A few days after the attacks, I woke in the night, a loud roaring in my ears. I leapt out of bed and ran to the window, and then I realized it was the sound of the towers collapsing inside my head. It replayed with decreasing frequency for the next year.
***
The Port Authority put us to work in a Jersey City office near the Holland Tunnel. When we were outside, ash from across the river fell on us, and That Smell wafted from across the Hudson River.
***
Stepping onto a PATH train car, I recognized a woman whose name I never knew, but whom I saw regularly for years on the elevator bank that went from the 44th Floor Skylobby to the 54th Floor.
She saw me.
“You’re alive!” she said.
“So are you”, I laughed, tears jabbing, hurtling toward her.
We hugged and shared our escape stories.
A few people on the train watched with curiosity. I wonder if any of them eavesdropped on our subsequent conversation.
***
I went into a drugstore to buy shampoo at lunchtime one day and stood there for several minutes, unable to read any of the labels. The words made no more sense to me than hieroglyphics. I waited a couple of minutes, my eyes sweeping over the words, but I could not comprehend them, so I left without buying anything. Later I mentioned it to another survivor coworker, who laughed and said something similar had happened to her.
***
The Port Authority brought in therapists to speak with us as groups, offering individual counseling, as well. The young man assigned to my office seemed eager to help, asking each of us to relay our experiences of the day. Three weeks later, I encountered the therapist at a nearby mall. His appearance shocked me—face drawn, dark circles under his eyes. I asked if he was all right.
“I’ve got to take some time off now and be debriefed”, he said. “It’s been weeks of hearing stories over and over of burn victims, body parts, remains of those who jumped off the buildings, people crushed by debris. They’ll be sending in replacements.”
I wished him well, thinking, Man, this is bad. The shrinks need shrinks.
***
A colleague, Debbie Merrick, was in the burn unit, having been caught in the fireball in the One WTC Lobby. Someone brought in a voice recorder so we could record well-wishes to her as they brought her out of her drug-induced coma. We eagerly participated. In late October, we learned that Debbie had died of her injuries. I went home early that day.
***
We had a plastic Halloween bucket in the office that everyone kept filled. Some of us ate too much candy.Some of us drank too much alcohol. Fridays were “group therapy” at a local bar in Jersey City.
***
Being with other survivors helped in those early days. Somehow, together, we kept going.
~ Laurie E. Spencer
