I gaze across the East River at a deceptively calm, peaceful Manhattan, where an intense human drama is unfolding at hospitals that I can see (Bellevue and NY Presbyterian, among others).
On 9/11, doctors and nurses packed the hallways of their hospitals, awaiting victims who never came. We waited hours to give blood for victims who never needed it. This time is different. The victims are here in their thousands.
On the Sunday after 9/11, we attended mass at St. Loyola Ignatius on Park Ave. Packed to the rafters. The stab to the heart was when it was announced that the survivors of the local firehouse, with an original complement of 20+, would take up the collection.
7 men in battered blue uniforms came forward, took the plates, and began to pass through the congregation. Crushing. My thoughts now are that NYC faces similar crushing moments as the scale of our losses becomes clear, and the stories of our fellow citizens' heroism become known.
