For loved ones, Sept. 11 brings back heartache
mcall.com
Families remember those lost and try to focus on their lives, not deaths.
By Kathleen Parrish Of The Morning Call
The tears came fast and hard like an unexpected rainstorm, forcing Jeff Crowther to pull his car to the side of the road because he could no longer see to drive. He covered his face in his hands and thought of his lanky, sandy-haired son, Welles, who wore the No. 19 jersey on the lacrosse team at Boston College and collected friends like some people stash baseball cards or toy cars.
Nineteen. That was Welles' favorite number. He wore it on all his sports uniforms, it was the address of his first New York City apartment and on March 19, 2002, his body was found at ground zero, six months after terrorists attacked the World Trade Center.
Welles didn't have to die, Crowther thought in his car a year after burying his son, as his shoulders shuddered from the waves of grief. An equity trader at Sandler O'Neil and Partners, he had made it out of the South Tower. But he went back in — at least three times — to save others, covering his mouth and nose with a red bandanna.
Finally, Crowther's sobs subsided, at least enough to drive, and before long he was pulling into the garage of his Upper Nyack, N.Y., home. That's when he spotted the can of tree tar sitting on a shelf. It had always been there, it seemed, but for the first time he noticed the large white number on its red label.
Nineteen.
''I knew he was saying, 'Hold on, Dad. It's going to be OK,' '' said Crowther, sitting in his office last week at Hudson Valley Bank in Manhattan where family photos — his smiling son, wife, Alison, and two daughters — reflect a world that had not yet changed forever.
Five years later, time has not dimmed the raw pain Crowther and many other people who lost someone on Sept. 11 still feel daily. For them, Monday's anniversary is just another day of heartache. They don't need a media milestone to remind them to mourn. Nor do they want to see the recurring images of the day on television and the movies.
For some, Sept. 11 isn't history but a present-day reality, especially for families who never received any remains of their loved ones and for those involved in the contentious rebuilding efforts at ground zero.
''There's a lot of anger that five years have gone by and these people who did this absolutely horrific murder are still at large,'' said Carol Goldberg, a New York City psychologist and host of the TV program, ''Dr. Carol Goldberg and Company.'' ''I don't think they will have closure until that happens.''
Trying to bring good out of it
''We live with it every day,'' said Bill Sugra, whose son, Bill, worked as a network administrator in Cantor Fitzgerald's eSpeed division on the 103rd floor of the World Trade Center. ''It doesn't go away.''
His wife, El Sugra, said she avoids watching television or reading anything that makes reference to Sept. 11, but sometimes it's tricky because the day has become a historical line of demarcation, a story plot that's inserted itself into everyday culture.
''You keep thinking that in five years you're going to feel better and you don't,'' she said. ''We miss him more because we can't make any more memories.''
But that hasn't stopped the Sugras, of Salisbury Township, from remembering their son, who died days after his 30th birthday. For the past four years, the family has held a golf tournament in Bill's honor and raised more than $55,000 for local charities.
''Being able to focus on the positive and helping needy and disadvantaged people has given us strength,'' El said.
Lynne Feldman, a mental health coordinator for the Pennsylvania Sept. 11 Network of Victim Assistance Program, said people handle grief in different ways depending on where they are in the recovery process.
''Some will want to stay at home and remember by burning a candle and others may want to visit a place of faith or be part of a public situation,'' she said. ''Each individual has to figure out how to mourn that loss.''
The Sugras and Crowthers said they started charitable foundations in their loved ones' names as a way to bring forth light from one of the darkest days.
''It helps with the pain and the loss to know you're working toward a good cause,'' Feldman said. ''I think to move on, some people need to find meaning in all this chaos, whether it's getting more in touch with the person they lost or starting a cause that was important to them.''
The Crowther family started the Welles Remy Crowther Charitable Trust to perpetuate their son's desire to help others, Jeff Crowther said. While cleaning out his son's apartment after his death, Crowther found fistfuls of quarters in every coat pocket.
''Why did he carry around so much change?'' Crowther asked Welles' roommate.
''So he always had money to give to the homeless,'' came the reply.
The family has bought musical instruments for needy children, donated money to the Smile Train, a nonprofit organization that provides free cleft-palate surgery for children and established two scholarships in Welles' name at Nyack High School.
''It's part of the healing process,'' said Crowther. ''It helps to know we're bringing good out of evil.''
Keeping a focus on that day
For the Russos, formerly of Phillipsburg, the past five years have been particularly difficult, said Arlene Russo, because the ashes of their 37-year-old son, Wayne, and others who perished in the World Trade Center, remain at Fresh Kills Landfill in Staten Island, N.Y. That's where the material from the towers was trucked and sifted for identifying body parts and bone fragments. When forensic experts exhausted the rubble, 1.8 million tons of ash was bulldozed to a 40-acre section of the dump and covered by a foot of dirt.
WTC Families for a Proper Burial, to which the Russos belong, is suing the city to have the remains moved to a more respectful site. Of the 2,749 people who died in the towers, no trace of 1,210 people has been found.
''They say time heals all wounds, but this is as fresh as the day after it happened,'' said Jeff Russo, Wayne's cousin and a lawyer in Phillipsburg. ''Maybe it's more acute because five years have passed and our loved ones remain in a dump. … I think a necessary part of the grieving process is taking solace that your family member and other victims have received a dignified burial, and that hasn't happened. For us, the grieving process is essentially stalled.''
Arlene Russo doesn't relish the media spotlight, but it's one way to honor the memory of her son, who worked as an accountant for Marsh & McLennan Cos., and keep the tragedy of the day in the public consciousness.
''I don't ever want it to be forgotten,'' she said. ''People have a tendency to move on with things if they weren't involved. It hurts every day. Five years ago he was alive. The Saturday before 9/11 we were at Yankee Stadium. He gave me the camera and said, 'Here, take a picture of me.' Three days later he was dead.''
Pete Dwyer, who worked as a bond trader at Cantor Fitzgerald and lost a nephew in the attacks, still recalls the roar of the second plane as he watched it plow into the South Tower, the body parts in the street and the earnest faces of the firefighters as they drove past him toward the flames.
''Nine-eleven is always with me, I'll never forget it, but I don't live it,'' said Dwyer, now retired and living in the Poconos. ''I have to go on.''
He wishes the city felt the same way.
''I can't believe it's been five years and there's still nothing down there. It's like, build a building. It's not a cemetery. It's a piece of real estate,'' he said. ''I'm fed up with all the hype. It's like 3,000 people died for nothing. They're not bringing it back.''
Welles would agree with Dwyer's sentiment, Crowther said. ''He'd say, 'Put it back the way it was and make it one floor higher.' ''
Controlling his destiny
Crowther won't be at Ground Zero for Monday's ceremony.
''I'm going to try and make this a normal day,'' he said. ''It's not a lot of fun going down there. It's pretty tedious. I'd rather go to work and move forward with life.''
But he also knows that his son's final hours at ground zero were his finest moments.
The family knew little of Welles' whereabouts after he left a message on his mother's cell phone at 9:12 a.m. to say that he was OK. But after the towers fell, Alison Crowther's maternal intuition tingled with a belief that her only son was gone. In March, rescue workers found his body alongside firefighters and emergency workers beneath the earthen ramp of the South Tower.
''Police said there had been reports of two civilian ushers who helped evacuate the lobby area,'' Crowther said. ''They said, 'We're pretty confident your son was one of those civilian ushers. He probably saved hundreds of lives.' That was a great comfort to us.''
Then, in May 2002, an article in the New York Times chronicled the story of how a tall, young man wearing a red bandanna rescued several women from a darkened, smoky stairway in the South Tower. ''Follow me,'' he had told them. ''I know the way.''
Welles had been a volunteer firefighter, like his father, and he always carried a red bandanna in his back pocket. His father carried a blue one.
''This could be Welles,'' Alison Crowther said.
The couple immediately sent photos of their son to the two women quoted in the article.
''That's the man who saved my life,'' said Ling Young. The other woman, Judy Wein, said the same thing.
Through those words, Welles' legacy was born.
''I know that in the last hour of his life he wasn't trapped under debris or in terrific pain,'' said Crowther. ''He was doing what he wanted to be doing. He was using his skills as a volunteer firefighter to save lives. He was the master of his destiny.''
Then opening the top few buttons of his Oxford shirt, Crowther reveals the red lines of a tattoo above his heart.
Nineteen. |
