8 years ago today...

when America was losing her innocence, my life started to tumble along with the lives of so many others.

I grew up in New York City.  In Manhattan.  When the first plane hit the first tower of the majestic and powerful World Trade Center, my 58 year old larger-than-life, powerful, smart, strong, passionate father was lying in a bed in Columbia Presbyterian Hospital on the upper east side.  Waiting for tests that would confirm a diagnosis he probably already knew, but didn't want to know.

Then the second tower was hit.  And my father, in his hospital gown, with the back exposed, decided he was freeing up that bed for one of the sure-to-come victims who would be flooding the city's hospitals.

I had left the city just 3 days earlier to return to my very small children in New Orleans, who had never spent a night away from me in their lives prior to me heading to NYC to see what I could do to help my parents.  I promised them I would return on Saturday, and I was committed to keeping that promise, even though it felt so very wrong to leave my dad.

We all know how that day unfolded.  It has been documented using every form of communication and media known to man.  So many lives were lost.  So much destruction and human agony.  And ten days later, on 9/21, when it was clear that there were far too many empty hospital beds in New York City, my dad received his diagnosis of stage 4 metastatic (is that the word?) lung cancer which had spread to his brain and spinal cord.  He was gone one month and one day later.

Eight years later, it still feels like a kick to the stomach when I think of him.  I can still smell his warm, musky smell.  I can still hear him singing.  Sometimes, when I'm not expecting it, I can smell the second-hand smoke that was a prominent frangrance of my childhood.  I want to hug him so much, it hurts.

We all lost so much that day, including our belief that here, in America, we are immune to the horrors that occur in other parts of the world.  Yet what defines us is how we moved forward.  We didn't curl up in a ball and hide.  We held hands, stood tall, looked for ways to lighten the load for our neighbors who were hurting even more than we were.  We mourned.  Hard.  And then we dusted ourselves off, and remembered who we were.  We maintained our hope.  Our optimism.  We rebuilt.

I have done the same since losing my dad.  My mom wasn't able to.  They were childhood sweethearts, and she was lost in the blackest of holes after he left.  18 months and 5 days later at age 59, she joined him.  I like to imagine that they are together, taking care of my German shepherd, Zak, my cats Walter and Willow, my goofy sweet dog, Zoe, and keeping an eye on things here.

What I have felt since losing them has been a strong sense of protection.  I can feel my guardian angels all around me, and I know that there is still a strong sense of love and connection.  I suspect the families and friends who lost so suddenly eight years ago today know what I'm talking about.  We are definitely not alone, and everything really is going to be okay.