The Day Time Stood Still

 The Day Time Stood Still

By Robin L. Gass

It was just another morning
when it started out that day
with all our plans and schedules
we hurried on our way
Then time stood still before us
as in our disbelief
we watched in silent horror
wrapped in sorrow, filled with grief
The tragedy unfolded
as the minutes passed us by
the minutes turned to hours
and we kept on asking why
We prayed to God in Heaven
as we faced so many fears
and paralyzed within our shock
we cried a million tears
As the sky was falling down
with eyes too blurred to see
we cried for every precious life
and for humanity
I know the earth kept turning
as the hours slipped away
but while our world was shattering
time stood still that day

I looked back at my pictures of New York City. The 9/11 Memorial and Museum showed up. 

There’s nothing like a good museum and memorial to blatantly show you how little you knew of something that devastated the country you live in so much. 

A Timeline: (Thanks History Channel) 

•7:59 am – American Airlines Flight 11, a Boeing 767 with 92 people aboard, takes off from Boston’s Logan International Airport en route to Los Angeles.

• 8:14 am – United Airlines Flight 175, a Boeing 767 with 65 people aboard, takes off from Boston; it is also headed to Los Angeles.

• 8:19 am – Flight attendants aboard Flight 11 alert ground personnel that the plane has been hijacked; American Airlines notifies the FBI.

• 8:20 am – American Airlines Flight 77 takes off from Dulles International Airport outside of Washington, D.C. The Boeing 757 is headed to Los Angeles with 64 people aboard.

• 8:41 am – United Airlines Flight 93, a Boeing 757 with 44 people aboard, takes off from Newark International Airport en route to San Francisco. It had been scheduled to depart at 8:00 am, around the time of the other hijacked flights.

• 8:46 am – Mohammed Atta and the other hijackers aboard American Airlines Flight 11 crash the plane into floors 93-99 of the North Tower of the World Trade Center, killing everyone on board and hundreds inside the building.

• 9:03 am – Hijackers crash United Airlines Flight 175 into floors 75-85 of the WTC’s South Tower, killing everyone on board and hundreds inside the building

• 9:24 am – The FAA notified NEADS of the suspected hijacking of Flight 77 after some passengers and crew aboard are able to alert family members on the ground.

• 9:37 am – Hijackers aboard Flight 77 crash the plane into the western façade of the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., killing 59 aboard the plane and 125 military and civilian personnel inside the building.

• 9:59 am – The South Tower of the World Trade Center collapses.

• 10:07 am – After passengers and crew members aboard the hijacked Flight 93 contact friends and family and learn about the attacks in New York and Washington, they mount an attempt to retake the plane. In response, hijackers deliberately crash the plane into a field in Somerset County, Pennsylvania, killing all 40 passengers and crew aboard.

• 10:28 am – The World Trade Center’s North Tower collapses, 102 minutes after being struck by Flight 11.

• 5:20 pm – The 47-story Seven World Trade Center collapses after burning for hours; the building had been evacuated in the morning, and there are no casualties, though the collapse forces rescue workers to flee for their lives.

The memorial isn’t like other structures I’ve seen. Whereas most memorials go up, built into the sky, this one goes down. It’s built as 2 never-ending fountains—squares that engulf the perimeters of the former North and South Towers. It was raining that day. My parents and I found a spot on the North Tower memorial that was void of people. As you approach, you see a dark granite-like border to the memorial. You hear a low rumble, which loudens as you near. I’m sure 14 years ago, today would have been a lot louder. Screams, sirens, breaking materials, trucks, horns, more screams. But we don’t hear any of that—we just hear water. It’s powerful and beautiful now. As you get even closer to the border, you see writings etched in the stone. They are the names of every life lost in the Twin Towers. And there’s a lot of them. Water cascades from the edge of the memorial, where it flows to its center; dropping into a smaller square and then to the unknown.

Airport-style security meets you before you enter the museum’s doors, except they let you keep your shoes on. It was recommended to us to watch a short film upstairs, to set the tone and fill in the gaps for the rest of our visit. After a long day of walking the city, we were only too happy to seize the opportunity to sit. The film presented questions as posed from the top: Was there anything we could have done? How did we not see this coming? What do we do now? How do we move forward? What just happened?

Hearing the hurt and remorse in former and present leaders’ voices made me thankful I was only 6 when 9/11 happened. What a burden to bear.

We continued on with the exhibit and oh my stars. I had no idea.

One of my favorite parts was the beginning—where they project the media and people’s reaction to the crashes, on a global scale. The impact of the Twin Towers rippled across the world. Its hurt not only preying on the victims’ families, but on sympathetic hearts through the nations. 

The further you walk, the closer you get to the heart of the museum. An atmosphere forms. You see the foundational wall of the North Tower, a concrete pillar colored with every emergency response unit present that day; a wall depicting the way the sky looked, a hall of names—everyone lost that day, their memory and a glimpse of whom they were; the “Survivors’ Stairs”, how hundreds escaped using the stairway; a collection of items from that day: destroyed ambulances and fire trucks, remainders of structural columns, airplane seatbelts, hard hats, notes saying “87th Floor, 12 people. We’re trapped” and “Please help”, a phone conversation of a husband saying good-bye to his wife, a flight attendant telling ground control they’ve been hijacked. 

People walk quietly. There is little talking, with the exception of the occasional question or comment. I think it’s because Silence is the voice of pain here. And it’s really loud. 

The crushing sound of hearts shattering together is deafening and it’s everywhere in this place. Tears fell. Some were mine. 

As you walk between these walls, you can’t help but wonder “Where is God in all of this?” Where is He when you watch EMS lives be taken, as they fight for the lives of others? Or when the little girl is told her momma isn’t coming from work today?

Or even when the life you’ve been working to save ends and you have to tell the family they can’t take her home? Or when your friend’s loved one passes away from a long hard battle with cancer? Or when a young woman loses her beloved unborn child? Or when a lifeless little boy washes up on a Turkish shore? On 9/11—14 years ago—when the skies grew dark with smoke and the earth shook?

Where is God in all that?

The last thing we did at the museum was watch another film. It walked us through the timeline of 9/11 and what happened. It didn’t end there though. Figuratively speaking, 9/11 doesn’t end on 9/11. It bleeds into days, months, and years after. Rubble is hauled away. Hearts begin to heal. New stones are set in place. The city is reborn. And then I saw it. 

God never left that day. God isn’t in the business of destruction or pain. He’s in the business of restoration and redemption. I'm young. I don't have all the answers. I have much to learn. But I saw God with every loving word of sympathy and condolence, when nations gathered to share the burden of loss and grief. He's there when the desperate prayers are prayed. He’s there giving hope that tomorrow is a new day with new mercies. He’s there giving peace for the troubled hearts. He’s there with every new life and every blessing. He’s there with strength, when there’s nothing left. He’s there when your coworker gives you a hug and you take a deep breath. Or when the cancer-fighter’s neighbor organizes meals to be taken to his family. I see God in that. He’s where children are no longer suffering, where they never have to fear again, where they are truly loved. He knows the loss of a child—His only Son died.

Where death and anguish seem rampant, He’s orchestrating the entrance of life and immeasurable joy. He is a God of love, the giver of good gifts. His best one yet, through His Son’s death—2000 years ago when the skies grew dark and the ground shook—after 3 days, life came back. Death was no more.

 My sin nailed His Son to the cross. He who knew no sin, became sin and paid the full and ultimate price for it. So I wouldn’t have to. So that through Him, I could know His Father. So that I could be made whole, I can have joy; my weary, sinful, broken heart can have hope, my slate is wiped clean; I can know righteousness and forgiveness. So that when I die, I can spend an eternity in a place with no suffering, hijackings, bombings, starvation, code blues, losses, good byes, or tears—all with the God who created me. All because after 3 days, His Son came back to life and showed death has nothing on the Lord of Life. God isn’t in the business of destruction or pain. He’s in the business of restoration and redemption. 

 

He was there on September 11th, at 8:46am, 9:03am, 9:37am, 9:59am, 10:07am, and 10:28am and He is here now. We grieve the hurt of that Day Time Stood Still. But we grieve with hope that tomorrow brings new mercies and that one day, we will never grieve again. 

"No day shall erase you from the memory of time."
-Virgil

That Time I Got a Smile

When you spend the majority of your time following surgeons and visiting doctors around like a lost puppy, you pick up a few things.

Among the plethora of items on my list, I learned there’s a goodness-gracious amount of ways to stitch someone up. I had no idea. Physicians got art skills we knew nothing about. And steady hands. Oh my goodness.

Also, when you say “dehiscence” to a surgeon, you’re telling them your patient’s fascia is visible (the connective tissue fibers under the skin). Bad. If you want to tell your surgeon that the skin around the incision is simply pulling apart, just say the skin around the incision is pulling apart. Save a surgeon a panic attack.

There are certain hospitals in Angola which make our surgeons cringe. I lost track how many times I heard stories of people with un-set fractures with casts placed. Read: they left the bone broken or shattered and just put a cast over it. Unsurprisingly, those bones, which were in the wrong place, weren’t healing correctly. Some came in to CEML to be fixed up after months and months of nothing healing. 

My first encounter with one of these patients came by a 23-year old guy with a 6-month old broken femur. A FEMUR. Those definitely don't snap or heal easily. 

‘E’, our femur patient, enjoys reading Angolan poetry, has a remarkable pain tolerance,  can say “buenas noches”, “buenas tardes”, and “buenos dias”; and can count to 9—all in Spanish. Other than that, he speaks Portuguese. I have nothing else on him. He also knows I do NOT know Portuguese and that I had relatively no clue about anything he was trying to tell me during our brief acquaintence.

The OR team let me watch E’s procedure, so I got to be in the room. For someone who really likes to try and be helpful, it got a little awkward sometimes. I have no OR training. I can’t speak the language. Talk about NOT helpful. Oh, well. 

Normally, I would have introduced myself to the patient and struck up a conversation. We did this almost every week in nursing school. I loved it. I could learn their name, see if they needed anything, check anxiety level (surgery can be a little scary... and people with masks on whilst wearing weird clothes never really helped any), and answer questions (as able). In this Portuguese-speaking OR? No dice. However, I can smile. So smile I did, even though when you’re wearing a surgical mask, it doesn’t show too well. I can say “Tudo bem?” (Is everything good? At least I hope that’s what it means. Because I said it A LOT.) I can also give a thumbs-up. 

April, the finest CRNA (Nurse Anesthetist) of North Carolina, thankfully can speak Portuguese. She introduced us both to E and the surgery went underway. She did most of the question-answering and ensured he was always comfortable. And breathing. Quality people here, I'm telling you.

Occasionally, April had to leave the room. Because in a multiple-hour surgery, food is important. And nurse anesthetist-y things are important. My personal translator/teacher of all-things-anesthesia/fellow sweet tea enthisast left the room for lunch/supper at one point. I chilled by E and watched the surgeons from my chair in the corner. He’d say/ask me something every now and then. Still no clue what he was saying. Eventually, I spewed something like, “Não falo português. Falo español.” (Which I hope meant something like “I don’t speak Portuguese. I speak Spanish.”) He gave me an understanding look, but kept saying things. I’d give him a puzzling look and say something in Spanish. He would give me a puzzling look and say something in Portuguese. Eventually, I would shake my head and we would both chuckle. I have no clue what you’re saying to me, man.

After a few failed tries at successful communication, something clicked with E. That’s when I learned of his aforementioned Spanish vocabulary. He said “Good night”, “Good afternoon”, and “Good morning” to me and then counted for me. It was nice. I helped him get from 9 to 10. I congratulated him, thrilled to hear words I could finally understand.

After we got tired of not understanding each other and E’s anesthesia took more hold of him, we rested in silence. A couple of times, he’d try it back up again. After a while, I remembered my notebook. I had been carrying this small pocket-sized notebook in my…..pocket. Alex, the visiting pre-med student had one to take notes. I thought that was a pretty great idea and started lugging one around too. I grabbed a page, drew a smiley face, and showed it to E. He smiled. I can’t imagine what he must have been seeing with his anesthesia-induced hallucinations. But it got a smile. 

The procedure went longer than planned. Dr. Annelise calls orthopedic surgery “Shop class for surgeons”. Boy, do they work hard in Shop. They have all the toys too: Dewalt drills, hammers, nails, medical-equivalent of rebar—the works. They used them all. Things don't always go as planned, but the team kept going. I can’t give enough credit to this staff. This is definitely not a 9-5 job—and they give it their best even at exhaustive hours. 

During E's operation
Left to Right:
Dr. Steve, Alex, Dr. Annelise, April, and scrub tech hiding in the back
The All Star Ortho-and-Everything-Else Team

E gets a special kind of hardware for his leg. There’s a non-profit organization, Sign Fracture Care Intl, that provides necessary tools (think: nails and screws to hold healing bones in place) to hospitals in 52 developing countries. If for whatever reason, a screw or nail needs to be replaced in a bone, the organization will replace it for free. So Sign Nail guy, or E, is patched up and shipped to recover.

We visit him a few days later in the men’s ward. This is the spot I learn of his remarkable pain tolerance and his appreciation of Angolan poetry. Per Dr. Annelise’s orders, he got up on crutches and walked down the hall with the resident physical therapist. After we’ve exhausted him with walking, he gets back into bed (which in case I haven’t mentioned is in the hallway of the men’s ward, because all the other beds are filled). There’s not much there—a table (shared with another bed in the hallway adjacent to his), basin, flip flops, a bar of soap, and an Angolan poetry book. Alex and I hang out with him for a couple of minutes. All of the sudden, I remember the smiley face note in my little book. I reach in my pocket and sure enough, it’s still in its place. I pull it out and stick it in front of my face, then peak over it. Just like I did in the OR. I have no idea if E remembered my smiley face in the OR with all the anesthesia he had on board, but it got another smile. I tear the page out and hand it to him. Alex steals the show when he reaches into HIS pocket and pulls out a piece of candy. Alex gives it to him and we say our goodbyes to E.  

I added another item to my list of things learned—this time from an almost-surgeon: notebooks and candy are good to carry around in pockets. The latter being slightly better than the former. But just slightly.