My Private 9/11

Hello.

September eleventh has been, for the past fifteen years, a day when I silently remember when my son's life and by proxy, my life too, changed forever.

It was just around midnight on September 11, 1992, that I ran to the CT scan room at Albany Medical Center, when I heard the voice over the loudspeaker page name, after name of doctor to get to the CT room where my son lay on that cold table, STAT.

My little guy was six and one-half years old. He was a charmer...very friendly, inquisitive, active and smart. He liked to take things apart and put things back together. He had just learned how to ride his bike without training wheels, was on the T-ball team and was looking forward to first grade. He wasn't a perfect child, but he wasn't a bad kid either.

For six months, I had contacted my doctor, brought Ben in for appointments, asked for special testing at school, inquired again of the doctor's office and finally ended up in an Emergency Room at a local hospital. You see, in my heart, I knew something wasn't right with him. Being a physical therapist (who trained in pediatrics) I observed his gait pattern, listened to his speech and watched his movements. As his mom, I worried about his unexplainable vomiting, occasional headaches and loss of weight. I brought each and every one of my concerns to his physician on numerous occasions and each time, I was turned away with a pleasantry. "You're just an over-concerned mom." "You're just a mom who happens to be a physical therapist too." "There is nothing wrong. Don't worry." But deep inside something was wrong and my credentials didn't move the doctor to investigate further.

So, when seeing my son's eyes cross on that September day, I rushed him to the local ER where I convinced the doctor my son needed a CT scan and had to convince our primary doctor (on the telephone) that a CT scan was necessary too...so much arguing to get a test approved. Finally, the test was ordered and we were sent to the medical center in Albany, NY. A few hours later our brain tumor diagnosis was delivered.

That was my 9/11/1992. That was the day when my whole life (and that of my son) changed. It has been fifteen years and I am still discovering ways my life has (and his) has changed. There were no more birthday parties he was invited to. There were no more soccer mom's on the sideline. There were no more friends to play with on the weekends. There were no more carefree visits with moms on the playground.
There were no drivers permits.
There were no prom dates.
There was no high-school graduation.
There was no drop-off at college.
There are no girlfriends.
There are no fraternity brothers.
There are no dreams of a job and wife and kids and grandkids.

My 9/11/92 gave me other things of which I am grateful. I have met awesome, courageous kids and their families. I have met sensitive, intelligent, diligent and caring doctors and nurses. I have worked with dedicated educators, social workers, vocational trainers and human services people. I have had a chance to experience the highest highs and lowest lows. I have fought a battle of the spiritual and came out on another side with deepest reverence for God.

But mostly what I got from 9/11/1992 was a person, who after facing the most difficult physical, intellectual and spiritual challenges one could face, overcame them to become a happy, kind, hard-working, fun-loving human being.

It's not easy. Everyday is mixed with joy and sadness. But it is what it is, and together my son and I, learn the lessons we are suppose to learn and teach the lessons we are suppose to teach and in the end, we are blessed.

Have hope,
Donna