My daughter wasn't born until March of 2002, but I became a mother on September 11, 2001.
I was reminded of this as I read a lovely write-up by my friend and colleague, Jennifer Oliver O'Connell, on Thursday morning regarding President Trump's remarks at the Pentagon, commemorating the 24th anniversary of 9/11.
In her article, Jennifer included excerpts of Trump's speech, including this:
At 9:12 a.m., aboard American Airlines Flight 77, Renee May called her mom. Just the day before, Renee had learned she was seven weeks pregnant, but she never got the chance to share the news. She simply said, "I love you mom." Twenty five minutes later, Renee's plane struck the Pentagon. So violent a strike it was.
You see, I was seven or eight weeks pregnant myself on that fateful day. From a long-ago article I wrote reflecting on that day we each remember so very clearly:
Just so happens, I was 7 or 8 weeks pregnant at the time. Got home, and there was a message on the machine from my doctor’s office, asking me to call them. I did, and they told me there was a problem with my hormone levels, and I was at risk for miscarrying, so I needed to go pick up a prescription. The realization that my husband was likely to be stuck in Dallas for an indefinite period at that point, and I was pretty much on my own, hit and made me feel very much alone. I got in the car and headed to the pharmacy, and remember thinking to myself how odd it was that it, and the grocery stores, and most businesses were still open and carrying on like it was a regular day. I know the people working there weren’t FEELING that way — it just struck me as odd that, even in the face of this evil, awful thing that was unfolding, we were still plodding ahead with our day. I picked up the prescription and read the warnings, which included all sorts of potential awful things that could happen to the baby, including some mutations. THAT freaked me out. So I called the doctor’s office and they reassured me it was okay to take the medicine. So I did. And I sat down on the couch and watched the endless coverage, and wondered what kind of a world my child — assuming he or she would be okay — would be born into. And I cried.
Thankfully, I did not miscarry. My daughter arrived (sans mutations) just shy of six weeks early that following spring and, once past a three-week stint in the NICU, grew into a healthy, happy, beautiful young woman (even if I am a bit biased). That baby Renee May was carrying on 9/11 would be, like my daughter, a 23-year-old today. Maybe just starting to get the hang of adulthood. Maybe wondering what kind of world his or her future children would be born into.
But as surreal as so much of that day still seems — and always will — one thing that I remember vividly is the recognition that I was carrying a life; that I was responsible for a life. Suddenly, the fact that I was a mother and that I wanted nothing more than for my child to be safe became very real. Nothing was more important than that.
My heart aches for Renee May and her baby — and the thousands of others who lost their lives on that saddest of days with the bluest of skies. For all the might-have-beens that were extinguished by the evil visited upon us that day. For me, that day will always be the day that time stood still, the day all our hearts broke, and also the day I became a mother.