Eight years ago today I woke up early to the sound of nurses frantically talking in the hallway outside of my room at Tucson Medical Center. I could tell immediately that something was wrong. I heard one of them say she had a friend that worked in downtown New York and was worried. Another mentioned that her husband called her and told her what he'd seen on the news. I grabbed the remote control next to the hospital bed and flipped on the TV, just in time to see the second plane smash into the twin towers. I sat in shock for a moment before waking up Ken (who was sleeping soundly on a fold out couch next to me) and telling him to look at the TV screen. We watched in disbelief as people jumped from the top floors of the towers in a desperate attempt to escape the fire and heat. Every few minutes a new report came in detailing the attacks that had taken place in New York, as well as in Pennsylvania and at the Pentagon. When the nurses came in for the routine blood pressure checks, they seemed stunned; their voices hushed and movements slower than usual.
At the time I was 3o weeks pregnant with Alan. Because of severe bleeding and early contractions, I was hospitalized a week before. After tests were run, doctors discovered I had placenta previa. I was given shots to help develop Alan's lungs, in case he arrived prematurely. They put long, tight white socks on my legs to prevent blood clots and told me that I'd be staying for a while. Friends and family brought modeling clay, cross stitching, and drawing pads to keep me busy during the long hours in bed. Ken came every day after work to stay the night in the hospital with me and to push me around the hallways in a wheelchair. Sometimes, he'd even sneak a pizza slice in from my favorite pizzaria.
Two months before, we'd won an all expenses paid trip to Catalina Island. We'd never had the time or money for a honeymoon, so we were both estatic about the upcoming vacation. A stipulation on the prize was that there could be no date changes. We would be flying out early in the morning on Sept. 11th. As the getaway date approached and I remained hospitalized, I realized with disappointment that our vacation wasn't going to happen, yet I felt blessed that I was getting the medical care needed to keep Alan from arriving too early.
As Ken and I watched the devastating news early that morning, we talked about a lot of things. One of topics was that we felt fortunate that we hadn't gone on vacation. We knew that we'd be in flight at the time of the first attack and would probably end up stranded at LAX as all the confusion and chaos of the morning unfolded around us. We felt blessed to still be in Arizona, close to family and friends.
We finally turned off the news and Ken headed to work. I sat quietly and listened to the sounds of the hospital, thinking about how how my first baby would be born into a world that had suddenly changed; a world that didn't seem so safe anymore. I remember feeling terribly sad for all the victims and their families and angry at the hate-driven terrorists.
Over the next few days as I watched the country and other nations respond with strength and volunteerism, altruism and compassion, I realized that my son would be born into a world that was still filled with hope. Through word and deed The Savior promised, "I never said it would be easy, I only said it would be worth it." I knew that as long as my son knew this to be true, he could have hope too, and that was all the comfort I needed.
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