Remembering September

I am certain that it is purely coincidental that September is a difficult month for me. I don't see the month of September as the nucleus of human fate or a crucial junction in the space-time continuum. It is simply a month, possessing an equal opportunity for badness as the other 11. However, September contains several of my most traumatic memories. Craig and I began our "family expansion" plan in September 2000. A year later and no closer to an expanded family, we watched in horror and disbelief as the events of September 11, 2001 unfolded. Nine years later, I lost my mother. 

September 11, 2001: I awoke in the early morning, feeling fatigued, sore, and nauseous. I called into work. Craig was scheduled to work in Arlington and opted to remain home to care for me. We both returned to sleep and awoke again several hours later. We turned on the television and took the dogs outside. It was a beautiful morning, cool and clear. When we returned inside, we saw panic, chaos, and destruction on the news. My naive mind immediately thought that I had accidentally changed the channel to some disaster movie and not the news. If only that were true. What I saw on television, all the thoughts I had, the phone calls and emails I exchanged, I don't recall. I remember feeling numb, but frightened. I remember going to bed and telling Craig, "I'm afraid to close my eyes." What remains with me vividly is September 12th. I returned to work at 8 am, but had to leave at lunch to head to school. I caught the Metro into Rossyln on a relatively empty train. I made the long walk up the hill to my school, unnerved by the eerie quiet. Its amazing how much those planes heading to National Airport become part of the background and how much you almost miss them when they are gone. Rather than meet as a class, we met as a school for an informal assembly. We were provided an explanation about why we were open on September 12 and exchanged stories. I heard a story about family members of Pentagon employees who went an hour or more without contact and a story of a young girl, begging her mother not to wear her hijab, fearing retribution. We then met as individual classes. As we entered our classroom, we noticed that someone had left a copy of a newspaper. It lay flat on the desk, folded to a page with a large picture of a person falling from the World Trade Center, helpless people waving their hands and rags from the upper windows in distress. We took turns examining the newspaper, whispering comments of disbelief to each other. I left class and ventured back down the hill to the Metro station. I passed a man, standing in front of a newspaper delivery man, pleading with him, offering him $20 for a copy of today's paper. I recalled what I had seen in the paper on the table at school and wondered why someone would need a copy of that, why they would want to read and gaze upon those images again and again. I caught another light train back to Franconia/Springfield. If you have ever traveled by Metro, you will know that people tend to avoid eye contact, especially when you have a seat and you know someone else probably needs it more. That day was no different. People avoided eye contact and glared at the stained orange carpet below. There was palpable tension in the car and it was as if the carpet was the scapegoat. As we approached the Pentagon station, an announcement informed us that the station was restricted, but certain employees could board or leave the train. The doors opened and the car gasped in unison. An armed guard stood outside and a man dressed in uniform entered the train. Eyes were diverted from the carpet to the man, suddenly the awkward center of attention. We arrived at Franconia-Springfield. I hopped in my car and made the long trip through rush hour back to work, pondering how to process the past two days with my clients. 

Flash forward nine years later to September 11, 2010. I have shared this story with few people. I'm not sure why I kept it hidden. It was another deceptively sunny day. Days earlier, I had participated in a promising conference call with my mother's doctors, who gave her a good prognosis. I had spent my morning lazily, watching television, listening to music, dancing with the dogs around the house. I took a late shower and was dressing to go to the grocery store. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was my father, informing me that my mother was not going to survive. I was hit with a wave of disbelief and responded with a skeptical, yet defiant, "Why?" It was as if I did not want to accept her loss as an option. My legs became weak and my stomach folded on itself. I sat on the bed and began to tremble. My father then shared the devastating news that my mother was dying and there was nothing the doctors could do. They could not tell us how much longer she had or what to expect. All I knew is that I would likely not make it to see her in time. I hung up the phone and called Craig. My hands were shaking and my fingertips were numb. Do you realize how difficult it is to dial a touch screen phone when your hands are trembling and your fingers are numb? No response from Craig. I collected myself and left a calm message, asking him to call me back. A few minutes passed, so I sent a text. Then the phone rang. All composure I had mustered before was gone. I flew into hysterics and began screaming incomprehensibly on the phone. I believe I was trying to say, "Mom's not going to make it." I'm not sure how much Craig understood or if he knew what I was screaming about, but he calmly responded, "I'm on my way home now." I was then left with an emptiness and sense of helplessness. There was this gap in time, a lull in activity when I did not know what I was supposed to do, who I was supposed to call, how I was supposed to respond. I finished dressing and paced around the house, restless, but tired. I think I may have called my best friend or my brothers, I don't recall. I then began to look online for a flight back to Pittsburgh (where my mom was in the hospital), Richmond, or DC. I couldn't find a fare under $700. Craig returned home and without saying a word, wrapped me in his arms, squeezed, and steadied me as I felt my legs weaken again. My response said it all. He knew what was happening. We sat down and talked about what I had learned. My hysterics had ended. I could only speak softly, my affect flat and detached. I knew I had to make phone calls, tell people what was happening, but I feared that I would start screaming again. Craig offered to contact my office and his family while I continued to look for airfare. I don't know how long it took me to post an update on Facebook or to send texts to people. It seemed like an odd thing to share. I don't think I wanted the sympathy or the attention, I just wanted to inform people that I needed some space. I again feared that people would call out of concern and worried that I would fly into hysterics again. We waited quietly, not knowing when my mother would pass or how it would happen. I continually checked for airfare, which remained constantly expensive until I finally found a one-way ticket into Richmond for $150. I called my brothers and spoke with my older brother, trying to keep him awake and alert as he rushed to Pittsburgh. Craig implored me to eat, but I couldn't feel, I couldn't taste. Eventually, we decided that it was time to go to sleep. I stepped into the shower, hoping it would wash the events of the day from my skin. When I emerged and crawled into my bed, there was a text message on my phone from my older brother. It read, "Cyndi mom is gone. it just happened. there was no stress and she seemed peaceful. i am so sorry." It was 1:30 am and my brother was afraid of waking me. I turned to Craig and he knew. I had been crying all day, but for some reason, could not find the energy or the emotion to cry. I felt like a horrible, dishonorable daughter. I would never speak to my mother again and I couldn't shed a tear. I laid my head on his chest and finally began to cry silently, a far departure from the violent sobbing of the day. 

I awoke on September 12 and packed. Craig took me to the airport. The thought of getting onto the plane and the reasons why I was travelling weighed heavily on me. I did not want to go. I checked in and waited at the gate. I called my younger brother and best friend again before boarding began. My best friend offered to meet me in VA, but I told her to stay. I felt grateful and loved for the support, but continued to need space. I remember sitting on the plane, watching out the window as men tossed bags and other luggage onto a conveyor belt leading to the belly of the plane. I then began to ponder, "How can this happen? How can all these people go about their business, all these mundane tasks when someone so wonderful, so amazing, so beautiful is gone?" I flew from OKC to Houston and then from Houston to Richmond, where I was met by my father-in-law. My father remained in Pittsburgh with my brother and the thought of staying in my parents' empty house was too much for me. People shared their condolences and said they were sorry. To this day, I do not know how to respond to, "I am sorry about your mom." "Thank you" felt awkward. You say, "Thank you" when you are complimented or given a gift. This was a gift that I no longer wanted. There was no "Thank you." All I could do was nod, fighting back tears because I didn't want to make others uncomfortable. 

I do not fully understand my response to my mother's death or why certain things hit me harder than others. I was struck with grief by the obvious, such as returning to her home and finding hand-written notes she had made for herself about foot pain and diet (she was practicing her English and writing). I also found myself bereaved by the ridiculous, such as a sparkly green pen with a bell tied to the top, which I found on the kitchen counter in her home. 

I especially do not understand the response I received to others. My friends were called to action and came to my in-laws' and parents' home with more food than any of us could eat. My mother's friends came to the house. I had never met them, but they all wanted to hug me. One woman blamed my mother, wondering why my mother did not seek help earlier. 

Now my grief comes in waves. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross was wrong. There are no steps, no stages of grief. I slip and slide so many times in and out of acceptance, anger, and depression. In the past month, the looming anniversary of my mother's death has been threatening me. I could feel intense sadness and grief building, like a large mass in my chest. I can occasionally distract myself from my grief by focusing on work, the adoption, or our house. When I begin to miss her, I wear a necklace, where I hung her wedding ring and a ring she purchased for herself on my parents' anniversary. I sometimes cry. At times, it is loud, such as when my father sent us a check for our home study. My mother's name was still at the top of the check. Other times, my crying is soft and covert. I was reading an article in People about children whose fathers died during September 11, 2001 before they were born. One girl's account struck a chord with me. Alexa Smagala's father was a fireman. As she sees footage of people fleeing the World Trade Center, she can envision her father telling them to leave. She then commented, "Now I think he makes the sun shine." Such an innocent and sweet statement from such a young girl. I found myself internalizing her comment and began to think about Oklahoma's record heat wave and extreme drought. Sorry, guys. My fault. My mom was just trying to make the sun shine for me. 

Through this month and this ordeal, Green Day's Wake me up when September ends has been stuck in my head. I was initially annoyed because it was so overplayed on the radio. I had heard it enough. However, I never stopped to listen to the music or understand the meaning. Only today did I learn that Billie Joe Armstrong had written it for his father, who had passed away in September. For now, I'll welcome the song in my head (lyrics below- the "official" video was a bit too teenage angsty for my taste right now).

It is only September 9th, but I hope the rest of the month brings good things. Our next (and hopefully final) home study visit is on Sunday. Maybe in a year, we'll bring home Sera Malay and we can add another vivid memory to September.