"...So, when individuals are killed by bombs halfway around the world, I feel no less sadness than when murderers flew planes into the Towers in lower Manhattan on Sept. 11, 2001, and those buildings collapsed, and those innocent individuals died... ...On 9/11, I was working in an emergency room in Harlem. As soon as the second plane hit, we went into our disaster/mass-casualty plan, while trying to suppress our own intense emotions. We were amped and focused for the next several hours. Unfortunately, there were not many walking wounded for us to treat, due to the overwhelming forces of impact, fire, and structure collapse that had killed everyone unable to escape the buildings. I spent that day caring for firemen, police-officers and some others who had inhaled dust. I made time to call my family, to let them know I was well, and to try consoling a scared friend whose husband, a fireman, had called her from Ground Zero. (Unlike many of his colleagues and friends, he was fortunate to survive, and we still have him with us.) At the end of my thirteen-hour shift that evening, reluctant to use the subway system, I walked the four miles from Harlem to East 24th street, where I lived, and went to sleep immediately. The next morning, I walked to a nearby hospital, where I also worked, wearing my hospital credentials; along with other physicians, I rode an ambulance to Ground Zero to volunteer with the rescue effort. The air was still filled with dust and the building footprints were still smoking hot. The scene was framed by twisted beams and burnt and beaten buildings. Scattered atop the hills of metal and debris, rescue workers worked diligently to find survivors. On our arrival, someone was found alive underground. I saw him or her carried on a backboard to an ambulance, and was enthusiastic that there was still help that could be provided. Someone enlisted me to set up a breathing treatment station, to provide oxygen and nebulizer treatments to rescue workers suffering with bronchospasm. For a short time, someone asked me to mark on a diagram and tag where rescue workers had found body parts that were handed to me in dark plastic bags. Other than that, there was very little I was able to do to help. That night, at a friend’s apartment, I was finally able to see footage of the planes hitting the World Trade Center and hear eye-witness accounts. Over the next several weeks, I would read newspapers on the subway while commuting to work. They told the stories of victims and their loved ones. It was heart-breaking, and I would arrive at work each day teary-eyed and torn up..."
Posted on: Wed, 11 Sep 2013 12:16:16 +0000
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