SEPT 11 2001

SEPT 11 2001 2740 words
UNEXPECTED PHONE CALL
While everyone in the world was focusing on
NYC that day; the ring of a telephone interrupted
my thoughts of terror, security and family. Living
in Easton Ct, only 70 miles east of the city, I was
stunned by the incredulous facts of the day, yet
more personal disconcerting news was yet to
come. The day turned into both a personal
odyssey and a national tragedy. The beginning of
my changing lifeline, as it existed, started
unraveling with one unexpected phone call. And
that call had nothing to do with the collapsing
towers.
That Tuesday morning, I had a conference with
my daughter’s middle school teacher. At 9:15
Ms. Edwards excused herself; there was a
problem in NYC at the World Trade Center where
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her husband worked. The meeting was halted
abruptly and rescheduled. On the way home, I
stopped at Easton Town Hall, right down the
street, to sign my kids for fall soccer. Easton was
a town of 6000 residents and most people knew
one another: a colleague at the Park and Rec
department told me that there was a huge
disaster in NYC. One of the men on the Board of
Finance had a phone call from a plane from
Boston, that his son and daughter in law and
granddaughter, who were flying to Orlando for a
family vacation were in danger, and everyone in
town hall was on alert. I hurried home with an
ominous feeling in my stomach.
I turned on the television and watched
helplessly as the towers collapsed over and over.
My husband at the time, Doug, called and said he
had a meeting and then would come home. There
was an announcement from the kid’s school that
they wanted no parents picking up their children
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early. I proceeded to build an emergency box for
our family with masks, tape and supplies. Easton
is so close to NYC and no one knew what to
expect, we all were anticipating another attack
somewhere close by.
At 11:35 the phone finally rang. It was my
brother, Joey, an emergency room physician,
who was not sure why the phones were not
working; he had tried all morning to get through.
My 81 year old Dad who had been in a nursing
home in Chattanooga TN, had passed away at
9:50 that morning. Joe was aghast and not sure
what was going on in New York. His morning had
been concerned with my Dad and he had not
watched the news as of yet. I assured him no one
knew what had really happened and why.
I ran into the garage and cried out “ What else
can happen?” I called Doug and he was on his
way. I just sobbed and sobbed and generally felt
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sorry for the United States and myself. What I
wanted right now was for my four daughters and
husband all safely gathered with me at home.
Then I might feel a sense of normalcy.
I had made an appointment with the local
Catholic Church weeks before and they said I
could indeed cremate my Catholic father; church
policies had changed. When I had talked with my
brother, we decided to have Dad’s funeral in
Boca Raton at Ascension Catholic Church where
my father had lived for 20 years: that was the last
sane decision we made together. Nothing that
day was simple. Airports were closed.
Businesses were closing, the nation and world
was in shock. I gathered water bottles and snack
food to send to the rescue workers in NYC. Our
local firefighters were on their way and bringing
the supplies. Friends of mine who were traveling
were renting and borrowing cars to get home to
be with their families. Airports were shut down
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and it was left to individuals to figure out how to
make their way back home.
When my family all came home, my husband
and I gathered the girls together and told them
about their grandfather. All were very troubled,
not that they were that close to Grandpa Joe, but
they saw how upset he and I were and with all the
chaos in NYC. Doug and I fought as usual; he let
me do most of the arranging for the funeral, his
part was to support me in doing what I needed to
do. He did agree on arranging for us to fly out on
the first flight available. My kids were scared and
none of my daughters wanted to fly, but we told
them we could fly two and one half hours on a
plane or spend 24 hours in a car together going
down to FL. They quickly chose flying.
It literally took hours making plans with the
local Catholic Church in Boca Raton. We agreed
to the earliest day they could schedule a funeral
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for us which was Mon. Sept 17 at 10 am and
could find no caterer or priest. We finally found
Father Lang, and later a member of the
congregation volunteered to play the organ. My
daughter, Jordan, decided to sing Celine Dion’s,”
My heart will go on. I found that Publix, a local
grocery store, would cater if I picked the
selected food up. What to order and how many
friends and family could make it was anyone’s
guess.
I cried so much; the country and me were
in a state of panic. I tried to talk to as many
relatives and friends as I could which was quite a
trick as phone lines were forever busy and not
many could come. Our family of six could get
plane tickets because we were direct family of a
deceased but not many others could not get a
plane ticket till days after the service. I was living
in a fog not realizing that some of this was about
Dad, but most was my family dynamics crumbling
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around me. Things had been not good with my
children’s father and me lately, and I had known
in my heart, the marriage was over. Now my life
with my Dad was finished, also.
Friday came and we had to get to Bradley
airport in Hartford, by four am. The security
agents were ready and the passenger line was
out the airport. We made it through and it was
terrible as every flier was terrified about what
could happen. One bright spot was since we
were on the first flight out; all of us conquered
our fear of flying post 9/11. My husband, Doug,
flew constantly and my daughters had been
veteran flyers since infants. My family lived in
Florida and Doug’s in California and we generally
traveled across country most of the time. All of us
were used to airports but it did not stop the panic
we felt. Flying had turned from an enjoyable part
of a vacation to a necessary evil; I still feel that to
this day.
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Every passenger on the plane clapped when
we took off and also when we landed. My
brother, Joey, was driving with his family with my
Dad’s ashes from Chattanooga Tennessee and
was supposed to meet us at 12 noon. He did not
get there till 8pm: just like him, he was never on
time. Joey had seven kids and was never able to
leave when he thought he would. Working as an
emergency room physician did not leave him time
to do karate—so he took advantage of time off
and spent the morning doing that. Joey put
karate and his life first all the time and it was hard
on all of us especially me, now for this funeral: I
was not a happy camper. I had such a hard time
dealing with facts and planning a party for 75 in a
place I did not live -- it all was beyond my
capabilities at this time. I needed much more
help: a shoulder to cry on, someone to drive and
find all these unfamiliar places etc and make so
many important decisions.
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I ordered the flowers, made the service and
food choices, met with the organist and talked
with dozens of friends and family coming without
Joe’s help. Doug watched my children. By the
time Joe and family got there, all they did was
attend the funeral. I do remember Joe giving the
Eulogy and he was so loquacious. Joe always
was so likeable in a non-threatening way, he is
my big brother and I will always love and respect
him. Even with all his faults, he is one of the
kindest and caring people I know. I just wish I
could count on him more, but he has a wife and
children he needs to answer to.
I actually have few memories of the actual
service. I know when the time came, I could not
go in Assumption Catholic Church of Boca: I
almost ran away. If it was not for my cousins,
Rosemary and her husband Bob, coming to get
me on the steps of that church, I would have gone
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to Key West, city of my birth. You see, it was not
just a funeral; it was MY Dad’s funeral. It meant
he was dead; I had no father and had to grow up.
I simply could not do it. Doug surprisingly held
my hand; I leaned on him for support and listened
my daughter Jordan’s beautiful voice. She was
just starting high school and yet sang
harmoniously and without fear. My brother could
actually talk in front of all our family and friends
and I had a hard time putting one foot in front of
another. Not remembering leaving or receiving
all the guests, I just remember being with my
brother and his wife picking up the flowers for it
was her family’s tradition to do so. What about
my family tradition I wanted to ask? Fortunately,
my family did not have family traditions
concerning funerals, but I desperately imagined
some to fall back on.
The beauty of a funeral is that you see folks
you have not seen in years and after the service
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we went to Mom’s condo recreation room and all
ate and talked. I heard stories about my Dad and
his youth that helped me cry over and over. My
kids were with their cousins, that part was
wonderful: we all connected with family we had
not seen in such a long time. In fact, I began to
relax for the first time for days. I was finally
allowed to greave and just not react to the
circumstances. Everyone knows how the soldier
in one takes over and you just automatically take
care of details one by one and not have to feel or
think. I started to really contemplate my father’s
death and somehow my own.
The next day I went to buy something cool to
wear; south Florida is so hot and humid. My
brother and family were not up and I had had it. I
yelled and screamed and mourned the death of
my Dad and my brother’s absence and of
allowing me do it all, once again. I could not find
Doug anywhere and our marriage was falling
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hard cause he never wanted to be near me--only
the kids. I cried and screamed for all I was
missing, all that I never had. I needed my first
family and it was vastly diminishing. My mother
was so feeble and had not done much, in fact she
had left it all to me, and now I was losing the
support of my brother. I was mostly mad that
Doug had abandoned me, he was working
nonstop and leaving our house and the rearing of
our four daughters to me; my brother and mother
were next in line. I was learning with the death of
a parent that now I was on the top of the heap of
family and had no one else to support me; I would
be doing the fortifying for now on. It was too
much for me to bear but I had not realized, like
Atlas, that I had already carried this burden for
most of my life. Now it was official. The men
in my family let me down one by one
and soon there was no man left for
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me to share my life with.
We stayed for one more day and the kids got to
touch bases with their cousins. It was awkward
with my brother and his wife and hard to leave my
Mom who was strongly affected by all of the
events, seeing relatives she had not seen, the
death of her ex husband of 35 years and her
failing health and knowing this would be
happening to her all too soon.
The flight back was much better than the flight
out, the lines were much more manageable and
we left trying to put our lives back. The kids had
missed school; I missed a working marriage and
now had to face the death of my Dad. Dad had
been sick for a while and to tell the truth, my Dad
was always such a worry. He was such a hard
person to love and he always fought with
everyone. His last years in Florida had been so
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hard; he was always in car accidents and refused
to give up his driver’s license. He lived by himself
in hoarders’ dream and spent time naked in his
house leaving a trail of feces on his furniture.
Female neighbors complained that he was nude
outside and he became more and more erratic. I
had gotten him out of mental wards four years
before. Somehow his death was a small blessing.
But he was my Dad and he was gone. Or so I
thought.
On the news, there was talk about a
crematorium in GA that did not cremate bodies
but threw remains in a swamp. Georgia is a long
way from Connecticut, but not Chattanooga,
where my brother lived. I received an unexpected
phone call from my brother (once again); yes, my
father was a veteran and was buried with money
from the Veterans Administration. The
government had a contract at Tri State
Cremorium in GA. Yes, my father, Joseph A
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Contarino, was one of the 400 souls not cremated
but dumped in a swamp. The FBI contacted Joe
and he and I had to send DNA samples. Dad had
a pacemaker that was registered and it was
found. The ashes were checked and no human
remains were found in the urn.
For one year, I woke with nightmares of
swamp monsters with my Dad’s face; night after
night, I awoke with screams. My marriage was
collapsing after 18 years and Doug was sleeping
in the basement. Soon, he left. I was so guilty:
life without a father and without a husband was
no picnic. No one deserved what happened to
my father’s body. As bad as my Dad had treated
me in life, in death, it just got worse. Of all the
days, he chose 9/11 to die and how did he end up
in brackish water? The responsibility for my
mother and four daughters’ lives seemed
overwhelming. Joe and I had not talked much
after the funeral, my yelling spree hung between
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us like a noose that was tightening quickly. I did
not want all this accountability, and had no option
but to accept it. How could every man I had
depended on and love desert me?
Growing up and accepting responsibility as a
parent, than working with your aging parents and
finally accepting their deaths are hard lessons
for any of us. The United States lost its
innocence on Sept 11, and I lost faith in our
country’s ability to protect me. On that same
day, I lost the innocence and cocoon of my
childhood. I gained a belief that life will go on,
and it is all a series of cycles that we must jump
through, though never really prepare for till it
happens to us. My father’s health was fading and
his death was imminent but somehow life was
altered on Sept 11 for all of us and major life
changes were jumpstarted. They often start with
an unexpected phone call: there are some dates
one never can prepare for, but somehow we each
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muddle through. Life comes with no training
manual, and usually starts with a slap to our
backside.
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SEPT 11 2001

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