Getting closer to 9/11 by Jo-Ann Reccoppa, NJ

Day 4 at the 9/11 week only means we’re inching nearer toward an anniversary we wish we didn’t have to remember. The tragedy was something that had far-reaching effects. It would be difficult to confidently say you weren’t even a mite affected by it. It’s probably the reason someone couldn’t get into the country for whatever noble purpose, because of stricter immigration laws. And who knows how that someone could have impacted your life?

Today, commensurately, we are getting closer to experiencing the 9/11 as it were. Jo-Ann Reccoppa from NJ recounts her memories of a day where everything came together disturbingly at once – a husband caught in one of the towers, a son’s birthday and another’s insistence on finding his father, family at the other ill-fated sites. There is a sigh of relief at the happy ending, but as she correctly observes, it’s a healing that may always be tainted. Here’s hoping that Ann and every other person who was unfortunately involved in the day find the peace that they’re looking for.

September 11, 2001, began with clear, blue skies – perfect weather to celebrate my son’s birthday later that night.

My husband called at 8:45 and told me to turn on the television. Something was happening at the World Trade Center in the building next door, Tower 1, the North Tower. News reports made no sense. A plane had crashed into the building. There was confusion about the type of plane. Was it a small, private plane? A commercial jet? What was going on?

“We just heard an announcement that our building is secure,” my husband said.

I recall thinking – how bad can a pilot be that he didn’t notice two of the world’s tallest buildings in front of him? Unthinkable as it seemed, the crash was deliberate. I begged my husband to leave his office in the upper floors of Tower 2.

“Get the hell out of there,” I told him.

He had things to do first. I doubted he would leave. We said our goodbyes and I continued to watch the events unfold. At 9:03 a.m., an explosion erupted from my husband’s tower, essentially cutting the building in half. Slowed news footage showed viewers a plane crashing into his building.

I refused to call my husband for fear he would pause for 10 precious seconds to answer his cell phone. I wanted nothing on his mind except finding a way out as fast as possible.

I watched the horror like the rest of the nation. I fielded calls from friends and family and still refused to call my husband. “Every second might count,” I reminded myself. And when his tower came down, I prayed something very large would hit his head and knock him out so he wouldn’t know the terror of his impending death.

My older son wouldn’t leave the city. He would go downtown to look for his father. I told him to come home, get out of the city. He went toward the Trade Center anyway. The birthday boy called. He would drive home from his college classes. I begged him to stay put. I didn’t need his getting into an accident on his birthday in my mind on the same day he lost his father.

Our story ended well that afternoon, though it didn’t for so many others. Hours later, my husband called, saying “it’s me.” So convinced was I that he died, I thought it was a wrong number. He made it out in time, feeling the impact of the second plane as he stepped off the last elevator coming from the upper floors.

We have other stories of that day – relatives in the NorthTower all surviving, a cousin at The Pentagon who worked off-site that fateful day. We were blessed, and guilt-ridden that others were more worthy of the blessings. My husband lost many close friends and co-workers. We continue to grieve to this day. We are grateful, but we will never heal.  Maybe that is the price we pay for living.