We all have our own 9/11

         The news of our nation’s greatest tragedy passed me by in a haze of mixed background noise. I was busy furiously listening for approaching footsteps up the hall. The phones and call buttons going off randomly in the nurses station down the hall. The news quietly playing in the background on the little TV magically suspended from the ceiling. The other visitors stared at the TV in shock and despair, quietly whispering to each other. I paced in front of the door, waiting for the doctor to come and tell me what was happening to my boy.

         My youngest son James had fallen ill, suddenly, and badly. The doctors had sent me into the waiting room, there were tests that needed to be run, medications needed to be given. That was hard to do efficiently with a panicking, overbearing mother standing over you demanding to know what is happening to her little boy, even if he wasn’t quite so little anymore. So, I had been sent out here to this overly polite form of purgatory to await the doctor’s diagnosis.

         Whatever was happening around me went unnoticed; all I cared about was what was taking the doctors so long. Finally I was granted a reprieve, of sorts. The doctor walked into the waiting room and asked me to come into a smaller more private room. Behind him followed a young woman, apprehension apparent on her face. I calmly followed them, sat when they told me to sit, and struggled to comprehend what I was being told. I got as far as Cancer, and nothing we can do but make him comfortable, when this terrible wailing drowned out everything else. This buzzing wouldn’t leave my ears and a woman somewhere was crying loudly. It took me some time to realize it was me.

         Weeks later, as we sat around the foot of my sons’ hospital bed, watching him sleep peacefully. The machines that kept him breathing, sounded loudly, bitterly reminding me that they controlled so much now. But that was all about to change. He had asked to be allowed to go. And we were here to say our good-byes. Of course, all the crying and the apologies and such had been said already. Now he slept a medicated sleep, waiting to slip away peacefully, surrounded by those who loved him the most. We sang his favorite hymn, we prayed that god take and keep his soul. And then the machines were turned off. Slowly, as if he were peacefully dreaming, James slipped away from me. One moment he was there and my son, the next moment he was gone and all that remained was an empty shell and the background noise of the news and other mothers children rushing off to defend their great nation.

         I sobbed quietly for a few moments, stroked his hand, soothed his hair, laid a kiss on the forehead I would never touch again. Then I fled the room. Sobbing nearly uncontrollably, I ran for the nearest exit. I needed air, I needed to be alone, I needed to grieve and curse god and let the anger out before it poisoned me and everyone I had left. At that moment, all I knew was the anger. How dare God take my son from me when so many others were living long and happy lives with a great future ahead of them, when all the future my son had was an eternity in the ground.

         As I stepped out into the glare of the mid day sun, I saw them. There was a sports car just pulling in, it’s windows adorned with those little flags that were suddenly everywhere. It’s driver was a young man, not much older than my James. His spoke of America’s greatness, his car had bumper stickers that read about our nation’s immortality. I hardly knew what was happening until mid way through my rant. When I came to I was shouting at him, I had him cornered against his car and I could hear the security guards coming up behind me,.

         “How dare you? Where was your patriotisms two months ago? If our country hadn’t been attacked would you still be supporting and proud of our nation? Does it take tragedy to show you people greatness? Well, let me tell you, you little spoiled brat! This country has always been great! We have always been proud. There have always been wonderful men and women who lived in this country and it takes several hundred of them to die to make you little shits wake up and notice them. How dare you so smugly wear these t-shirts and carry flags and bumper stickers when you have no actual clue what it is you’re supporting. There are people in this country who are dying every day who have nothing to do with some war or attack on our country. While you drive around in cars bought by daddy’s money and spout rhetoric about our nations greatness, because you saw a tragedy on the news.”

         By this time the security guard had me by the arm and was shouting at me, but all I could hear was the rage in my ears and the indignation spewing from my mouth mixed with my tears. I allowed my self to be dragged away from the young man, as I began to sob. I was given time to collect myself before he escorted me back to my family. He asked them not to let me wander alone with my grief.

         It was weeks before I could see a Pro-American anything without the rage building within me and the tears spilling from my eyes. To this day, any reminder of that horrible tragedy leaves me with a hole deep inside somewhere. But I now spend a lot of my time putting together care packages for men and women who are over seas. So many of them are James age, and the thought of him being over there by himself, alone and afraid, sometimes wakes me from my sleep. So, I do what I can, I write to them, I send them stuff, and I carry on with my life. My war efforts largely in secret, my own way of mourning the child I lost.

         After all, his death was my 9/11, We all have our very own, Don’t we?