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

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problem in NYC at the World Trade Center

where 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

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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 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

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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 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

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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

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

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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 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

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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

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.

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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.

Every passenger on the plane clapped when

we took off and also when we landed. My

brother, Joey, was driving with his family with

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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

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gone 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.

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The beauty of a funeral is that you see folks

you have not seen in years and after the

service 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

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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 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,

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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

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

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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 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

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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 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

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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 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

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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 muddle

through. Life comes with no training manual,

and usually starts with a slap to our backside.

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