I was throwing a load of laundry into the washing machine and sipping my morning coffee. My husband was in the shower, and our boys were in bed. When I turned on the TV to watch the morning news, Bryant Gumbel was talking about an "accident" that had happened a few moments ago: a small plane had crashed into one of the twin towers in NYC. Our 11-year-old son had previously been fascinated with the twin towers, so I woke him up and asked him to join me in front of the TV. We were homeschooling, so there was no rush to get off to school. My husband looked on from the bathroom as he finished getting ready for work. As we sat there, unalarmed, a second plane flew into the towers. We noticed it several minutes before Bryant Gumbel realized there was a second explosion. Suddenly, it hit everyone. We were under attack. These were not accidents. By now, our older son was awake as well, and the whole family was glued to the TV. You know how it felt. Unreal. Impossible.
When our boys were younger, I had this tendency to "normalize" everything as a sort of protective mechanism for them...and for myself. So I went about my business and moved the clean laundry into the dryer while the men continued to watch television. I simply could not wrap my head around what was happening, so I escaped reality by doing housework. By the time the laundry had dried, the towers were collapsing. Actually collapsing. The inconceivable was unfolding before our eyes.
I kept doing laundry. I couldn't do anything else. I didn't cry, I didn't make phone calls, and I didn't cancel the day's appointments. In my mind, I felt that doing so would be a sign of weakness to the boys and a sort of "giving in" to whoever did this awful thing to us. My husband went to work. We started our homeschool lessons with a writing assignment about the attacks on the towers. Parents eventually started calling to ask if piano lessons were still on. Yes. Piano lessons are still on. The normal would be our salvation. At least that was the plan.
I decided to take the boys out to lunch at El Rodeo - their favorite restaurant. On the way, I made note of the fact that Main Street was almost deserted. When we arrived at the restaurant, no one was there except the employees. That's when I started to question my sanity. Obviously, I was not normal. I took my boys out to eat on the day of the attacks.
Later in the afternoon, students arrived on schedule for their piano lessons. We didn't discuss the events of the morning unless the children wanted to. One boy told me that his mother couldn't stop crying.
As the horrific stories of those who occupied the towers began to be told on television, I shut down. I wanted all televisions in our house to be turned off. It was too unbearable to watch. This continued for days and weeks. Each story seemed more tragic than the last. I was haunted by an unthinkable possibility: we might be attacked again.
Looking back, I wonder if my inability to outwardly process the tragedy and its consequences and implications led to physical injury, because I suffered with a six-month case of Linburg-Comstock Syndrome from September 2001 to March 2002. I couldn't play piano during that entire time. I taught lessons by pointing to keys and singing to students. No demonstrating at all. The only reason I question that the injury was brought on by the September 11 attacks is that it started the week prior and only became severe afterward. Probably just a coincidence...
May those who still suffer find comfort today, and may we never forget how it felt to live through 9/11/01 ourselves.
Dear Mrs. S. from my understanding,talking to a hand surgeon, Linburg-Comstock is something you are born with, not brought on my inwardly processing your grief. I also have Linburg-Comstock, The only way to correct it is surgery. Linburg-Comstock is tough to have and be a musician. As you know playing an instrument requires independent finger movement with is difficult to impossible with Linburg-Comstock.
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