5 years have passed since this generations Day of Infamy took place. I’m not sure why I’ve never written about that day. Perhaps I always felt my experience of the day paled in comparison to those who were more impacted by the events that transpired, immediately or otherwise. I’ve come to realize though that every story is important, no matter how insignificant it may seem to be, because every story is a piece of the grand puzzle and without them it will never be complete.
August into September 2001 was a frantic time for us. Finnegan had just been diagnosed with his nasal tumour, and we were scrambling to figure out the best course of action to beat the cancer. Fortunately, it was lymphoma and not carcinoma, so radiation was deemed the way to go. We made the arrangements with the Ontario Veterinary College at the University Of Guelph (best care anywhere) to start as soon as possible. September 11th was booked in for us to drop him off to begin his treatments. I’d work a half-day and then we’d hit the road.
The first order of the day was a cup of coffee and then a trip to the upper staff room to work on a computer there that was acting up. As I’m sitting there, chatting with some teachers about the minutae of the day, my boss walks through the staff room and casuallly mentions something along the lines of “So, anyone hear about the Cessna that hit the World Trade Center? I caught a bit of it on the radio on the way in.” Someone else then said something akin to “I heard it was a DC-3.” There was some discussion about it and how planes that size wouldn’t be too serious an issue. Shades of the plane that hit the Empire State Building back in the 40s and such.
The first sign things were more serious than we thought was how long cnn.com and cbc.ca were taking to load. Finally, one of the teachers was able to get cnn.com up, and a picture of black smoke rising from the North Tower greeted us. This was no Cessna. “We need to find a tv” was the concensus, and a gaggle of us walked quickly through the school to find one. We found one in an empty grade 5 classroom; empty of students at least. There were at least 20 staff members there, eyes glued to the live CBC coverage, conversing in muffled tones about what we were witnessing. The second plane struck the South Tower. Cries of “Oh no!” and “Oh my God!” rang out, then a stunned silence fell upon us for a few moments.
It was determined that we needed to find another television, as the grade 5s would be returning from gym class shortly. Heads of schools made quick decisions about how to handle the situation in terms of the students. Classes would continue as normal until first break, then the boys would all return to their home forms until further notice. No classroom televisions would be turned on. The only one to remain on would be the one in the student lounge for the staff only. By then, there were at least 40 of us gathered there.
The South Tower fell. Peter Mansbridge told us through our tv set that the Pentagon had been hit. Shots of the New York skyline looked wrong, with that lone tower standing there. The North Tower fell. Teachers wept openly and held onto each other for support. Peter Mansbridge told us through our tv set that a plane had crashed into a Pennsylvania field and that all flights across North America were being grounded as soon as possible. In the hallways, students were directed away from the lounge and back to their home rooms. Being a private school, it was quite possible that many students would have family and friends on the scene in New York, possibly even victims. Rumour had it that one of the teachers had family that worked in the WTC. There was much speculation about “What next?” Someone said there was a third plane approaching New York. Another person wondered if the CN Tower would be a target. Nobody knew, and many were scared. The decision was made: full school assembly in the gym, then all students would be dismissed. The staff got it together collectively. There was something they could do amidst the chaos of the day and not feel helpless about. They would do their jobs and take care of their boys. Eyes were dried; resolve crossed their features.
The headmaster spoke in measured tones to the student population during the assembly about what had transpired and what the schools plan of action would be. Students returned to their home rooms and were gradually dismissed in stages after parents and guardians were called to arrange transport. Those in higher grades were dismissed immediately to find their own ways home. I handed my cell phone to a number of them so they could call to get a ride or find out about family.
It occurred to me that if every flight across the continent was being forced to land then there might be traffic chaos around Pearson International. Since we had to travel past the airport that afternoon to take Finnegan to Guelph, I thought it best to leave a bit early just in case. I said this to my boss. In the midst of all that was happening at that moment - in the world, at the school, you name it – he lost all sense of perspective and became completely anal about my leaving an hour early “for my cat”. I did mention the c-word and how important it was that he arrive on time to prepare for his radiation treatment, to which the boss replied something along the lines of “so, you want me to consider your cat to be family?”. My immediate response was “Yes. Of course.” With a sigh, he deigned to let me leave. (Wouldn’t have mattered if he had said no. I was going regardless.)
As I departed the school I cast a glance towards downtown Toronto, picturing in my minds eye what this city would look like if such an event transpired here. I picked Lisa up from her work and we went next door to the Police Association restaurant for lunch. Every tv in the place was tuned to CNN, and there was quiet conversation at every occupied table. We sat with her co-workers for an hour, discussing the day and mulling over our sandwiches and fries. I lost count of how many times CNN replayed the plane striking and the buildings collapsing.
Finally we set out with Finnegan. Traffic on the highways around the airport was lighter than I thought. Traffic on the runways and taxiways was not. We made our way to
Guelph, CBC Radio keeping us up to date. As we were pulling into the parking lot, we heard the announcer mention something about a jumbo jet having to force land in
Whitehorse, Yukon under fighter escort. “What next?” indeed. We signed in and sat for a few minutes in the waiting room until his team of doctors and interns came out to greet us. There was a short discussion about what happened that morning, during which one of the interns said she was from
New Jersey, right across from
New York City. She had already checked in with her family and everyone was safe. Here we were, wrapped up in the needs of our cat, and who should turn out to be one of his primary caregivers at the start of his treatment but someone who grew up with the
World Trade Center on her doorstep.
The remainder of the day was somewhat anti-climactic. We left Finnegan in their excellent care and made our way home. I know we watched the evening news, but turned the television off soon thereafter. It was time to decompress. I don’t remember if I checked the 3WA boards or not. I do know that I had a drink or 3.
As the week progressed, we learned about the hospitality shown in Atlantic Canada towards the stranded passengers. I felt great pride in one of my former towns, Gander Newfoundland. We also noticed how eerily quiet it was. Our apartment was under a main flight path for Pearson, and as such we had grown accustomed to the sound of jets passing overheard every few minutes. For 3 days, nothing but the birds and squirrels and the sound of the 401 traffic nearby. When flights resumed, it was odd at first to hear their sound again overhead. The imagination might run wild wondering if one of those aircraft was going to fall out of the sky at anytime onto us.
It didn’t take long for us to fall back into routine, or at least our new routine adapted for Finnegans radiation treatment. Pick him up on Fridays after his week of daily zaps so he could spend some time at home; drop him off on Sundays so he could start anew.
Reflecting on it 5 years later? It was a very surreal day, full of darkness and chaos. Yet, it was also the first day of the rest of Finnegans life. Call it 9/11*.
