WHEN THE TOWERS FELL It has been 12 years since I watched the Towers fall. It is surreal even to this day. I reprint this story, originally a newspaper article, in honor of the friends and loved one lost that day, as well as everyone lost in the Towers, in the Pentagon and in a field in Pennsylvania. News Story Filed: Wednesday, September 19, 2001 911. Every man, woman, and child in America knows that is the number to call for emergency help. It is a number that changed America – forever. It changed me. If you or your family do not live in or near Manhattan, you cannot know the terror, pain, fear, suspension of time, or just plain numbness that 9-11 now means. All of America was changed, horrified, shocked, and incredulous at what happened when two planes hit the World Trade Center on Tuesday morning, September 11. Words and pictures tell a story. But it is just a 2-dimensional story. Living is the real story. The sounds, smells, feelings, and all else that makes up real life. What you saw, and are seeing is not Reality TV, it is Real. My parents, James and Betty Bovo, have lived in New Castle all of their lives. I practice medicine and write in New York City. Just like everyone else in America, I got up and ready to work. My work that day was completing a magazine article and studying for my OB/GYN re-certification Boards. I turn on the TV for background noise – while I write. A friend of mine called me from North Carolina, telling me that the World Trade Center had been blown up. Of course, I told her that was impossible. I could walk out on my terrace and see them, just like any other day. Walking onto the terrace, I saw the smoke and what used to be Tower One. I watched for what seemed two minutes, but I now know was over a half an hour, trying to convince myself that Tower One was really behind the black cloud of smoke. Reality set in as I watched the slow-motion collapse of Tower Two. It was real. I immediately tried to call my daughter, who lives a half hour from me in New Jersey. No calls were going through. I then called St. Vincent’s Hospital, knowing they were the closet to what had happened. Unbelievably I was able to get through. I was told they had enough doctors for the time, but that more would be needed as more survivors were pulled out. Come then – and bring my medical license with me. With the rest of America, I watched the television for news. The Pentagon was hit. We’re at war, I thought. Then a plane went down near Pittsburgh. I tried to call my parents, brother, sisters (including Michelle Donnelly, who works for the Ellwood City Ledger), and aunt – no calls went through. They were also on the phones trying to call me. Calls were attempted throughout the day, as I watched the disaster unfold. I kept walking to my terrace and looking at the New York skyline, hoping it would be the same as the day before. It never was, and never will be again. I watched the smoke go up as Tower Seven collapsed. A few hours later, reports of cell phone calls from survivors trapped in the rubble were received. Still phone lines were busy. As I put on scrubs and prepared to leave my apartment, the phone rang. It was my daughter. They were fine, but shaken to the core. My 12 year old grandson, Samuel, was quiet and refused to watch. He knew some of his friends had parents that worked in the buildings. As I stepped on the ferry to New York, I was asked for identification. This had never happened before. I showed them my license. Life was not the same now. Departing the ferry in Manhattan and going to Chelsea Piers was like walking in a fog – automatic and not real. They did not need help. I went to St. Vincent’s and found dozens and dozens of medical personnel waiting to receive the injured. I couldn’t wait and began walking south. At the perimeter of what we now know as ground zero, I found street after street of ambulances waiting. Almost automatically, doctors and other rescue workers had come out of no where to help. There were doctors from Massachusetts who just got into their cars and drove. Others came from Chicago, North Carolina, and everywhere. Triage areas were set up mostly spontaneously. We could at least take care of those with slight injuries while the seriously injured could be taken to hospitals. We waited, never looking up. We waited, only occasionally looking down at the debris of ash and paper at our feet, not wanting to know what was mixed in that gray and black dust. No one said very much. We just watched the still, black cloud in front of us and waited. After many, many hours, some of us realized there would not be hundreds and thousands brought to us for care. We were caring for the rescuers. Taking care of their eyes and lungs and cuts. And watching them go back into the horror before us. I cannot say enough about the heroes our children now have in the firemen and policemen of New York. Real heroes, not just those that can swing a bat or throw a ball. Real men and women who put their own lives on the line to save others. Finally as dawn broke, I left the area, convincing myself that it would be later in the day that the people would be found. We just had to wait. I had to go home and try to call my family. I knew what waiting for disaster was like. While in medical school in Hershey, PA, 3 Mile Island decided to try to obliterate part of Pennsylvania. The hospital in Hershey was to be the evacuation and trauma hospital if there was a core meltdown. It never happened, but it was four days of waiting for victims and possibly being one of them. My daughter was 12 then, the same age as my grandson now. I went home to wait. The phone never seemed to stop all day as family called to see if I was all right. The calls ranged from terror about my safety to outright refusal to talk about me being in Manhattan. I also received calls from many news and talk shows. I am fairly well known in the NY area and have done almost every talk and news show here. I consented to do one the next day – the Ananda Lewis Show. She was going to allow victims, and families of those missing to tell their story. It wasn’t in an exploitative way, but as a way to try and make this real to the rest of America. Doing the show was on the agreement that my first priority was to be at ground zero if I was needed. As the show was waiting to tape, everyone asked what it had been like. I could not honestly tell them. I didn’t remember – didn’t want to remember – what I saw, smelled and heard. I know I didn’t feel anything. I couldn’t, not yet. But I did remember and feel. At the end of taping for the first hour, the audience sang America the Beautiful. And I remembered. I was told by the staff of the show that all the horror of Tuesday was in my face as I relieved Ground Zero and allowed the tears to flow. My father watched the second hour of the show on Monday of this week. He was shocked and surprised to see me. He was the one in the family that refused to acknowledge I might have been there. During daily phone calls, he never wanted to know. He knows now. My father, a World War 2 veteran, has been flying the flag daily in his yard for twenty years, until it was torn a year ago. It seemed there was never time to replace it. On Friday night, my brother, Marc, his wife, Rene, my nephew, Vince, and their friend, Frank had a mission. Their mission was to find a flag for my father. After many hours, they found one at a VFW in Hopewell. On Saturday afternoon, they spent hours trying to raise this 4 x 6 foot symbol of our country. My mother, not suffering ineptitude lightly or very long, took matters into her own hands. She called the New Castle Fire Department, who came, saw, and rescued them by putting up the rope on the flag pole. The flag was then raised by my brother. Some would call this an abuse of the Fire Department’s time. I call it doing something to help someone during this time of terror. American Flags are flying in every small town and big city in America. This is a reaction to what happened here. Let us just hope that in the months and years to come, flying Our Flag will become an action in America. On Thursday evening, I was going back into the area with the search and rescue being launched from Jersey City. As I was leaving, my daughter Christine called. The shaking in her voice was the first I had heard. My grandson wanted to talk to me – to tell me I could not go into the city because I would die. I asked my daughter what was wrong, aside from the obvious. She said, “I’m living 3 Mile Island all over again.” I didn’t go because I did have a family in shock near the shadow of the disaster. We had severe thunder and lightning that night and the rescue teams were called off. I knew then that it would have been a wasted trip, but that at least my daughter and grandson somehow felt better that I wasn’t there. Samuel, my grandson, awakened every time thunder sounded that night, screaming, “They’re bombing us!” On Saturday, he finally went to see some friends. Upon returning home, my daughter asked if he had fun. He shrugged and said, “Not really”. My daughter asked why. He replied, “We played war and we lost”. This shocked my daughter since he had never played ‘war games’ before. When he was asked why they lost and who was the enemy was, he replied, “We lost to the invisible enemy.” All of Our Children will grow up now knowing there is an ‘invisible enemy’. I have not looked out my windows nor gone onto my terrace for five days. I know that I will again, but it will never be the same. Right now, it is part of my way of dealing with what has happened. Even though I am there working up close every day, it is not the same as seeing an empty skyline. Every man, woman and child in this country has lost an innocence that will never be recovered in our lifetime. My family has heard these stories about the past week and many more as we spoke daily on the phone. For them, so far away, it is all too close and too real. There have been so many personal stories told and written about this unspeakable act of a few. This was just one of them. © 2001: Mary Jane Bovo, M.D.
Posted on: Wed, 11 Sep 2013 05:00:29 +0000
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