Part 2 of 2 Nine Years Ago Today
Sept 10--
night before the planes crashed, I went home and called my aunt, asked her to disseminate the information about what had happened with Hayden's surgery that day--I couldn't retell it.
I remember a friend who had had a child in intensive care tell me one truth about it: every place you are will feel like the wrong place to be. It was so true. Every night I couldn't wait to leave the hospital (NICU parents can't sleep with their babies, as the babies are not in private rooms, and sleeping closets around the hospital are issued on a lottery basis).
All day, I would fantasize about leaving, getting away from the smells and the beeping and sitting by my son and not being able to hold him. I would daydream about showering, about pumping in the privacy of my own home and not the pumping closet or a bathroom. I would think longingly of my bed, our neglected dogs. But as soon as I was pulling out of the parking garage, I wanted to be right back in the NICU with my son, washing my hands at the wash station, settling in beside him for a day together.
That night of Sept 10 was no exception. Seeing Hayden in so much pain was brutal and the news that he might die made me want to run away from him, to sever the tentative, cobwebby threads of attachment that were forming. 
But as soon as we were home, I wanted to be back at the hospital.
I woke up early the morning of September 11th. How I got to the hospital I don't know, since I wasn't allowed to drive yet. My mom might have taken me, or I might have taken the train. I know it wasn't Jon, because I remember him calling me from work when everything started to fall apart.
As I waited at the nurse's station to be buzzed in, I saw families watching the TV in the waiting lounge as the first plane crashed, LIVE FOOTAGE, it said.
A plane crash? Too bad, I thought, irritable and impatient to get to my baby.
Things were worse than the day before. Hayden was needing 'rescue doses' of morphine and his eyes, when they were open, were wide with fear and pain, wild like a spooked horse's. He arched against his baby restraints, opened his mouth around his tubes with soundless screams. Dr. Casey, the neonatologist at CHOP stopped by his bed and cupped Hayden's tiny heels in his palms, told me that yes, this was a bad setback, and yes, Hayden was in considerable pain. I loved him for telling me the truth with white-jacket authority. We watched the monitor alert for his heartrate hitting 230, nothing I could do.
The next plane hit. Nurses were distracted, scattered and scared. Who is Ben Ladden? I wondered as I sang to Hayden, a song by Massive Attack called "Protection".
This boy I know needs some shelter
Don't think anyone can help him
Stand in front of you, take the force of the blow
Protection
And I can't change the way you feel
But I can put my arms around you
Jon called. "Get out of the city. We're under attack."
"I can't leave him!"
Jon agreed to come downtown as soon as he could; traffic was bad.
Hayden needed another rescue dose--the nurses were all watching the TV, some crying.
And then I thought, my son relies on machines for his life. What if we get hit, lose power, if the generator fails?
I called over Kathy, one of my favorite nurses.
"Can you teach me how to bag him, just in case?"
She did, and I worried over how long I would be able to squeeze the pump, how long until my arms got tired.
"You'll do it as long as you need to," she assured me. We were all fairly sure disaster was coming to us, and the news of Washington and the other plane in PA confirmed it. The sleeping closet list was pages long--nobody wanted to leave their child alone while the country was under attack.
I pumped in the closet to CNN. I saw the bodies jumping from the windows and I cried for them, and for my baby, who was crying without making a sound. On the other side of the curtain, another mother was pumping and sobbing. We didn't talk, just let the machines hiss and the newscasters react for us.
Numb. Underwater. Surreal. These are the words that come to me when I think back nine years ago today, when I recall the time immediately following September 11. It was a month when the country reeled and the death count climbed and my son fought for his life, and won.
[For update: click here TEN YEARS AGO TODAY]
[And more recently: TWELVE YEARS IS A LONG TIME]
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