Robbed From Armageddon

It was a quiet morning at the hotel, especially for it to be almost 6am. There were two of us about to come off the graveyard shift at the bell desk, and I spotted Federico on the casino floor returning from a delivery. He was pushing his cart quickly and pointing over his shoulder toward the televisions in the nearby lounge.

"Tyge! A plane crashed into The World Trade Center!"

I had no idea what he was saying because of his thick Colombian accent.

"In English please?"

Frustrated, Federico repeated himself, this time using one hand as the airplane and his other hand as the building.

His hands collided.

I figured it was some little private Cessna-type airplane—the pilot either deranged or hellbent on killing himself, and wanting to take a few more people with him.

A few minutes later it was my turn to do a delivery. Passing the televisions in the mostly empty lounge, I saw the outline of a huge airliner branded on the face of one of the buildings.

"Holy shit," I thought to myself.

As I stood there pondering how and why this could happen, the picture on the screen was from a nearby helicopter. As it circled the building, the camera zoomed in close, showing the undamaged side of the building—and the second tower was hidden behind it.  Then, in a split second, I saw an airplane enter the right side of the screen, disappear, and then a fireball emerged from behind the building.

My brain didn't register what it had just seen. A ton of confused thoughts raced through my head and I couldn't, for the life of me, process them. The thought of it being a second airplane never entered my mind during those few seconds.

"What was that? Was it a replay? How did they do that? How did they just show a plane crashing into the building when it's already on fire?"

A few seconds later the screen went to a wide shot, and both towers were in flames.

When I returned to the bell desk I learned about the attack on the Pentagon and the other possible hijackings.  When word came that all flights to anywhere had been cancelled—and knowing most of the guests in the hotel were stranded and not needing my service—I went home early.

The first tower collapsed sometime between my walking from the bell desk to my car in the employee garage—but I didn't know it at the time. Driving home I listened to Howard Stern broadcasting live from New York City. I tuned-in 1 hour, 50 minutes and 45 seconds into his broadcast, just as Howard was fielding a phone call from a crazy woman who seemed oblivious to the day's events. You can listen to his full broadcast from that day here.

When I got home I turned on the TV and saw the second tower collapse. I remained on the sofa for the rest of the day, transfixed to the television.

My then girlfriend arrived home around 6pm and wanted to go to the Red Cross to donate blood. I tried to talk her out of it. I tried to tell her that blood would be of no immediate help because we were too far away from New York City. That's what I told her, but what I really wanted to say—what I knew in my heart—was that there were probably just a mere few survivors, and that only a miracle—and not blood—could save anyone in the remains of the towers. She went to give blood anyway, but the Red Cross turned her away, along with many others wanting to donate that night.

After being awake for nearly twenty-four hours, I remembered I still had to go to work at midnight, and I decided to try and get some sleep. An hour or two later I awoke and for a fleeting moment, I thought everything had been a dream. I was wrong though.

It took some time for me to admit, but it was the events of September 11th, 2001 that caused me to lose my faith—not only in God, but also with mankind and humanity. I gave up on any hope for the world, and was convinced that we were somehow robbed from Armageddon on that otherwise beautiful day in September. It's strange, I know, but part of me wished the world had ended that day.

It wasn't until a few years later—and after having some all-to-real and bizarre dreams in a short amount of time—that I decided, to quote The Shawshank Redemption, that "hope is a good thing," and that I had better "get busy living or get busy dying."

I chose to get busy living—not because I finally realized my dismal perception of the world was wrong, but because so many people were forced, so unwillingly, to get busy with dying on that day in September, 2001.

The Compassionate Side of Alzheimer's?

Comedian Gilbert Gottfried often tells a joke about a man who goes to the doctor's office to get his test results. The doctor tells him, "I'm sorry to say, but you have cancer and Alzheimer's disease." The man replies with, "Well, at least I don't have cancer."

The joke is pitifully funny, and it also brings awareness to Alzheimer's, a deadly form of dementia that over 30 million people worldwide currently suffer from. September is World Alzheimer's Month, and September 21st is Alzheimer's Action Day, so remember to wear purple to show your support.

The first time I ever heard the A-word was in the early eighties while I was visiting my hometown of Clinton, Michigan. I was talking with my best friend from childhood, and he told me that his grandmother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, and that the previous day he found her in the garage with a broom and paint can, coating the family sedan with a fuchsia-colored latex.

I don't know for a fact if my father suffered from Alzheimer's, and I don't think he was ever actually tested for it, but it was obvious during his later years that he was suffering from a serious form of senility. One time, while in the hospital recovering from a stroke, Dad declared he'd been a German S.S. soldier and had served under Hitler back in the day when the blitz was on. He believed this so sincerely, the next morning he escaped from the hospital to report for Fuhrer duty. My sister told me a television news crew found him before the police did.

Although Alzheimer's can make people confused, oblivious, and fearful, there's also a compassionate side to the disease, at least in my opinion. Yes, it’s hard for us in the real world to see our loved ones deteriorate, but oftentimes what is nonsense to us is completely logical to them. My friend's grandmother was perfectly content painting the family car, and she was sure she was doing the family a favor. Dad was totally naive of his physical condition, and was more than happy to go in search of his long-lost, albeit imaginary, S.S. Soldier unit.

I think Alzheimer's—or perhaps senility and dementia—sometimes allows people to pass away with peace (and pieces) of mind, and the person is totally unaware they're on the brink of death, and therefore have no fear of it. In the case of my father, he went to bed with his mind in another place, a place that most likely made total and complete sense—but only to him. He didn't go to sleep in fear, or wondering if he would wake up in the morning. In his mind, he was certain he was going to live to see another day.

That new day never came for him though.

FiN.