Laying on the bathroom floor with my cheek against the cool tile and tears pooling beneath my face, I had been throwing up for hours and the crying was incessant. I had no idea what was wrong. I didn’t have a fever or a cough. I didn’t eat anything strange or drink too heavily. But for some reason, I could not stop the nausea or the emotional dread. This was nothing I ever felt before – this intense combination of physical and mental malaise. This is how I spent the day and night of September 10, 2001.
I finally decided to call the doctor and make an appointment for the next morning. I was quite certain that pregnancy was not the issue, but I was out of ideas. Scheduled to work in the morning on the northern-most side of Menominee Falls, I let my boss know I would be late.
Getting ready that day was not an easy feat. I was still in this psychological place of impending doom. My stomach was in knots and my eyes were sore from the constant stream of tears, but I was able to get myself together and headed to the clinic.
Driving across town, I listened to Bob and Brian on the radio. It was a typical show of sarcastic banter, until … it wasn’t. Suddenly there was a quiet and confused mumbling and then they made that unforgettable announcement. One of the DJs shared the news that one of the World Trade Center Towers was hit by an airplane. What a terrible accident, I gasped to myself. I didn’t have time to consider the devastation when the same shocked voice relayed that the other tower had also been hit. This was no accident.
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