I Am An American!

Each September, I am amazed that yet another year has passed so quickly and how the horror which erupted on Tuesday, September 11^th 2001 is still so fresh in my mind.  Although that terrible day slowly moves into the realm of distant history, I am amazed at how raw the wounds still are.  The emotions of anger and sadness still overwhelm me when I allow myself to think about it.  I believe that the turn of events on that destructive day will forever be embedded in my memory and has forever changed who I am today. 

Between my ex-husband’s business on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and living in Manhasset, NY I knew most of the guys on Cantor Fitzgerald and Sandler O’Neill’s desks.  As I write this, I feel a pang of guilt talking about how that day changed my life through the loss I experienced, because it will never compare to the degree of loss that my friends experienced losing their spouses, siblings or parents on that tragic day. 

It was just a normal Tuesday.  Hailey was four, Jack was two and I had just found out weeks before that I was pregnant with Torie. I had taken the kids down to the basement to play, set them up and called my friend Jill at 8 am as I did everyday.  As we were updating each other with the fabulous details of our “stay at home mom” life and exchanging survival tactics on how to make it through the day until bedtime, my call waiting beeped and I clicked over.  It was John.  He sounded frantic. It was only 8:50 am.  I know because I remember looking at the clock on the wall thinking “Why does he sound so panicked? The market hasn’t even opened yet.”  He instructed me to turn on the television.  “A commuter plane just flew into the 104^th floor where Cantor Fitzgerald is!  All my guys are up there!”  We tried getting them on the squawk box but it has gone silent.  Pam, I think Jerry’s brother is up there.”  I clicked over to Jill and told her what had happened and that I would call her back as soon as I could.

Jerry was one of John’s clients at Cantor Fitzgerald.  John had been begging him to work for him on the floor for awhile.  Finally after months of prodding and after passing his brokers test, Jerry conceded and began working on the floor of the NYSE just weeks before 9-11.  If Jerry had not gone to work for John, his fate would have taken a similar turn as his brother Pat.  We were having dinner at Café Continental where John also asked Pat to come work for him but he insisted that he had some things to finish up at Cantor and he would follow shortly.  Unfortunately not soon enough.

Pat and I had met about a year and a half prior to 9-11.  Pat loved golf and Jerry was known to sacrifice a day of fishing or on the beach because he knew how much his little brother loved to play golf.  Jerry and Pat were pretty much inseparable except for on the golf cart.  It was me and Pat against Jerry and John so the teams would be even. 

Pat had two brothers so I think he welcomed our four hour cart discussions on life, relationships and bad golf swings.  I went to Villanova and he went to Georgetown so we were only rivals when it came to NCAA Basketball.  He was a joker.  We laughed often unless of course he wasn’t playing well. I always had to talk him off the ledge when Deepdale’s greens were rolling at a 14 and John and Jerry were heckling him as his original1 foot putt turned into a 20 foot putt and eventually a 3 or 4 putt.  He cursed like a sailor - only when he was playing bad golf but at the same time was a true gentleman, a loyal brother and a good son.  Pat put his family first and was beyond generous as he helped his older brother through law school and with the down payment on his home.  (None of which I knew about until after his death.)  He also had a girlfriend at the time.  He would talk to me about the on again off again relationship.  Regardless of the turbulence, he said that he would always take care of her.  He was a man of his word and could talk to anyone. He had a smile that could melt you and one that could get him out of any amount of trouble.  But on September 11, 2001, Patrick’s smile wasn’t enough. 

  

The last time I saw Pat was at Breezy Point on the Sunday before September 11, 2001.  I can’t explain it but it was like he wasn’t there.  I didn’t feel the connection that I normally had when Pat and I were in each other’s presence.  I couldn’t explain it until our friendship was cut short due to Pat’s untimely death.  I even asked my ex-husband about it when he had gotten home that night.  He finished my sentence as I said, “Do you think Pat is mad at me for some reason?  I continued, “It was like…“He wasn’t there?” he responded.  “Yes! Like he wasn’t’ there” I answered.

I watched the events unfold on television as I was on the phone with John.  I watched in disbelief as I saw the second plane hit the South Tower.  Sickened by the scene, I told John that this is not an accident and demanded that he get out of there immediately.  He said that he needed to gather his guys and then he would go.  I told him that I would stay on the phone with him until he left and just then I heard screaming and a loud rumbling sound.  Simultaneously I watched the South Tower collapse to the ground.  Staring in disbelief, we were immediately cut off and there was silence on the other end of the phone.  And shortly after, the North Tower followed suit.  It was then that my hope for Pat’s survival was gone.

I didn’t hear from John or anybody else for another 8 hours.  John finally called saying that he had walked up the Westside Highway and had headed for Penn Station but there were mobs of people attempting to get out of the city via train.  Again I pleaded with him to get out of there and seek solace at his brother’s apartment uptown.  Twelve hours later, John stood at our front door covered in soot with broken glass in his hair - a broken man.  Figuratively speaking, I too lost my husband on September 11^th.  As I opened the door to let him in, I could smell the debris of the Towers burning.  We were 15 miles from the city but the wind had been blowing East and as the days went on, the burning turned to the putrid scent of death.  One I can’t describe and one I hope to never smell again.  The next few months were spent attending endless amounts of Memorial Services.  Since I was pregnant at the time, I had decided to stop at number 31.  Emotionally I couldn’t do it any more.

I had an opportunity to visit Ground Zero for the first time after 10 years this past November.  I was reluctant to visit the memorial because I was traveling with my boyfriend and fearful of what my reaction would be when I got there.  Although I vowed to never forget, I also try to keep my emotions in check throughout the year.  I mourn quietly each time I catch the clock reading 9:11 am or pm (which happens on a regular basis) or on the anniversary of that dreadful day.

I had spoken about Pat before and said that all I wanted to do was see his name.  We had gone at night and I was in awe of the beauty of a place that once served as the stage for terrorism and such tragedy.  I was taking pictures of the memorial of where the South Tower once stood and then gravitated to the North Tower Memorial as I took a picture of my boyfriend.  It started to rain and we were getting ready to leave the site but not before I leaned up against the North Tower memorial and found my hands resting upon “Patrick Sullivan”.  Speechless, I pointed to his name in disbelief and relief.  I was always reluctant to speak of my connection with Pat before 9-11.  I couldn’t ever explain it in fear that people would think that I was a nut.  What we had was nothing more than friendship of course but Pat was one of those special people.  I still can’t explain it, but the inexplicable connection with him was validated even 10 years after he perished.  So we did as any good Irishman would do and went to the pub next to Rescue Company One to have a beer to celebrate the lives of Pat Sullivan and all who perished on the day that changed America.

It was the day that terrorist attacks turned one of the clearest New York days into the darkest day in history. It was the day that ordinary people performed extraordinary tasks.  It was a day of so much loss but through it all, The United States of America showed what it was made of.  For me, it was the day that all things were put in perspective.  And most importantly, it was when I realized  that I am an American and proud of it!