Updated: Sep 7
At about 1:20 pm on this day, which is August 11th 2022 in the year of our lord, just one day after my 65th birthday, I received a call from the World Trade Center medical fund.
The intent of the call was to once again advise me it was time for my annual appearance at the centre for my check-up to see if conditions have changed with respect to my 911 gift, which is what I call the illness I have contracted since taking on the task of first responder on the day of the heinous attack.
Interestingly enough, when the call came through, I was in the process of once again digesting my daily regimen of pills pulled together by my many Physicians in the 20-year futile effort to lessen my more than 2 decades of unending pain to do away with this 911 gift.
As I took the multiple pills, I heard the young woman say, the visit would take about an hour and a half.
I looked in a mirror and saw a face that had aged 20 years since the attack. A face that has endured 20 years of endless pain.
I foolishly asked that face, when does it all end?
As I rubbed my legs, the short answer was clearly not today.
I often wonder if this specific pain was terror’s intent. Were they smart enough, or evil enough to know that their diabolical plan would leave me in endless pain? Is anyone that mean?
As I share these worlds, I boldly scream there is not a man or woman, living or dead I would ever knowingly and with malice or intent, heap this much pain upon. No one could tell me making a claim to being human in any setting; this was God’s intent.
I go to sleep in pain. I awake during the night in pain. I begin my day in pain. If I should be so foolish to attempt it, I even express passion once again in pain., silly silly me. I’ve endured needles in my spine based on claims that in the end, I would be pain-free. It just isn’t to be.
If I should think it to be a dream come true, expressing passion comes with pain too.
I share my story in the publication, Remembering Ground Zero.