d been buried in this hell hole, I cried. Through all the physical pain, as tired as I was, as thirsty as I was, I had not cried once. But now, finally realizing how I’d so often wasted my days, I broke down. Growing up, I had been slowly walking a road toward hell with my ignorance about God and had picked up the pace as I ignored Him in adulthood.

I had to look at this makeshift grave I was buried in as a confessional and I had to believe that God was listening . . . and that He cared. But it had to be more than words. I couldn’t just confess my sins, say I was sorry, toss in a Hail Mary or two, and wait for the debris to open up above me. There had to be substance to it. I had to mean it. It had to come from the heart. Could I do that? Could I even figure out how after all these years? Would it mean anything to Him, or would it just come across as a desperate, empty plea? And really, does God even work that way? Can someone faithfully reach out to Him in a time of need and expect Him to come to the rescue? I know there are plenty of people who have been in dire straits who have begged God for help, only to feel as though He didn’t answer their pleas. But pleading was my only option. I needed to try. Somehow, for some

was still thirsty, still tired, still keenly aware that I was standing at the doors of hell, but I felt reenergized after thinking about what happened to my aunt. There was a chance. There was hope. Maybe slim, but it was there. And it was there because I came to the understanding that I was not going to get out on my own, like I arrogantly assumed I would when this all started many hours before. I finally realized that it needed to start with me but would ultimately end with Him.

This needed to be personal. It needed to be sincere. I needed to hurry up that road to the heavenly door at the other end, knock on it, and ask if I could come in. How do I do that? Just start speaking, Genelle, I said to myself in my mind. Just start speaking to Him. And so I did.

I need Your help.” My mother always told me to “live the life of the Lord,” but it never fazed me how crucial that was until this moment. Never did I imagine that my fate would be out of my hands. But it was. I needed help. The Lord’s help. And I felt like I had just taken a huge step in the right direction by admitting it. It was a strangely freeing experience.

I continued trying to make the long, uphill journey back toward the God I’d been introduced to when I was young but had lost almost all contact with. I continued to speak to Him, as if we were just having a conversation.

I wasn’t making any excuses. I was simply giving Him the facts and explaining why I had lived the life I had lived.

I was very sincere about every word. I wasn’t trying to fool myself or Him. And I wasn’t trying to bargain with Him. I honestly felt the repentance in my heart.

I hadn’t looked at my relationship with Him as a two-way street. That way of thinking had to change, and now.

I could simply no longer put off living the way I knew I should be living. I needed to live a life pleasing to the Lord now so that, if I die tomorrow, which was a distinct possibility, I would be prepared to enter His kingdom.

Having spilled my transgressions to God, I needed to believe that He would forgive me and that I could start with a clean slate. And I needed to work hard at keeping that slate as pristine as possible.

after saying these words while facing death, I realized even more that life is far too short to stay angry at somebody. I was so grateful that Roger and I mended our differences before this tragedy.

did I feel that way because of my desperate situation? If given the chance to live, I would have the chance to prove my sincerity. Until then, all I could do was continue to pray and continue to trudge back up that road toward God, away from evil’s grasp.

Her home was their home. She was an honest, giving person who put everybody else’s wants and needs ahead of her own.

On July 4, 1999, a little less than five months after Mom had been diagnosed,

could she defend me in battle against the devil’s desire to take me to his home instead of hers?

Did I deserve to be heard? Did I deserve another chance? Was this even about me and what I deserved or about God and His plans? I could grasp somewhere in my brain that I was part of a much bigger picture than my own, but I was unable to escape my own thoughts, my own prayers, my own desires.

I continued imploring God for mercy. The more I spoke to Him, the more I felt that our relationship was gaining some strength. But that wasn’t enough. What good does it do to talk to somebody if he or she isn’t listening to you? Oh God. Now I had some inkling of how He felt all those years of my life when He was speaking to me but I ignored Him. Was it this painful and disheartening to Him?

I didn’t think I could be broken down any more than I was, but this latest revelation of more of my ignorance was another unflattering layer peeled off me, a layer I was happy to discard.

I whipped my hand around in the hole, waving it, stretching it as far up as I could. “I’m down here!” I yelled. “Can you see me? Please help me!” And that’s when I felt it—the warm flesh of another human! He planted his palm firmly against mine and wrapped his long, strong fingers tightly around my hand. I gasped as my breath disappeared momentarily in awe. Was I really feeling this? I was! And all of my hours of asking, praying, screaming, yelling, pleading, begging, promising—they ended with the most incredible feeling and the four sweetest words I have ever heard. “I’ve got you, Genelle,” a calm, confident male voice said to me.

It was Wednesday, September 12, maybe about 9:15 a.m., nearly twenty-three hours after the tower collapsed.

Rick had a full-time job at a local restaurant, but his conscience told him he had a much bigger and more important job waiting for him in New York.

They put masks on to help ward off the nauseating smell—a mixture of burning metal, electrical wires, and human flesh. The men knew from what they had seen on television that they were going to be climbing into nothing short of a war zone. They were directed to a smaller building on the site that was heavily damaged but had avoided collapse. They walked inside, cautiously stepping through all the dust and ruins, and up the steps to the second floor. The debris outside the building from the towers was piled so high, and right against the building, that they climbed out a second-story window and found themselves right on top of the mountain of twisted rubble.

even an explanation in great detail would have never prepared them for this. They stared incredulously at the endless, perilous wreckage, then warily started walking through the darkness, slowly and carefully stepping across the rough, jagged terrain of peaks and valleys, trying to avoid falling onto some sharp metal that could slice into them.

As they looked down through the rubble, they could see the crimson glow of fires burning, which was also their only real source of light other than a few flashlights and some surrounding city lights. It was like walking on top of a...

It was all about vigilantly walking, looking, and listening. Search and rescue. That was the sole mission.

They were awakened by the sunrise, the most depressing sunrise they had ever witnessed. Though shining brightly in the sky, it was shadowed on the ground by a dense, dark vapor that was difficult to see through and breathe in. It was like a dirty eclipse that left no doubt something inhuman had happened in one of the greatest cities in the world and wasn’t going to get better anytime soon.

The officer and his dog worked tirelessly throughout Tuesday evening and into very early Wednesday morning without any success—until about roughly 9:15 a.m. That was when, with Rick and Brian nearby, Trakr came to a sudden stop. James looked down at him and intently watched as Trakr’s body became still and erect. That was the first sign that he might be onto something. The German shepherd then started anxiously dancing around. Something was triggering this excitement in him. James, with a firm hold of Trakr’s leash, continued to quietly watch as Trakr keenly scoped the area with his eyes. Then came two more signs James was hoping to see: Trakr’s ears perked up and his tail stiffened. There was no doubt about it at that point: Trakr sensed somebody close by was buried alive. That somebody was me.

I was close enough that my smell sent clear messages through Trakr’s system.

Trakr had a record of being one of the best there was, and nobody knew him better than James. James completely trusted his partner’s senses and confidently yelled out to the team around him: “He’s got a hit!” Trakr’s “hit,” as I would eventually le...