Moments before Death: Will 9/11 Forever Define this Generation?

I do not mean to be morbid this morning. I am sorry to those I may offend. However, there are a few things I am trying to work through.

Today is Friday. Friday is the day when despite all that has transpired during the previous days that week, I begin to feel a little upbeat. I begin to feel encouraged, and I look forward to spending at least a couple of days with my family.

But this Friday just happens to be September 11, and the commemorations of that fateful day in 2001 work to conjure up images of dread, of panic, of helplessness, that dog me, that I cannot seem to shake, and I thought that perhaps by writing about it, I could put these images behind me and find a certain peace of mind. Writing it out has always worked for me in the past.

When I was a young private in the army, I was assigned to a detail charged with guarding an army helicopter crash site. By the time I arrived at the site, the fire had been for the most part extinguished, and the area had been cordoned off. However, because the wreckage was still too hot for anyone to approach it, the bodies remained inside.

So that night I stood vigil beside the still smoking aircraft. And the longer I sat, the darker the night got, the keener my vision seemed. At first I thought I could make out the vague outline of the charred remains of soldiers still strapped into their seat, their weapons standing upright between their legs, and their faces twisted into grimaces of panic, grimaces wrought by the macabre assurance of imminent death.

But the reports said that the bodies had been burned beyond recovery, that the fire had burned so hot, that even much of the metal parts had melted away. Did I imagine the soldiers sitting there?

But I did not imagine the smell which permeated the site. When I had arrived, I immediately recognized the smell of burning aircraft fuel. I recognized the smell of burning timber. But there was one peculiar smell that I did not recognize, that stood out above the rest. Finally, after sitting there for hours attempting to discern the origin of the smell, I asked the detail sergeant, a Vietnam vet.

He looked at me briefly, and the told me in a matter-of-fact manner, “Flesh, son. That’s what human flesh smells like when it burns.” I was horrified.

For years afterward, during each and every funeral I attended, the real or imagined images of the charred remains of those soldiers, sitting erect, their weapons at the ready, would return. And I would be enveloped by a miasma imagined but no less real, and the putrid smell of charred flesh would fill my lungs. My throat would close, and I would reach for breath in short, quick gasps until finally, unable to breathe, I would rush from the service in a panic.

And then on this day in 2001, as I watched the news coverage of the catastrophe, as each station played the scene over and over again from every available angle, I thought first of the soldiers in that crash and then of the people in each plane.

How must they have felt when they knew death was imminent? How must they have felt in that last moment before impact? Did they resign themselves to death? Did they say a short, hopeful prayer for deliverance? Or were they seized by a feeling of dread, of panic, ten times, maybe one hundred times greater than I have ever felt? Perhaps, a thousand times?

Later I watched a documentary that followed firefighters at the scene as they attempted to rescue victims trapped within the towers. During the filming, slight, yet steady, dull thuds could be heard in the background—thump…thump…thump. Finally someone, I think it was the cameraman, inquired as to the source of the noise. A fireman gave him the same look my sergeant gave me and informed him that the slight, yet steady, dull thuds he heard were people hurling themselves from the upper floors of the building. And the sound continued like rain—thump…thump...thump.

It was almost as if the occupants were given two untenable options—death by fire or death by impact. I have read that often if a person falls from a very high height, they are often dead even before impact. Is it wrong to hope that this is true, that indeed this was the case?

For me, these horrific images, the images of 9/11, are the images that replaced that of the downed helicopter and the charred bodies and the smell of burning flesh.

Every generation is marked by an incredible event. This event often defines that generation. I certainly hope that this is not the event that defines my generation. The election of a president of color could have been that defining event, but his election has been sullied by a resurgence of and recommitment to old traditions of ignorance and bigotry. I certainly hope something wonderful and miraculous occurs soon, something that replace these images of the moments before death, maybe imagined but none the less real.

Please God, Just Take Me Now!

Sometimes I get so caught up in myself that I make egregious errors in judgement. Sometimes I place so much confidence in my self-confidence, my supposed strength, that I forget to empathize with others; I forget that I, too, am subject to the viccisitudes of being. But I have been appropriately chastened.

During practically every funeral I’ve attended, there has always been at least one person to hurl themselves at the deceased’s casket and yell out, “Please God, just take me now!”. They wail. They scream out. They make a spectacle of themselves as they are hualed away by attendants.

Perhaps you’ve witnessed such a moment. I've witnessed a number of them. And usually I’ve tsk-tsk’d my way through such displays, writing them off as simple theatrics—drama. Smugly, I've decried the moaner for sullying the "dignity" of the moment and ceremony.

But recently I faced the death of a family member who I loved with all my heart. My much beloved grandmother passed away at the age of eighty-five. And the moment I received news of her death, I begin to understand the “Please God, take me now!” moment.

At that moment, at the very moment, the pain is so great, the hurt is so severe, that you cannot imagine yourself living another minute, another second, like this. The pain and hurt is so great, so severe, that nothing else matters. You simply want to slump down in a ball on the floor and weep, no wail. You want to scream out; you want to do whatever it takes to ameliorate your suffering at that very moment.

And people attempt to comfort you by telling you that eventually the hurt will fade, eventually the pain will subside. But it does not. The hurt and pain seemingly goes away for a bit, then at the most unexpected moment, it awakes again. And for a brief moment you clutch your chest, you choke back sobs, and you think to yourself, "Please God, just take me now!".

So to those people who I’ve looked down my nose at in the past, please forgive me. I, too, now know your grief, your sadness. I, too, now share in your sense of loss.