Remembering
Every year since 2001, I wake up thinking about the Twin Towers. Even now, 13 years later, I clearly remember where I was on that day, what I was doing, and what I was wearing. I remember the warm breeze of early fall in Michigan and the blue skies that spread across the region. I remember Krystyna, the histologist, coming into the lab all in a dither. I had been struggling to tie a mouse muscle onto the force transducer, but I knew, just by looking at her, that my problem was the least of our worries at that point.
Krystyna's voice trembled as she told Cheryl and me what had happened. We all looked at one another, our eyes wide with amazement, and decided to close up the shop for the day. We scurried back to our computers to try and find more information on what was happening. I even left my own lab to check in on a friend at the dental school. His cousin worked in one of the towers and hadn't been heard from. A short while later, we found out the cousin was safe, but only because he's chosen not to go into work that day.
As I walked across the medical campus back to my apartment, I remember thinking to myself how completely fragile life really was. That something so heinous could have been planned and executed, and for what purpose? Simply to hurt people? I shook my head as I made my way through the doors of the apartment and into the living room, where Tim sat with the television on.
That day, we couldn't get away from the images of the planes hitting the towers. The event played on a loop that repeated--over and over in the news, and then again in my imagination. I clenched my eyes shut to help keep the images at bay, but nothing worked, so I gave in and fell onto the couch. I was torn between wanting to know any and all information the broadcasters could give me, and wanting to shut off the news and walk away. I chose to stay, but alternated my gaze between the television screen and my belly.
You see, I was 18 weeks pregnant on 9/11/2001. I had no idea at that time that there were two babies housed inside my uterus, but that day, as I sat there watching the news broadcast with a burgeoning belly in my lap, I thought long and hard about life and all that goes along with it. I moved my hand over the small swell between my pelvic bones and wondered if it was a good idea to be bringing new life into such turmoil. How could I? I thought. How safe would the child be as he or she grew up? What atrocities would he or she experience during a lifetime? And what would that lifetime look like? I knew after the events of the day that life would be different for all of us, on many levels. But how different? And would it still be worth living?
As I watched in horror at the ash and iron strewn across Lower Manhattan, I suddenly felt my baby kick. It wasn't the first kick that I'd experienced, but up until that moment, it was the strongest movement I'd had. And in that single instant, my somber mood began to dissipate. In the midst of pain and devastation, I had experienced a glimpse of joy and hope.
Krystyna's voice trembled as she told Cheryl and me what had happened. We all looked at one another, our eyes wide with amazement, and decided to close up the shop for the day. We scurried back to our computers to try and find more information on what was happening. I even left my own lab to check in on a friend at the dental school. His cousin worked in one of the towers and hadn't been heard from. A short while later, we found out the cousin was safe, but only because he's chosen not to go into work that day.
As I walked across the medical campus back to my apartment, I remember thinking to myself how completely fragile life really was. That something so heinous could have been planned and executed, and for what purpose? Simply to hurt people? I shook my head as I made my way through the doors of the apartment and into the living room, where Tim sat with the television on.
That day, we couldn't get away from the images of the planes hitting the towers. The event played on a loop that repeated--over and over in the news, and then again in my imagination. I clenched my eyes shut to help keep the images at bay, but nothing worked, so I gave in and fell onto the couch. I was torn between wanting to know any and all information the broadcasters could give me, and wanting to shut off the news and walk away. I chose to stay, but alternated my gaze between the television screen and my belly.
You see, I was 18 weeks pregnant on 9/11/2001. I had no idea at that time that there were two babies housed inside my uterus, but that day, as I sat there watching the news broadcast with a burgeoning belly in my lap, I thought long and hard about life and all that goes along with it. I moved my hand over the small swell between my pelvic bones and wondered if it was a good idea to be bringing new life into such turmoil. How could I? I thought. How safe would the child be as he or she grew up? What atrocities would he or she experience during a lifetime? And what would that lifetime look like? I knew after the events of the day that life would be different for all of us, on many levels. But how different? And would it still be worth living?
As I watched in horror at the ash and iron strewn across Lower Manhattan, I suddenly felt my baby kick. It wasn't the first kick that I'd experienced, but up until that moment, it was the strongest movement I'd had. And in that single instant, my somber mood began to dissipate. In the midst of pain and devastation, I had experienced a glimpse of joy and hope.
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