How 9/11 Taught Me To Stop Saying ‘Everything Will Be Okay’
And what to say instead
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I’ll spare you the usual details of that awful morning. They have been well-documented and you have likely seen enough video of the event to last a lifetime. I was working at a hospital less than half a mile from the World Trade Center where, from my office, I had a clear view of the buildings and even had to tilt my head back to see their tops. A colleague and I were in my office pondering the incident in the first building when we witnessed the second plane disappear into the south tower.
My sister was scheduled to fly to New York that morning from the Midwest. I called my father, knowing that any moment the phone lines would be jammed. He’s a Bronx-born New Yorker and when I told him that planes had been intentionally flown into the World Trade Center, he simply said, “What are you talking about?” I told him to check on my sister’s whereabouts and that I had to go. I hung up the phone and made my way, bewildered and afraid, down seven flights of stairs to the emergency room.
Our small ER was quickly overwhelmed by a large number of “walking wounded” and a few severely injured victims. The cafeteria became an accessory treatment area and the hallways and corridors overflowed with passersby and uninjured victims who saw the hospital as a safe space. Everyone asked me, “How can I help, doc?” Genuinely. Truly. “What can I do?” I had never experienced — and don’t expect to experience again — the unity of purpose and spirit that existed in that moment.
At one point, I was summoned to a nearby stairwell. A group of concerned citizens was standing by a young woman curled up beneath the basement stairs. I knelt down and asked her name. No response. Blank stare. She was in shock. “Can a couple of you just sit here with her?” Of course they would. “You bet. We’re not goin’ anywhere doc.” I addressed the young woman in shock as I left. “You’re going to be okay.” Blank stare.
Back in the emergency room, a police officer motioned to me as he consoled a firefighter laying on a gurney. The fireman was an enormous guy, heavily tattooed and with a nasty laceration on one leg. As I approached, he sat up on the edge as if in slow motion. He made no eye contact with me and calmly said, “I need to get…
