By B.L. Ochman
I’m a 9/11 survivor, but I lost my memory of much of that awful day. The scenes I can remember still play in my mind, and intrude on my dreams.
I’ve never regained the hours between the time my dog, Sam, and I ran through smoke and debris as the first tower fell, until the time when we got on a ferry that took us to a hospital in New Jersey.
But lately, I’ve been focusing on the miracle.
The most vivid memory I have of 9/11 is watching the burning airplanes creating infernos inside the towers, forcing people to jump. I remember, and still can hear the sounds of the jumpers, like it was this morning.
The miracle took longer for me to realize – and that’s the fact that both planes stopped inside the towers.
Because if they had gone forward and fallen onto the streets below, or if the buildings had fallen over instead of imploding, the casualties and the carnage would have been even worse. Much, much worse.
My beautiful Yellow Lab took his place in heaven four years ago. My sense that I am safe in the world has never returned. I still have “the world trade center cough” and the asthma. I still miss my friends and neighbors who died, and, sometimes, I still cry for them and their families.
But now I also think about the fact that something, who knows what, stopped those planes from killing hundreds or maybe even thousands more people. And today, that seems like something to be thankful for.