Breaths

[Annie]

Witness.
http://lettersfromnyc.mu.nu/archives/195400.php

September 05, 2006
Breaths

Five years ago I participated in my first 10k race on Labor Day. It was also my first major practice with Tom, the running buddy assigned to me by The Achilles Track Team, whom I was to spot for. Tom was blind, and like me loved running, even though we weren't very fast. He had trained me on how to run tethered to him and also taught me how to listen to his breathing as a way to know how he was doing in a run without asking and wasting precious energy and time. Tom explained it was the best way to identify the first signs of trouble. That Labor Day, all my friends were there to cheer me on. It had been a high point for all of us, because we were all finally ready to compete in the NYC Marathon that fall.

I used that listening technique many times when running with my best friends. It really gave me insight into how they were feeling during a run. For years we had worked out together, but our running together gave us a closeness and a feel for each other that was uncanny. For the first time few words needed to be exchanged between us.

The morning after Labor Day we were all supposed to meet early at the gym to do a quick 5 mile run along the Batter Park City Waterfront that goes past the World Trade Center, but my plans changed.

When Mike called me later that morning he was on the 72nd floor of the North Tower. I had been on the phone with him for about 5 min. when Larry called and asked me to conference him in on the call. We’d done that a thousand times on Fridays or Saturday afternoons when no one could agree on what we were doing that evening. This time it was for a different reason.

The FDNY radios were not functioning properly and it was total chaos inside the towers, so this time I was conferencing them in so they could communicate with each other. I listened and stood by as I’d done countless times during their impromptu rescues. That day my role was once again as witness and bystander, but I was also to be messenger. Knowing they had walked into a “tinder box” they gave me messages for their families in the event they didn’t make it out alive.

While Mike and Larry spoke, I heard their labored breathing from the strain of heavy equipment. They continued going up the narrow smoke filled staircases in full gear in spite of the rising temperatures and enveloping darkness. After a long while, and once we had learned that the South Tower had collapsed, I broke in calling out Mike’s name. We’d known each other for so long that he knew what I was about to say… to ask of him.

“Don’t say it, Michele. I know what you’re going to ask and you know we can’t turn back now.” So I clutched my cell phone, closed my eyes, and hung my head in prayer. A few times I bit down hard on my lips knowing that anything I said or any sound I’d make would only distract them and force them to talk and waste precious oxygen.

So instead, I listened silently and intently. I listened as they gave commands to civilians on what to do; listened as they reassured people that were frightened and choking on acrid smoke, that they would be fine as long they continued going down; listened as they continued to climb through the thick dense black darkness that enveloped them and grew hotter as they counted off the floors. And in my silence, I was privy to the sounds of their last breaths.

As the sounds from the strain of the floors above grew louder, everyone came to a standstill and their voices became quieter. I could hear men hushing each other almost as clearly as I heard Mike and Larry’s breathing. Everyone had stopped to listen to the sounds above them. Mike and Larry remained quiet even as the rumble and thunder of the upper floors giving way increased. There was no panic, no screams, no frantic yells for help; there was only Mike’s voice whispering a “Dear God” before the sounds of loud crashing ended in an abysmal silence that reverberates to this day.

It’s taken a long time for me to break that silence. It’s still not easy, but for some time now this blog has helped me utter the first innermost sounds since that day. I remain hopeful that someday I’ll be able to find my full voice again. Till that happens, these small whispers of pain will have to be the small breaths that open a closed soul.
Posted by Michele at September 5, 2006 12:29 PM

 

[USMCDevilDog]

Made my heart drop...

 

[nt250]

I really hate to bring this up for fear of being called heartless, but...

Labor Day 2001 was September 3rd. Not the 10th.

 

[Annie]

I really hate to bring this up for fear of being called heartless, but...

Labor Day 2001 was September 3rd. Not the 10th.

You may be correct. I don't doubt the remembrance though. Feel better?

 

[nt250]

You may be correct. I don't doubt the remembrance though. Feel better?

Yup. Thanks.