Many of us, like Freud, find ourselves stripped bare through the grief process. We would like to think that we can mourn in alignment with some comforting timeline that promises eventual resolution. We would like to think that our theories will keep us protected from the messiness of it all. We would like to think that we can control the process. But everyone, eventually, is humbled by the universal human experience of loving and losing. Each of us is unique in the way we manage those feelings and live on with the love.
The way in which resilience ebbs and flows in these eight stories is no more linear than grief. Though researchers have made a lot of progress since resilience was first introduced into scientific literature in the early ’70s, there is still no fixed or absolute idea about what it is, exactly, and perhaps even more important for our everyday lives, how to develop it. DNA, self-confidence, communication skills, and the capacity to make realistic plans and manage strong feelings are all thought to influence how resilient we are when faced with difficult times, but most of these capacities and skills are difficult to measure.
One thing is certain—the most resilient people are those with supportive relationships. We see this over and over in the stories that have unfolded in the previous pages. It is the unconditional love of caring family and friends that buoys all of these survivors in their rockiest moments. It’s also their capacity to reach out for support when they need it and to accept help that allows them to flourish. Nick speaks so often about the comfort of being surrounded by his family and close friends throughout the years. Tanya tears up when she talks about “the girls”—her support group of widows who understood her grief as no one else could. Tim finds refuge in his brother’s company—a safe place to talk about his dark feelings over a light beer. We have so little control in this life, to be sure, but one thing we can do to protect ourselves is to create sturdy and loving relationships in our lives. There’s no question that these bonds are the glue that keeps us from truly falling apart in times of trauma and loss.
The commitment to help others in their time of need following the events of September 11th, of course, was the source of so much inspiration and so much physical and mental suffering, as well. For those who experienced that day and its aftermath firsthand, there was the sudden and stunning death of a different kind: the death of a former self. The person who walked on the hollowed disaster of Ground Zero on September 12, 2001, was the not the same one who walked anywhere on September 10, 2001. Brian, Charles, Joe, Tim—each of them was forever altered by what they saw there. Debbie, though farther afield of the actual carnage, would never be the same after knowing that the country’s consciousness had grown brittle in the face of it. She had to make her way in a world where her deepest values and her heritage were newly suspect.
There were times when it seemed that these brave survivors tried their old identities on, only to find that they no longer fit, or tried to bully a new story, a more hopeful story, out of the sadness. As they metabolized their pain, as they processed their memories, as they considered the “why” of their own survival among so many who were lost, they navigated their way into new narratives. It turns out that just as we can’t hurry the grieving process along, recovery from trauma has its own unpredictable timing as well. One’s soul is rebuilt, not according to a schedule, but according to a mystery. It is psyche and breath, memory and vulnerability, muscle and lung, coordinating to create a new kind of living.
Bishop Stephen T. Bouman writes about his mission with the traumatized immediately following September 11th in his book, Grace All Around Us: Embracing God’s Promise in Tragedy and Loss: “In the weeks after I would visit each of the eighteen conferences of our synod with only one agenda: how is your soul?” Secondary trauma, like that experienced by so many on and in the days following September 11th, is, in a sense, a clarifying force for the soul. By strapping on his boots and walking straight down to Ground Zero that autumn morning, Charles strengthened his own sense of himself as a helper, a server, and a soul mate, of sorts, to those in need. Joe, likewise, rose to the challenge of the most morbid of roles following the death and destruction in his dear city, and in so doing, performed his final brave act as one of New York’s finest; his soul settled down to grandchildren and rest thereafter. Brian, in his unwavering days of “filling one bucket” at a time, allowed his own soul the salve of feeling useful; when he stopped feeling useful, of course, the grief rushed in.
Brian, like so many, staved off the real sadness with the numb of constant activity—not just a phenomenon of post-traumatic stress, of course, but of the contemporary human condition. We make ourselves so busy, so plugged in, preoccupied, and selfimportant that we often forget just how vulnerable we really are. Erikson, writing of disaster and its brutal lessons, observes, “People are encouraged to think that they can control the best in nature and the worst in themselves, and they continue to think so until the momentum of some adventure carries them beyond the limits of their own intelligence or stamina.” Disaster and death trim the fat off of our lives in an instant, leaving behind only what is most precious—our health, our families, our sense of purpose.
The surprise is that there is great release in the humbling that coincides with grief and recovery. Pema Chödrön writes, “As human beings, not only do we seek resolution, but we also feel that we deserve resolution. However, not only do we not deserve resolution, we suffer from resolution. We don’t deserve resolution; we deserve something better than that. We deserve our birthright, which is the middle way, an open state of mind that can relax with paradox and ambiguity.”
The texture of the stories that these eight survivors offer us is testament to this birthright. In each of their losses, and each of their unique and quite beautiful journeys to process and integrate those losses, we see the best of the human spirit. We see Delia embracing the man who would give the woman who was to be her daughterin-law, Tanya, a second chance at joy. We see Larry being buoyed by the God that others told him hated his way of loving. We see Nick acknowledging that his mother is, perhaps, more complex than he allowed, and so, in turn, is his way of honoring her. Tim’s loss of so many metaphorical brothers brings him even closer to his biological brother.
These decade-long stories of restoration are rife with paradox. Though Debbie’s whole life is constructed around building bridges, her own path explodes in her face; though her mission is to facilitate dialogue between cultures, her own words are lost in the media’s sensational translation. Charles’s commitment to promoting the health of others destroys his own. Ground Zero has become both the bane of Brian’s existence and his deepest joy and honor. Joe lives with death in his past and his mind, and birth in his present and his heart.
It has been ten long years for each of these eight survivors, ten long years for all of us, truth be told. We experienced anthrax; the war in Afghanistan; Enron’s bankruptcy; No Child Left Behind; the birth of Homeland Security; the Iraq War; the conclusion of the Human Genome Project; the invention of Facebook, Wikipedia, Google, and Twitter; conflicts in Darfur, the Middle East, and Liberia; Abu Ghraib; earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, and heat waves; the reelection of George W. Bush; the Kyoto Protocol; Avian flu; H1N1; Harry Potter; the election of Barack Obama; Deepwater Horizon; terrorists attacks; mining disasters; spacecraft launches; American Idol; and solar eclipses.
As overwhelming as this partial list is, it’s only the public record—the kind of stuff that gets debated in the nation’s op-ed pages and makes it into history books. The private stories are equally important and often unheard or neglected. In these ten years, we have, indeed, fought wars, weathered natural disasters, seen unprecedented technological, political, and cultural shifts. We have also cried and laughed, cooked and celebrated, mourned and danced, prayed and accepted. We have come to understand the modern life as one riddled with unpredictable public events that threaten our private lives, and yet persevered in the face of fears and vulnerability. We have loved one another well, and known that this
is—in the end—what it’s really all about.
In these ten long, healing years, there have been many formal moments marking the recovery from the tragic events of September 11th—the first and every annual commemoration, breaking ground for the Freedom Tower, the 9/11 Commission Report, the Tribute in Light etc.—but there have also been so many unmarked moments, the kind that simply accumulate in a life intentionally and bravely lived. Debbie watched as her sweet son got married. Joe walked his granddaughter to school. Larry sat side by side with his fellow congregants. Tim walked by the water. Nick had dinner with his dad. Charles slapped his domino down. Tanya rode her motorcycle into the sunset.
These, too, were remarkable acts, experiences worth recording and savoring. But the way history gets written often leaves out the small but meaningful moments—the caring gestures, the euphoric yelps, the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other reality of rediscovering joy after a long season of sadness. As Frederick Buechner writes, “Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the bored and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness; touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”
None of their journeys has really ended. For the purpose of writing about a critical decade of loss and renewal, we imposed the essential elements of any story—beginning, middle, and end. But the truth is that all of these scarred and brave human beings are still becoming, still integrating their losses, still writing their stories. As are we all.
Acknowledgments
We would like to thank all of the talented people who are part of the Project Rebirth family, especially Brian Rafferty, for being our shepherd through this process, and Caitlin Olson, for serving as the center of so many spokes. Frank Moretti, none of this would have existed without you. Our deepest gratitude goes to Jim Whitaker, who had the rare mix of sensitivity, audacity, and determination necessary to see his dream through to the end.
We would also like to thank the team of people who worked behind the scenes to make this book a reality, starting with our agents, Richard Pine and Tracy Brown. Thank you for your commitment to our careers and our voices. We are grateful that Amy Hertz initially believed in us and this book, and that Mike Frankfurt and Mark Merriman stepped forward to shape the collaboration. Thank you also to Michael Preston for the terrific technological assistance.
Our hats off to all of the creative and committed people at Dutton, starting with our fierce editor, Carrie Thornton. Carrie, your capacity to see the form within the stone made all the difference. A huge thank you is also in order for Stephanie Hitchcock for her tireless work near the end. Your commitment, communication, and editorial help in the final months were indispensible. Thank you to the entire publicity team, who does the critical work of making sure that all these words and good intentions actually get to the readers.
We also want to thank all the people who generously gave of their time to talk to us about their own experiences and share their important thoughts about the events of September 11th, grief, trauma, and recovery: George Bonanno, Jeff Kleinberg, Emanuel Shapiro, Katherine Shear, Ada Dolch, Michael Kessler, Marc Brackett, Rabbi Michael Paley, Father Kevin O’Brien, Mary Dluhy, John Dluhy, Albert Brok, Mary Marshall Clark, Josh Gordon, Leeat Granek, Linda Meisler Berko, Cheri Lovre, Sheila Brown, (the late) Roz Winter, Margaret Micle, Naomi Wolf, Mark Wilding, April Naturale, Wendy Jager Hyman, Helen Churko, Carole Saltz, Gardner Dunhan, Wendy Flammia, Judith Logue, and Craig Richards. Deep gratitude to Lester Lenoff for your keen insight and ready psychoanalytic translations.
For their indispensable research, we thank Krystie Yandoli, Julie Morris, Barbara Weber Floyd, Adam Klein, and Katherine Scharf. We would also like to toast the incisive and steady Andres Richner, who swooped in with a fresh perspective and an investigative eye at exactly the moment we needed him. You are our superhero. Thank you to Courtney’s writers group for all of the support, particularly Kimmi Auerbach for her counsel in the toughest moments and Jennifer Gandin Le for her beautiful rendering of love in post–September 11th Brooklyn. Thank you to Robin’s colleagues at the Inner Resilience Project—especially Linda Lantieri, Carmella B’Hahn, Martha Eddy, Lynne Hurdle-Price, Ixchel Allblood and Cynthia Smith Miler—for their support of this project and for holding the space for educators to renew themselves since September 11, 2001.
We give thanks for our colleagues at the Woodhull Institute for Ethical Leadership, where we met, for the ongoing support of both of us and our work. Thank you to our Star Factor community, and especially to Janet Patti, for her ongoing love and support of us. And deep gratitude goes to many colleagues and good friends—you know who you are—whose continuous conversations through the years nurtured us and kept us intellectually inspired on this topic and many others.
As always, we are deeply indebted to and grateful for our incredible families. The empathy and compassion that we brought to this project, the belief in resilience, hope, and healing, was born out of our deep love for each of you, and the love we always receive in return.
From Courtney: Thank you to my parents, Jere and Ron, and my brother, Chris. You were my first thoughts on September 11th and still are. Thanks also to Mary Austin Speaker; a first sister was never so lucky. Thank you also to John, for believing so unwaveringly in my worth, for all of the careful editing, and, of course, for the Hamptons rescue. It is unendingly strengthening to have you in my corner.
From Robin: Thank you to my husband, Frank, my rock, and to my children, Scott and Melissa—you are the lights of my life always. (You are my “forever presents”!) Thank you to my parents, Roz and Dave (who is always with us), for always believing in me. Thanks always for your lifetime of being there—and for comedic times—to my brother, Eric, and sister-in-law, Jacquie, and my nephews and niece, Justin, Daniel, and Julia. A big thank you also to my stepchildren—Kiki, Tonio, and Nicco—and to my extended family—Elaine and Artie (who is always with us), Jan and Charlie, and Billy for being there, with us, through it all—traumas, dramas, and all celebrations. And great thanks to Lena Gordon, Lisa Neal, and Santiago Enrique Michel for supporting me so that I can do my work.
At the risk of being read as self-congratulatory, we want to thank each other.
Robin, thank you for so many years of mentoring and mothering, for your inextinguishable idealism, and for your commitment to making this work, come hell or high water. I am so glad that I got up early at the Woodhull Institute for Ethical Leadership ten years ago.
Courtney, thank you for showing up early that day at Woodhull—you always do! Thank you for allowing me to be part of your incredible journey. Mentoring you has been a gift for me too. Thank you for your dedication to this project, even in the challenging times, for your commitment to excellence and your tireless work ethic, for your beautiful writing, and especially for your authenticity in our relationship,
We are most profoundly grateful to the incredible people profiled in this book: Tanya, Tim, Brian, Larry, Joe, Charles, Debbie, and Nick. Your collective courage in sharing your journeys is deeply moving and left us awestruck over and over again. You are each a testament to the strength, goodness, and resilience of the human spirit. Thank you for trusting us.
Appendix A:
Centers or Organizations Devoted to Dealing with Grief, Trauma, and First Responders
I. Internet Resources
Bereavement ServicesA social network for those who have lost a loved one.
http://www.mybereavement.net
Crisis Management InstituteAddresses crisis response, technical assistance, training, and violence prevention, particularly in schools.
www.cmionline.org
Good GriefOnline resources and referrals for those grieving or wishing to support someone in grief.
www.good-grief.org
GriefNetOnline community of persons dealing with grief, death, and major loss.
www.griefnet.org
Grief’
s JourneyFocuses on the bereavement for the loss of a spouse and life partner.
www.griefsjourney.com
II. National Organizations
America’s CampOne-week camp in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts for children who lost a parent or sibling as a result of the attacks on September 11, and for the children or siblings of the firefighters or law enforcement officers lost in the line of duty at any time.
www.americascamp.org
Bereaved Parents of the USANational self-help group that offers support, understanding, compassion, and hope, especially to the newly bereaved, be they bereaved parents, grandparents, or siblings struggling to rebuild their lives after the death of their children, grandchildren, or siblings.
www.bereavedparentsusa.org
Comfort Zone CampWeekend bereavement camp for children who have experienced the loss of a parent, sibling, or primary caregiver.
www.comfortzonecamp.org
Compassionate FriendsSelf-help support organization with nearly six hundred chapters, offering friendship, understanding, and hope to families grieving the death of a child of any age, from any cause.
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