I wrote this over ten years ago and every year around 9/11 I read it and sometimes I share it. I know that most of us old enough to remember will always be able to recall where we were and what we were doing on that tragic day. By remembering and reflecting, we honor those we lost then and those who have since lost their lives due to post 9/11 illnesses.
Our stay in the heartland would be brief. We sat in the hotel bar and watched the horrific and unbelievable events unfold before us on the TV behind the bar. We waited impatiently for updates and made futile attempts to reach our families and friends. We wanted to go home and needed to be with our families. We wanted to get back to work to support our country.
We’d arrived the night before and checked into a non-descript hotel in a non-touristy part of Kansas City. All headquarters and field intelligence personnel were there for our annual intelligence conference. The day started with an announcement about the attack. There was nothing for us to do but wait and watch the news unfold. The hours dragged by as our leaders worked on a plan to get us home. Six hours after the last attacks, we boarded a chartered bus and headed for the east coast. As we left the hotel, grounded flight crews were assigned our rooms.
Thirty of us rode in silence. Movies played on the mini screens above the seats, but no one watched. Our cell phones died. At every stop along I-70, we’d hurry into the bathrooms and charge them for a couple minutes here and there along the route. I called home. I called the kid’s day care. I called my husband. What I got was voice mail, busy circuits or no answer. Everyone on the bus was doing the same – trying to connect, to know with certainty that their loved ones were safe.
I don’t remember when – it could have been five or ten hours later, that I finally reached a friend. Sweet Liz told me she had to do something, so she raced to the day care and picked up our boys. She knew we worked for ATF and knew we’d be working. She had to get them and hold them close for us. She’d heard from my husband who told her he had responded to the Pentagon.
Relief filled me after talking with Liz. Disbelief too. What I noticed most during that 24-hour bus ride was the silence. It was eerily quiet and still on the bus, at the rest stops and the restaurants where we stopped for quick meals. Conversations were hushed and soft. There was no normal that day or on that bus or in the Cracker Barrel in Terre Haute. The normalcy we knew had been replaced with something we would never truly comprehend.
We made a couple of stops in Virginia and DC before heading to BWI where my car was parked. The lot was packed, and the sky deserted. The area was devoid of the noise we usually took for granted. I dropped off a co-worker at her home and headed to Crofton. I pulled into my driveway 24 hours after leaving Kansas City. I left my luggage in the car and walked a couple of blocks to Liz’s home. As soon as I walked up the brick path, the front door flew open, and my sons ran out and hugged me. I don’t recall if I cried, but I bet I did.
My boys are now adults and occasionally, I share this story with them. Although bits and pieces of that day now elude me, seeing them and hugging them is forever etched into my memory. Not before that day or since have I been happier to see anyone. As I tell them this, my voice cracks with emotion and they wrap me up with their hugs.
