9/11 Twenty Five Disappointing Years Later

 

Never forget. After the attacks on September 11th, 2001 those two words were weaved into American culture. As graphic images surfaced, Ground Zero became the most documented event at the dawn of the digital age. "Never Forget" lifted a demoralized city from the ashes and was instrumental in uniting the nation. With the compassionate response of hundreds of thousands of first responders and volunteers, the human impact was overwhelming. Over time, the phrase diminished as the nation retreated into opposing corners. Twenty five years later, the forgotten slogan is trending for a few days, but do you recall when 'Never Forget' had far greater significance?

Unlike most, September 11th began for me before sunrise in Red Hook, Brooklyn. From across the harbor, Lady Liberty and the twin towers reflected on the calm waterfront in the dark. The glowing torch and skyline after last call marked the end of yet another great evening, as that Monday and Tuesday was part of my "swing" or rotating days off within the NYPD.

Four sluggish hours later, loud conversation was heard a floor below as family commented on the smoke escaping the north tower. The world watched as reporters questioned if the incident was pilot error. At 9:03 a.m. when the second plane struck the south tower, I remarked "I should get in the shower and get to work." During the shower, memories surfaced of prior conversations with officers from the Crown Heights riots of 1991. A decade earlier, uniformed personnel- deployed with riot gear in the summer heat- were kept on duty for three exhausting days as the community burned. While getting dressed, New York media was broadcasting a mandatory mobilization of the entire NYPD. This was the last city wide mobilization ever transmitted via analog airwaves. By 10:28 a.m., that broadcast technology would be permanently destroyed with the collapse of the north tower.

Living near the station house in Coney Island and being one of the first of the 4 p.m. to midnight shift to arrive, I was immediately assigned to backfill day shift officers who were dispatched to Manhattan on a commandeered a city bus. In one of the most surreal days on patrol, I was deployed to Bensonhurst, Brooklyn for a street evacuation at the busy shopping district on Bay Parkway and 86th Street. 

As the greatest national crisis in living memory was unraveling, some deranged copycat decided to place a suspicious package on an elevated train. The shoebox sized foil wrapped box with exposed wires and a timer was placed in the motorman's front car. While waiting for an obviously busy bomb squad unit, the handful of uniforms were tasked with creating a crime scene below along the commercial strip. Evacuating shoppers, rerouting traffic, bus routes and diverting pedestrians from the frozen zone was an enormous shorthanded undertaking. I'll never forget pointing to the train above, trying to persuade Asian shopkeepers to roll down their gates and go home on a beautiful clear day, while ashes from the world trade center only 8 miles away fell on my uniform like large snowflakes.

After clearing the fake bomb, many uniformed personnel were reassigned to secure subway infrastructure in Brooklyn until well after midnight. Throughout that first day, the media chillingly documented dozens of victims hanging outside, then ultimately jumping from the smoky structure. Reporters also mentioned the possibility of thousands more victims trapped on melting floors above both impact zones. Later in the day, World Trade Center building 7 also collapsed. By the end of the sixteen hour shift, many cops in Brooklyn South signed out of work feeling tired, angry and only somewhat effective.

September 12th was also a surreal day. With only a couple of hours sleep, I grabbed the keys to my Jeep, my work ID and a disposable camera and raced into Manhattan. A handful of private first responder vehicles sped along the usually gridlocked but now empty Brooklyn-Queens Expressway over the Brooklyn Bridge. From the expressway, the towers that once anchored the skyline were prominently missing, and on another crystal clear day, an equally tall plume of smoke had taken the place of the former stainless steel and glass structure. 

 

Before the arrival of heavy machinery and blow torches, the initial days at ground zero were distinctively different from the years that followed. First responders somberly formed multiple bucket brigades from the perimeter, weaving up and around the wreckage like tributaries of water, removing loose debris and listening for trapped voices while fires burned below. Stepping atop one hundred stories of steel, twisted like shoelaces and compacted into only a few floors above ground was a sensory overload. Soon, the senses would become more tested after realizing the low rate of survival. With limited protective gear, rescue crews excavated thousands of buckets of debris including the incinerated and decomposing remains of nearly 2800 victims. Even in the first hours, there was little optimism on site, but at least there was a very tangible feeling of participation.

After maintaining this two-borough schedule for a few days, I encouraged other despondent colleagues to join. Thinking back, so many officers assigned to the outer boroughs felt ineffective as smoke still hovered over lower Manhattan. Many cops felt underutilized, while thousands of others were ordered into the hot zone to witness some of the worst atrocities of their lives. Ironically, some officers could never put on a uniform again, while others only felt useful being on the pile instead of diverting traffic a borough away.

Climbing onto ground zero in the barely lit dark, after 14 hours on one's feet was a hard ask, but about a dozen co-workers obliged, including two close friends Bobby and Frank. With site experience, I was able to provide guidance as the three of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the pile. At one point while stressing the need to walk clear of sidewalks, a large pane of glass came crashing down like a guillotine from a neighboring skyscraper. The sound of thick shattering glass in the dark was terrifying. One firefighter was severely injured as a jagged floor-to-ceiling office window was forced loose in the night winds. I will never forget how falling glass stopped the bucket line as rescuers checked on each other. During these short breaks, the three of us would sit on a beam while awaiting the buckets to start moving again. Firefighters soon organized amidst the confusion and remedied the broken windows surrounding the site. 

After a week, the detail was more organized. With lower Manhattan still closed, nearby Stuyvesant High School became the mobilization point for the NYPD. By then, the job began seeking volunteers and rotated personnel, despite maintaining 12 hour shifts without days off. There were still ample opportunities to assist, but manual labor slowly took a back up role to  bulldozers which moved far more material quicker and safer. The Fire Department would transition more into recovery efforts while the NYPD and the US Army maintained the lower Manhattan checkpoint and the security of bridges and tunnels citywide.

During the years of recovery Bobby, Frank and myself would volunteer in and around ground zero during regular days off or on a double shift. Often, we would relieve each other at security posts in the Brooklyn tubes one stop from Manhattan. Initially, cops  carried their own folding chairs positioned into the dark tunnels to monitor personnel and deter suspicious entry. Subway cars pushed and pulled the distinctive smell of combined smoke and decay into our faces for months. The same odor hovered over ground zero and as far away as Chinatown, raising concerns for residents returning to the area. Political leaders, including President Bush and his Environmental Secretary Christine Whitman encouraged residents to return, citing dishonest government administered air quality tests. Mayor Giuliani also endorsed the findings while urging New Yorkers to get outside, spend money and keep the economy moving during the accompanying economic collapse.

Despite the treasonous air quality reports, 'tunnel posts' became a desired overtime assignment as climate controlled, bullet proof security booths were constructed. Without the rigors of standing in the weather half the day, cops jumped for the cozy assignment. The task was more challenging than it seemed overnight, but public support made the duty easier.

The concept may sound fictitious, but after 9/11 the public was uniquely supportive for a small slice of history. Strangers would often say, “thank you” or knock on the booth glass with a cup of coffee or a cold soda. Volunteers gathered outside Stuyvesant High School waving flags and applauding uniforms as we approached the pit. Even NYPD brass encouraged cops to “use discretion,” instead of the usual “zero tolerance” strategy that would eventually metastasize and erode the public's trust. 

What also metastasized was the renal cancer slowly leeching into Bobby's bloodstream. After noticing a spot of blood in his urine,  a routine test in 2007 turned into an emergency kidney removal the next day. I'll never forget being assigned to the hospital for emotional assistance while Bob recovered from surgery.  That cold and windy evening, we watched the Superbowl from a small tube television mounted in the corner of his hospital room. 

Robert Zane was a warrior who fought hard through treatment and recovery. Growing up in a large Brooklyn-Italian family of all boys, he learned tough love early in life. Bobby showed bouts of progress while friends and family raised funds due to gaps in health coverage and federal funding. Throughout his struggle, Bobby remained a role model to everyone in his periphery. When Robert Zane passed on May 12th 2009 he left behind a 2 year old son and a 2 week old daughter that he had the privilege to hold while in the ICU.

Officer Zane's experience encouraged many  officers to register for the WTC Health Fund. The annual cancer screenings were thorough despite some administrative hurdles. With the assistance of NYPD unions and Celebrities like Jon Stewart, comprehensive no-cost medical treatment was enacted. Meanwhile, the rate of sickness increased for exposed first responders and lower Manhattan residents. Physicians reminded participants that cancers can take decades to develop, particularly on the skin. Nearly seventy scientifically linked strains of cancer would afflict victims, including pancreatic cancer. That illness took years to develop in Frank, but the disease devastated him in eighteen months.

Retirement treated Frank well for many of his post police years. A confirmed bachelor and a predictable man of routine, Frank spent time playing poker, cheering for the Yankees and Jets, and became a dedicated caregiver to his elderly parents. He quietly started every day with a large cup of coffee and slowly read the local newspapers from the sports section backwards. 

In 2018, after mentioning back pain during a Florida vacation together, Frank was given a death sentence. With an empty, hollow gaze after diagnosis, Frank discussed one of the worst ironies of pancreatic cancer. Most patients never know they're sick until feeling back pain, but once the pain is felt, its often too late.

Frank likely jeopardized his health in the early days of WTC recovery, often performing double and even triple tunnel shifts. Because of his seniority and polite and quiet demeanor, Frank was given overtime preference to increase his pension at the end of his career. After 9/11, recovery workers and residents were only encouraged to consider primitive personal protection nearly two decades before Covid. 

Despite some of the best oncology treatment in the nation, Frank eroded after diagnosis. Though weak, he always kept his faith and his head up, even after moving in with his brother's family for full time care. During his final days in hospice, Frank lifted his frail, bedridden body and sat upright during our last visit. The gesture was a clear indicator of the honor and integrity Frank possessed. 

Sadly, Frank Gagliano died during the Covid lockdowns on May 13th 2020 at 54 years old. I will never forget the dignified treatment the NYPD provided despite difficult social distancing mandates both inside the funeral chapel and at the burial site. Frank's family respectfully replaced names on a strict bereavement list in order to allow my presence for services. 

Since September 11th 2001, more than 9,000 people have died from illnesses linked to the attacks and the aftermath. The figure is more than three times the number of lives lost during the attacks. Even today, studies suggest the incidence of diagnosis among first responders and residents exceeds cancer levels found in control groups.

Unfortunately, despite the assurance of lifetime comprehensive coverage under the 9/11 Zadroga Bill, the quality of services today have been compromised by greed. What was enacted as post exposure cancer screening has effectively morphed into a federally funded pay-per-visit compensation scheme. The administrative angle that currently victimizes former first responders is neither concise, comprehensive or no cost. Prior to any 9/11 Health Program visit, a lengthy phone interview identifies the patient's well being and offers counseling. At the clinic, staffers attempt to verify the patient's primary health coverage and again offer counseling. When reminded that services should be free, Mt. Sinai staff back pedal then cautiously proceed.

In the past, patients submitted routine blood work for cancer screenings, then were directed to radiology for a full body scan. Follow up visits were scheduled as needed. Staff were very accommodating and attentive in the early days of the program. 

Peering behind the 25 year old curtain, one can see the program pivoting toward a greater share of compensation dollars while services degrade. 

Body scanning has been reduced to every other year and the blood screening is no longer routine. For example, prostate cancer screening (one of the 9/11 linked cancers) is initiated through a simple blood test for high risk patients. At the same time, the WTC Health Program no longer sends the blood THEY'RE ALREADY TAKING for the test. A problem easily fixed by checking off a box on the lab request. Instead, Mt. Sinai will happily schedule a second visit (often three months or more in the future) to meet with a urologist to determine if the recommended test is needed. Staff will then bill for the unnecessary follow up visit, a second blood draw, and added lab work- all for a co-pay and deductible if patients provided their coverage. Patients can then spend hours challenging the billing error later.

In order to get a program referral for a specialist, patients have to persuade the gatekeeper physician and hope the referral is made that day. Otherwise, any phone or email follow up languishes and likely goes unanswered. In my case, dermatology referrals (the most documented cancer in the 9/11 program) were botched three out of four annual visits. One year, a raised and discolored new growth did not persuade the initial clinician for a referral. The dermatology department performed the follow up with gatekeeper approval after six failed months of coordination. This year, after 5 emails and approximately 15 missed calls (despite detailing the best times to contact) the double billed urology runaround has become standard procedure "as per" the Mount Sinai Program Director. Instead of months of anticipation and inconvenience, I've given up on the program entirely. They still regularly call at inconvenient times and offer online webinar counseling.

Medical analysts know a declining cancer population and attrition have decimated program reimbursement. Now, the healthcare machine seeks to embrace the lucrative counseling model. Here, a far wider net of PTSD patients can be treated with very low overhead and none of the liabilities of medical malpractice. Descendants of survivors and those never exposed may also seek treatment while the hospital seeks reimbursement.

Even a fraction of the unacquainted 9/11 population can be a funding source for medical providers. Those generations who could 'never remember' now equal 100 million Americans. The same population is further hindered by a generation of educators too young to teach from experience.

And then there are the lawyers.

If the strategy of medical providers seems questionable, the separately managed 9/11 Victim's Compensation Fund has become shadier. What started as compassionate assistance for devastated 9/11 families has been co-opted by personal injury law firms. Working within a legal framework, lawyers currently swing for hundreds of millions of funding still on the table. Make no mistake, the program was very necessary, particularly for those afflicted that were lied to about air quality. Despite the few responders that still certify, the advertising push to recruit from "undiagnosed conditions" is simply unethical. There is little justice for a model that benefits from the compensation of people who were never near the site. And if Covid taught us anything, it's that fraud is more prevalent than Americans ever anticipated. Moreover, profiting from the souls of thousands that gave their lives is disgraceful.

Souls like Gregory Reda. Greg left a goodbye voice recording to his wife and kids from the smoky floors above the impact zone before being incinerated. Horrific stories like Greg's fed the ambitions of recovery workers, hoping any of the 18,000 body parts recovered might provide closure.

Beyond the tearful memory of both friends lost in the towers and others who I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with on the pile, I can never forget the reflections that persist. Reflections that nearly 100 million Americans cannot remember. Most in the demographic were born into a divided nation, falsely taught that the American flag is a political statement instead of the unifying symbol proudly displayed at ground zero. Today's population is further hindered by a generation of educators, misguided under the same partisan veil; also too young to teach from experience.

Today, at 54 years old (The same age Frank was when he died.) I persist in decent health, and without a care in the world. What higher power allows me to live and why? How is it that a childless, foul mouthed, thrill seeking man of leisure can live effortlessly when far better men have seen the face of God? Is the universe fair to encourage such great experiences in the shadows of ground zero, or is survivor's guilt the penalty?

Twenty five years later, and every glance of a plane sailing through a blue sky triggers the vision of impact. A psychological scar that will never go away. Nor will the scar diminish by paying some suit a contingency fee after compensation. Every glance towards the missing link in the skyline is a sad reminder that life is forever changed. No architectural replacement will ever be suitable. But I never forget.

Never forget those that sacrifice their lives helping others, whether in uniform or not. Never forget that every day above ground can be an opportunity to assist in small yet meaningful ways. Respect what you do. Do it with purpose, and never forget that there are others working very hard to take our great way of life away from us.