Twenty-five years later — stories from New York

It’s been 25 years but feels like not long ago at all.

The late Dr. Sam Gladding and I were asked by the Disaster Mental Health section of the American Red Cross to help develop the death certificate process in New York City right after the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. This process was necessary because a death certificate is typically not provided without a body. No death certificate means no insurance benefits or other monies for the families of the deceased. 

At the pile, to become known as “Ground Zero,” there were no bodies. Office furniture, drywall, computers, and people were mixed with an avalanche of concrete and steel from 10 million square feet of vertical office space — a 110-story skyscraper and its identical twin — a scene of total and absolute destruction. 

In addition to the constant loop of Ground Zero shown on CNN and the continuous smoke that lasted until December of that year, numerous peripheral buildings were destroyed or damaged, including the 48-story Building 7.

Sam and I flew to New York City on Sept. 14, just the two of us on a DC-9 to LaGuardia, flown gratis by U.S. Airways. We also were the only two people in the terminal and the only ones on the road en route to headquarters in Brooklyn.

Late each night, after 16-hour days, we walked through an empty, dark Times Square. All the shops and restaurants were closed, sidewalks and streets empty. I remember peering into a souvenir shop with postcards depicting the World Trade Center, enormous skyscrapers that no longer existed — in 102 minutes they were no more.

Communication was difficult. Blackberries worked, but those new things called cell phones did not. It was frightening for lots of people because no one seemed to be in charge and those of us taking charge had little means of connecting with other helpers and authorities. There were constant rumors of more attacks, particularly from highjacked planes from overseas.

We set up a family assistance center (FAC) at Pier 93 on the Hudson River. Sam and I processed 1,013 families and trained other mental health workers to complete our work once we left. Several stories are burned into my synapses. Twenty-five years later a few stand out. I’m not sure why — they just do.

The New York Police Department assigned officers to assist us. The one I worked closest with had an arm in a sling and bandages on his neck and head. He shared that he was hit by body shrapnel from people jumping from the towers. The jumpers’ alternative was to be combusted by 2,500-degree heat and ultimately pulverized or jump.

One morning, two sisters approached the death certificate area of the FAC. They had lost their husbands, each working in a different tower. One sister was pregnant but did not want to be; the other was not pregnant and wished so much that she had been. This type of contrasting trauma among the bereaved was observed over and over.

Another situation included a woman, a wife and mother, who lost her husband and her only child, a son. She lost her entire family to a weaponized passenger jet.

A wife in her mid-30s had been crying for days, her face swollen and broadcasting a lack of sleep. She entered with an infant in her arms. My typical first response was, “Tell me, who did you lose?” Her husband worked at the top of Tower 2. I remember we shared a cup of coffee, and I connected her with resources and services.

A mother had flown 15 hours from Korea because her son who worked in a restaurant in one of the towers was missing and not responding to messages. When she got to the death certificate area she simply passed out. We placed her in a wheelchair and processed her son’s death certificate when she awakened.

The State of New York released attorneys to report to our center and assist with the death certificate procedures. Each family member had to bring in DNA as part of the evidence. Underwear, hair brushes, and toothbrushes were most effective. We placed these items in zip-lock bags with identifying information and assigned the family to one of 140 attorneys working with us from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. I was alerted to one lawyer who was in the bathroom crying. I went in and saw him leaning over a sink. When I patted him on the back, he lost it. I wetted some paper towels, wiped his face, and told him we appreciated his help, but this work was not for everyone. I sent him home.

The City of New York arranged for a Navy gunner boat to take families down to Ground Zero. We took 30 people twice a day to leave a note or card, lay flowers, and to say goodbye right where their loved one died. Oklahoma City sent us crates of stuffed animals left over from their traumatic event. We handed out teddy bears as they boarded and talked to family members as we went down to the pile. When the families approached via a plywood walkway, it became deadly silent; the first responders stopped working, faced the families, and held their helmets over their hearts.

There will always be an anniversary. Six months, one year, five years, 25 years. Today, I’m thinking about the 3,000 children who lost a parent on Sept. 11, 2001, and the over 100 children who never saw their fathers.

Dr. J. Scott Hinkle is a Licensed Psychologist who has lived in Haywood County for 15 years. He received his Ph.D. 40 years ago from Florida State University. After working as a college professor for 15 years, he was an international mental health trainer in Asia, Africa, and Europe for 20 years. He has presented at conferences worldwide including in Bhutan, Australia, and Argentina. In collaboration with the Mercy Corps, he trained Lebanese therapists in Jordan to work in Middle Eastern refugee centers.  He was contacted by the American Red Cross to help manage the Family Assistance Center at Pier 93 in NYC on September 12, 2001.