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

by Genelle Guzman-McMillan

As securely as my hand was in Paul’s, I had to continue to trust that my fate was truly in God’s hands and that He was going to take care of everything the way He saw fit.

Little did he know that by finding his comrade, he would be part of a miracle that had been slowly unfolding since the towers collapsed. After his short reflection, he looked down closer, and then listened attentively before turning his head to the other rescuers in the area. “Hey! We’ve got a live person here!” the fireman shouted. Everybody froze. Voices went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop. That’s how quiet it was. It stayed that way for several seconds. The fireman then turned back to the rubble and waved his flashlight in the area around his deceased brother. “Can you see the light?” he shouted to the live person he found. That person was me. “No, I can’t see anything,” I yelled back. Meanwhile, Paul was still holding my hand. “Hang on, Genelle,” Paul said. “They’ll get you.”

“I’m down here!” I yelled with a hoarse voice. “Can you see me?” But wait a minute . . . I was still holding on to Paul’s hand. What was going on? Why wasn’t Paul communicating with the rescuers? He said earlier that he could see them. Couldn’t they see him too? My hand was becoming a little numb from not moving it for so long. I wiggled my fingers around Paul’s hand, just to reassure myself that he was still holding on to me. “Paul, what’s happening?” I frantically asked, trying to make sense of the situation. “You’re okay, Genelle,” he said in the same composed tone he’d been speaking in since he’d found me about twenty minutes earlier. “One more minute and they’ll have you.”

I had Paul talking to me, the fireman talking to me, but they weren’t talking to each other. I didn’t have the mental strength to try and figure it out. All that mattered to me at that moment was that several people knew where I was, including one who had a solid grip on me. “Keep the faith, Genelle,” I mumbled to myself. “Trust God. Trust . . .”

“Paul? Paul?” I said, spitting some dust off my lips. “They’re here, Genelle,” Paul said in a voice that I could tell was accompanied with a smile. “They’re here.” “Oh God, thank you, Paul! Thank you!” “You’re in good hands now,” he said. “I’m going to go and let them do their jobs and get you out, okay?” “Okay. Thank you.”

Meanwhile, the fireman who found me held my hand just as Paul did. In fact, I couldn’t even remember Paul’s letting go and the fireman’s taking over. It was a heavenly transition.

His fellow fireman, whom he had originally come over to get, was lying under me and behind me, part of him crushed underneath my legs. Remember that soft cloth I felt behind my legs after the tower first collapsed? The one I later tugged at when I was freezing, unaware of what it was, but hoping to pull it over me to keep warm? That was the uniform—with the fluorescent orange glow that Rick spotted—of the fireman.

nonstop loop of “move this” and “move that” and “don’t move this” and “don’t move that.”

The rescuers were working in full cooperation with one another, all with one goal: to get me out safely.

Finding me gave them hope that there could be more,

I can’t say that the thought of saws buzzing around my head and extremities was comforting, but these were God’s men, in my mind. Just as I had put all my trust in Him to get me out, I had to trust that He sent these men to finish the job.

Each tool or piece of machinery had its own distinct sound, none of which would be pleasant to the average ear. To me, though, they were the beautiful sounds of freedom in the making. Every grind, every bang, every ring meant I was that much closer to being out.

would have been tough to stomach. They began working on freeing my head, chipping away at the solid, heavy concrete a little bit to lighten it. That went on for several minutes. When they were finally able to pick it up and toss it all aside, it felt like my head instantly ballooned about five sizes larger than it was supposed to be.

we’re going to continue searching as soon as we get you out. We found you, so we’re not giving up on anybody.”

If I was alive, and with God’s presence, there was always hope.

I’m sure they were also trying to keep me engaged so I would stay awake and stay positive. I obviously needed medical attention, but they didn’t know how seriously I needed it, and it couldn’t be administered until they first got me out.

They lifted my upper body slightly, enough to gently pull my right arm out from underneath me. I felt about a dozen hands on me at once. Each move was done very slowly and meticulously. They had no idea what was broken and seemed to be working with the assumption that everything on me was damaged in some way. That overly cautious approach was perfectly acceptable to me. Once my arm was free, they set me back down and gave me some time to try and move a little bit and get the blood flowing while they discussed what to do next and how to do it. I tenderly turned my head to the left, feeling every joint in my neck pop as I did. I tried to wiggle the fingers on my right hand and bend my elbow. I think it felt like I was moving them more than I actually was, but just knowing that I now had the capability to try and move them was a relief. Everything was sore, unlike any soreness I’d ever felt, but I wasn’t complaining.

it seemed like every time my mind started to wander, I was quickly yanked out of my trance with “Be careful! Be careful!” Those were the words I heard the most throughout the whole ordeal. I bet they said them a hundred times since they started, and every time, thank God, they listened to one another.

I could tell when the beam was finally lifted off me only because I could feel the air on my left leg. But I could hardly move it, and the right one just felt like it was dead. I couldn’t move it. I couldn’t feel it. If they had told me it wasn’t there, I would have believed them. But I wasn’t too worried about it at that point. I was alive and knew I was going to have a long road to recovery ahead of me. First things first—just get me out.

The entire process took about three and a half to four hours. I think it was about 1:30 p.m. when they were finally ready to lift me out. I had been buried underneath that rubble for about twenty-three hours when they found me, and it was roughly twenty-seven hours before I was freed. How on earth did I survive being crushed by one of the most massive structures on the planet? How did I last as long as I did in those conditions? The change that was transpiring in me made those questions easy to answer. I didn’t do any of it. It was all God. He had a plan for me—one I could neither explain nor take an ounce of credit for. But I firmly believe that the ...

It didn’t feel like only concrete and beams had been lifted off me, but a dark veil that had been shrouding me for years as well. It was a wonderful, magical feeling to know that the best story I was going to have to tell from my tribulation to my family and friends was that, when it was over, I had made a new best friend, one I could coun...

While I was being dug out, dozens and dozens of volunteers in the vicinity flocked to the scene, ready to do whatever necessary to transport me to the waiting ambulance. And when I say “dozens and dozens,” I’ve been told there were at least two hundred, and probably even closer to three hundred. Simply unfathomable to me. They formed two lines. Separated a few feet apart, they faced each other, basically forming a human tunnel. They stood outside the hole I was in and snaked all the way down the rubble to the ambulance. “You ready, Genelle?” one of them said. I couldn’t have smiled any brighter. “Absolutely,” I replied. The fireman who had been at my side gave my hand one more squeeze. “You did good,” he said. “Thank you for everything,” I said, unsure of how to thank a man who played a major role in saving my life. I still could barely open my eyes, so I had no idea what he looked like. And I realized just a few seconds after thanking him that throughout the entire rescue, he never told me his name. How did I not ask? But it was already too late. The split second after saying “Thank you for everything,” my descent down the heap of rubble had begun.

As they passed me down the line, like a crowd surfer at a rock concert, I went downhill, uphill, side to side, oftentimes feeling like I might flip over. I was bouncing out of control. When I opened my eyes very slightly, I still couldn’t see much, which gave me the sensation of riding a roller coaster in the dark.

Mentally, though, the ride was uplifting. Everybody commented while they passed me along. I heard “hang in there” and “way to go” and “God bless you” and dozens of other such phrases of encouragement.

Once I reached the end of the line, I was startled by their roaring cheers. They erupted into applause, as if we were at a sold-out Yankees game. It was an amazing, beautiful sound. But were those cheers for me? I hoped it was for all of them—the brave men and women who left their spouses and children and jobs to risk their lives to find lost souls such as me. I will forever be indebted to them. They are my heroes.

I thought about all that I had been through in just one day. It was amazing to me that I could go thirty years with the influence of God all around me—from my parents, from Elvis, from many relatives, from church, from school, even from Kimberly—and never feel much of any allegiance or debt to Him. Yet here I was transformed in a single day. The best part was that I knew this wasn’t a one-time call to Him. It was no fluke. I knew without a doubt that this was the beginning of something big, a relationship that was going to be the focal point of the rest of my life.

There was no way it was coincidence that Paul found me. Just no way. God led him there. But why me? There had to be so many other people more worthy than I, based on the good lives they led, of being saved. Maybe I had some kind of previous connection to Paul that I didn’t know about. But still, how did he find me buried under there? Who was he? A fireman? A policeman? An everyday citizen just there to help? I thought about the path he might have taken to find me. From being at home with his family to being on site of one of the worst disasters in the nation’s history. He probably climbed around the pile for hours, digging, yelling, listening, searching for any sign of life. Did he find anybody before me? After he let go of my hand, did he continue searching for more? And did he find anybody? I had a million questions about him and for him that I knew wouldn’t be answered until I got out of the hospital and was able to track him down. What type of life had Paul led? Was finding me a life-changing experience for him? Or was this routine for him, just another day’s work, something he did for a living? In short, who was this man who, through God’s grace, had become my hero? Who was this man whose selflessness gave me, of all people, a second chance at life? I couldn’t wait to meet him and find out.

“Roger, that was Bellevue Hospital on the phone.” He didn’t move for about three stunned seconds as he processed what she said, then opened his eyes and popped his head up. “What did they say?” he asked. “They asked if Roger McMillan lived here. I told them you did, that you were sleeping, and they said you need to go down there.” “Why?” “I asked, but they wouldn’t tell me,”

“They said they need to talk to you.” Roger laid his head back down and stared straight up at the ceiling. “There is no way I’m identifying her body,” he said as tears started to fill his eyes. “I can’t do it. I can’t see her that way.” “We don’t know that’s the case, Roger. Let’s just go and find out.” She left the bedroom to let Roger get dressed.

They were fortunate, with much of the transportation system in chaos, to catch a train, and then a bus, into Manhattan. It took nearly ninety minutes, but mentally it felt like the longest ride of Roger’s life.

Just as they were beginning their trek, Roger’s phone rang. It was Corey, who was holding the answer to the question Roger had been wanting to know since Bellevue first called: was I dead or alive? Think about what horrible news you could possibly receive that would sink your soul to the bottom of the ocean, then imagine what could be the best news you could get that would shoot it to the stars. Now imagine emotionally blasting from the ocean floor to the sky in a heartbeat. That’s what happened to Roger. After being convinced that I was gone forever . . . “Roger? It’s Corey. She’s alive!” Roger’s heartbeat kicked uncontrollably into high gear. “She’s . . . what?” “She’s alive, Roger! She’s at Bellevue!” “Oh, praise God! She’s alive!” Roger said to the ladies, who erupted in celebration.

“There’s one thing though that my friend warned me about.” “What’s that?” “She’s not going to look like the Genelle you know. Her entire face and head is very swollen. She’s pretty banged up right now. She’s going to make it, but she’s been through a lot. So be prepared for that before you go in there.”

They tried to imagine just how bad I could possibly look . . . but then realized they didn’t care. I was alive, and that’s all that mattered. Everything else was secondary.

After talking with her dad about it for a while Tuesday night, trying to make sense of it the best that a twelve-year-old could, she cried herself to sleep, asking God the same questions Roger was asking and the same ones I had been asking while I was under the rubble: would God give me another chance to live? Come to think of it, God was probably being assailed with prayers at the exact same time by Roger, Kimberly, and me, not to mention all the family and friends who were praying. That thought later made me recall the miracle I believe I witnessed years earlier involving my aunt Hilda and how I credited that, in part, to all the people surrounding her in prayer. I felt my situation was different when I was praying for a miracle because I didn’t have all those people physically gathered around me. I felt like I was alone and on my own. But even though I could not see them, there were people praying just as hard, and in large numbers, for my survival. I felt like I was alone at the time, but I never was. Not even close.

Word was spreading quickly among her friends that I was missing, and, actually, it was spreading all across the island as my name was being tossed around on the television and radio news. I was becoming famous in my native land, as I had always dreamed but for all the wrong reasons. It was soon after Roger and the others found out from Corey that I was alive that Kimberly and Elvis got the call at home from my sister Christine. Kimberly shrieked with excitement at the news from her aunt.

“Genelle?” he said again. I squeezed his hand some more. That’s when he knew for sure it was me. He smiled with relief, then tenderly whispered words that I will never forget: “Why didn’t you get out when I told you to?” I smiled, or at least I felt like I was smiling, as a single joy-filled teardrop flowed from my left eye and streamed down my cheek. Roger gently wiped it away as he began to cry with me. “Oh, Genelle,” he said. “Thank God you’re here. Thank God.”

She briefly told me what she went through before finding out I was alive. It was a very emotional, personal conversation with some crying, smiling, and a lot of love back and forth. She said she wanted to visit me, but I told her I was okay and it was best if she stayed home. I didn’t want her missing any school, and I also didn’t want her seeing me in such bad shape. Plus, I didn’t know if New York was still being targeted by terrorists, if there was more danger to come. Of course, I hoped not, but I wasn’t ready to take my chances by bringing my daughter to the city. And I certainly didn’t want her flying alone on an airplane.

I got the feeling she felt like she got her mom back—the mom she always wanted—and I knew that she did. “I love you, Mom,” she said as we concluded our conversation. I began to cry again. “I love you, too, baby.”

then there was Roger, the one constant in the hospital every day during the six weeks I was there.

It had to have taken a physical and mental toll on him, but he never complained, never acted like he didn’t want to be there, and always did everything he could for me. It was truly a blessing on our relationship because it showed that even through bad times, he was going to be there for me. I never doubted that, but to see it in action was wonderful.

what happened those six weeks was a whirlwind—the visits from friends and family, the phone calls, the nurses constantly checking on me, the surgeries, the diagnoses I never expected, the physical therapy, the immigration issue—I cannot even remember the order in which everything happened because there was so much going on; there was certainly never a dull moment.

The biggest damage was to my right leg, which had been pinned under me. The doctors gave it to me straight: there were some broken bones, along with damaged nerves and muscles from my thigh down through my foot; I was probably going to have to go through multiple surgeries over the next few weeks, and amputation of the leg was not out of the question.

My reaction to the amputation possibility? Believe it or not, it was “Whatever.” That was probably my first real test since I was found alive that I had completely put my life in God’s hands. No, I did not want to lose my leg, but if that was the worst thing that was going to happen to me after experiencing what I had experienced, I was fine with it. God kept me alive for a reason, and the loss of a leg wasn’t going to change that.

“The leg is dead,” was the doctor’s blunt admission. “We’re going to try one more surgery to see what we can do, but we just don’t know for sure how it’s going to turn out.”

While the thought of losing my leg became a little more real, I was still okay with it. It felt as if nothing could dampen my joy of surviving. The surgery they performed was called a fasciotomy, in which the fascia, or connective tissue surrounding the muscles and nerves in the damaged area, was cut to relieve some pressure. A lot of tissue was also removed, so much that it left a permanent indentation in my leg, and the surgery left some scars on the left and right sides of that leg. But the surgery was successful.

I was feeling good, like I was making progress each day—until I suffered a major setback.

I was able to continue with therapy, working my leg back to full strength. Well, for a little while, anyway . . . until the next major problem they found. As if a crushed leg and heart problem weren’t enough, nurses did a pap smear after my surgeries. What I thought was just going to be a routine screening drove me to fear when the results came back: signs of cervical cancer. One of the nurses told me that I would likely have to have my uterus removed, meaning, of course, that I would not be able to have any more children. I stared at her in stunned silence, then began to cry. All I can recall is thinking, Okay, seriously Lord, what’s next? I had been so full of praise, so willing to take whatever bad news came. But cancer? Cancer is life threatening. Could I handle having my life threatened again, so soon after the first event? I wasn’t certain how much more I could take. And although we had never formally discussed having children together, I knew Roger wanted children. How would he react to the news?

Much to my relief, Roger remained as calm and loving as ever. “Whatever happens, Genelle, is what was meant to be.” I don’t know what I would have done without his love and support every step of the way.

After further evaluation, removing the uterus was not likely going to be necessary. Doctors instead did a LEEP procedure, in which the abnormal cervical cells were basically burned out of me. It took about thirty minutes, and that was it. Follow-up tests showed that the procedure worked and the cancerous cells we...

they were only a small part of the mental challenges I went through during my hospital stay.