It seems almost unrealistic that nine years have passed since Muslim extremists slaughtered almost 3,000 Americans and citizens from other nations on the morning of September 11, 2001. Collin Raye has a song with the line “Jesus will forgive, but a daddy won’t forget.” I am neither a “daddy” nor am I male, nor do I have a relative who was murdered, but I won’t forget.

September 11, 2001 began as a routine day for me. I was on the floor of my living room, exercising. I heard radio host Hugh Hewitt state “thousands are going to die.”  My then naïve brain could not process what he was stating. I thought that somehow I had missed the anniversary of the first attack on the WTC.  It did not occur that we were dealing with murderers whose motto was apparently “if at first you don’t succeed (as well as you hoped), try again.” This time, they had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. The murderers and their handlers had wiped out a broad spectrum of US society, but mainly ordinary folks going about their business.  By the way, how is that “72 virgins for murder” deal working out, for the murderers, in their version of the afterlife?

This slaughter took us by surprise. We were in a war, but no one sent out a bugler or a text to let us know “cowardly Islamist terrorists have declared war on innocent citizens.”  My initial reaction, after the shock of seeing bodies coming down from the buildings, seeing the second plane hit, seeing the Pentagon attacked, was white hot anger.  I wanted to hunt down someone and make him pay. Instead, I turned into a fundraising machine, and a writer. I can safely conclude that those two activities saved my sanity. As long as my God grants me breath, I will continue to be vigilant and informed about the activities of those who are in the business of murdering the innocent, in order to satiate their lust for unlimited sex in the hereafter.

In the ensuing months, we all were New Yorkers.  China kept manufacturing those American Flags, almost as fast as the demand was for them.  Nine years later, the Flags are pretty much gone from the cars and houses. Soon, some in the media decided that the gory scenes from the massacre were to be removed from our sight. Had those sights lost their “if it bleeds, it leads” drawing factor?  It was time to “move on.”

The Financial center that was the World Trade Center was reduced to rubble. Nine years later, a fitting memorial to those murdered, has not yet been completed. In to fill the vacuum, are plans to build an Islamic mosque, two blocks away. A battle royal has ensued. Should the mosque go up, instead of appreciating the presumed beauty of the structure, I will view it as minaret pierced directly through the physical and psychic wounds of the survivors, the dead, and the families of the dead.  Some of us value human life, and do not “move on” that easily.  

Who were these folks who were thrust into immortality by some sex-crazed zealots? Who were the fortunate ones who survived? What has been their reaction to surviving while others perished? I decided to check with my friends to see if they could fill in some of the gaps. Joyce Romano led me to her cousin Mike Romano, who provided me with a powerful tale of survival.

 Initially, Joyce responded:

He was in shock and couldn't sleep for months because he had nightmares.  Wouldn't get on a plane, for at least a year or so.  He still feels the anxiety from it.  But to exorcise his demons, he's written a novel about the future and the results of terrorism, with a note of hope for a more peaceful world...  Amazon.com: Tomorrow's Savior (9781439249321): Mike Romano: Books

Then I heard from Mike Romano himself. I felt compelled to share his story as written:

My 9/11 Story

I work in the insurance business. My job in 2001 involved traveling to New York City to have business meetings with insurance agents. On September 11, 2001, I left my home in Hillsborough, NJ for lower Manhattan. As I drove to the train station in Harrison that day, I remember thinking what a great day it was for traveling. The weather was nearly perfect in New Jersey and New York that day.

As my train pulled into the World Train Center stop, I checked my watch for the time. It was 8:45 AM. I had fifteen minutes before my first appointment on William Street. I exited the train and went up the first escalator. At the top of the first escalator was a public restroom. Next to the restroom was a Port Authority Police substation.

I stopped in the men’s room before heading up to street level. While I was in the men’s room, I heard a large explosion coming from somewhere above me. The room shuddered and dirt and dust fell from the overhead air conditioning ducts. Everyone in the men’s room looked at each other and I remember commenting out loud that it sounded like a bomb. That seemed to get everyone moving. We ran from the men’s room.

At the same time, all of the police were running out of the Port Authority Police substation, and as I left the men’s room, I overheard a voice shouting on one of their walkie-talkies that there was a large explosion on the upper floors of the North Tower, with major injuries.

I went up the long escalator to the mall level and stopped to see which way I should go. To my right was the short escalator that I usually took up to street level. To my right and behind was the hallway to the towers. I saw people running toward me from that direction with looks of shock and horror on their faces. I knew that whatever happened had occurred back there, so I turned left and ran down a short hallway where I took an exit out into an alley on the side of 5 World Trade Center.

Once outside, I noticed a lot of debris on the ground. I started asking the people outside what happened, and someone said that a plane had crashed into the North Tower. I took a closer look at the debris, and I saw small pieces of the plane on the ground, along with other debris from the building.

I proceeded to the end of the short alley onto Church Street. I crossed Church Street and stopped in front of the Millennium Hilton Hotel, where I had a clear view of the towers, directly across from where I was standing. I saw thick black smoke pouring from the windows, roughly twenty floors from the top of the North Tower. My first thought was, “how are they going to fight a fire up that high?” At that point in time, the thought that this was an attack never crossed my mind. I, like everyone around me, thought it was an accident.

After about ten minutes, I started to become very uncomfortable. Something didn’t feel right. I felt that I needed to get away from the spot where I was standing. I decided to continue on to my appointment and decide what to do once I got there. I walked down Fulton Street, crossed Broadway, walked another block to the corner of Fulton Street and Nassau Street and stopped there. I turned to look back and saw that I still had a pretty good view of the towers.

It then occurred to me that I should try to call my wife. She knew that I was going to New York that day and this was sure to be on the news. I tried dialing her work phone number a couple of times but I couldn’t get through because the grid was overloaded.

I stopped dialing and looked back up at the towers. At that point I saw the second plane hit the South Tower. It happened so fast that I didn’t have time to react. I remember seeing the flash of the explosion and then feeling the shockwave, even though I was three blocks away from it. At that point, I knew it was a terrorist attack.

To give you an idea of what took place next, you have to imagine watching an old sci-fi “B” movie, where there are monsters or space aliens wreaking havoc in some city, and watching thousands of panicked people running in all directions. In those old “B” movies, you could see how phony it was, but September 11, 2001 was not a movie. It was real.

Upon seeing the South Tower hit, everyone, me included, began to run. I don’t even think we knew where we were running to. I heard people screaming as I ran. This was the only part of that day where I have a mental block. I remember turning to run. I also remember dropping my cell phone and then scooping it up before it fell down a sewer. After that, my next memory is standing in front of Pace University, near the Brooklyn Bridge. That’s several blocks away and usually takes five to ten minutes to walk to under normal circumstances, but it seemed to me to happen almost instantaneously.

There was true panic in Manhattan now. Both towers were burning out of control. Emergency vehicles were still pouring into the area. A woman had come out of the building I was standing in front of and she was crying uncontrollably. I tried to comfort her as best I could. Then someone else came out of the building who knew her. This person helped her so I moved on.

At this point, I began to realize the magnitude of what was happening. I also wanted to help. People passing by asked me if they could use my cell phone. I let them use it but it was useless. No one could get through. I was still trying to call my wife, but could still not get through either. I considered going back to the towers to see if I could help. I knew that the emergency first responders were going to be overwhelmed, and I wanted to do something to help.

I finally made the decision to get out of the neighborhood. This decision did not come easily. I had already begun to feel guilty about fleeing the site of the attack. This “survivor’s guilt” would stay with me for months afterward. I didn’t want to cross the Brooklyn Bridge. It was the wrong direction for me, there were thousands of people crossing the bridge by foot, and it occurred to me that the bridge would be a target if any more planes were coming in. What is interesting is that at no time did I break down emotionally. My emotions seemed to just “shut off”. I can’t explain how that happened, but it enabled me to keep my wits about me.

Since there was no way I was going to get back to New Jersey, I decided the best course of action would be to go to my mother-in-law’s apartment on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village. At this point, I was behind City Hall, still near the Brooklyn Bridge. I walked back to Church Street and then began walking north.

Finally, after walking roughly 8-10 blocks, I was finally able to get through to my wife on my cell phone. I almost casually asked her if she heard what happened. She was more panicked about the situation than I was. That was understandable considering that she was seeing it all unfold on television. Not knowing precisely where I was, but knowing that I was somewhere in the middle of that chaos, she began to assume the worst. I asked her to call her mother on a land line to let her know I was coming. She asked me where I was at that moment. I told her that I was still on Church Street. We spoke for another minute or so and then we hung up so she could call her mother.

About ten seconds after I hung up the phone, the South Tower collapsed behind me. I was far enough away that I was not engulfed by the dust cloud, but my wife didn’t know that. I only told her I was on Church Street, but I didn’t say where. I frantically tried calling her again but couldn’t get through. It took me about forty five minutes to walk to her mother’s apartment. By the time I got there, the North Tower had also collapsed.

Once in my mother-in-law’s apartment, I was able to call my wife from a land line to let her know that I was safe. I was safe, but far from okay. Now that I was out of immediate danger, my emotions began to come out. I didn’t cry or get upset. I became very anxious. My mother-in-law later said that I behaved like a “caged tiger”, pacing in the apartment.

Now I became irrational. I wanted to get out of Manhattan, by any means, regardless of the consequences. My mother-in-law tried to get me to stay. She had plenty of room where I could stay the night if I wanted. But I wanted out.

After a couple of hours, I saw on television that an emergency evacuation plan was implemented on the Hudson River. If I could get to the 34^th Street Pier, I could get a ferry back to New Jersey. Miraculously, some of the subway lines were still running, so I was able to take a subway train up to 34^th Street.

I waited nearly three hours in line, with thousands of other people wanting to get out of Manhattan. I finally boarded a ferry to Hoboken. When I got to Hoboken, the fire department pulled aside everyone who had dust on them, me included, and hosed us down to get the dust off. After that, I was able to get back to my car in Harrison, and drive back to Hillsborough, where I got home at approximately 7:30 PM.

The immediate crisis was over, but my ordeal was just beginning. After just a few days, I found that I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Loud noises bothered me. I could not be in any room with a lot of people. I became very nervous. I refused to travel to any big city. I refused to fly. Every time I saw a plane in the sky I’d watch it, to make sure nothing was going to happen. I had really bad nightmares for months.

I realized that I needed help. I went to post-traumatic stress counseling for nine months. The counseling ultimately helped me. I say “ultimately” because it did not help right away. It laid a foundation for me and put me on the right path to recovery, but that recovery would take years.

The emotional stress from my experience began to manifest itself in other ways. Within a few weeks after 9/11, my personality began to change. I became more outspoken, more opinionated than I ever was before. My marriage began to suffer. I began living every day as if it were my last. I reacted very angrily whenever 9/11 was mentioned.

I also dreaded each anniversary of the attack. Each year, as 9/11 approached, I would retreat into an emotional shell, something I still do to some degree.

Very slowly, I began to get control of my life back. The initial phobias that developed began to lessen after a year or so. My wife and I worked hard to resolve our marriage problems and we became a happy couple again. I took control of my emotions and began to calm down.

By 2007, it seemed that I had gotten as much closure as I was going to get. My personality had changed permanently, but it seemed that everyone had adapted to that, including me. I still had issues with the 9/11 anniversary, and I became angry when I began to hear people make general comments that 9/11 is old news now. I began to hear the phrase “move on” much more than I cared to. It seemed that people were forgetting. I know people who died that day. I saw people die that day. Then a friend helped me put it in perspective, when she said, “the only people who can fully understand the emotional impact of the attack are those that experienced it themselves.” That helped me cope with it better. Whenever I begin to get angry, I think of that phrase and it helps me calm down.

Then, towards the end of 2007, something very unexpected happened. I began thinking about all of the children who lost a parent on 9/11. I tried to picture in my mind what kind of people they would grow up to be with that tragedy in their past. What kind of occupations will they have? How will they live their lives? How will they treat other people? 

Out of those thoughts, I began to envision a man in his early 30’s, whose father died on 9/11, when the man was a child, roughly the age my son was on 9/11. I injected some of my post-traumatic stress into that man’s childhood, and the result was a character that I thought would make a very good basis for a novel. This character was not someone I wanted to be. He was a character that I wanted to respect.

So, I spent the next fourteen months writing about this fictional character. The title of my novel is “Tomorrow’s Savior” and it tells the story of a man named John Longo, who cares enough for humanity to do everything in his power to save it from self-destruction. The story takes place nearly thirty years after 9/11, and gives an interesting perspective of how humanity can find the silver lining in the cloud of that tragedy.

What was unexpected was how therapeutic the writing experience was for me. It gave me closure to 9/11 in ways I never expected. A lot of my strong emotions that stemmed from 9/11 were transferred to the characters in the story, and as a result, the story is very emotional. The result was “Tomorrow’s Savior.”

September 11, 2001 changed my life forever. I still struggle with the anniversary to a minor degree. I still occasionally feel a ping of survivor’s guilt. However, I feel that I’ve become a better person, a stronger person than I was before. It’s my hope that anyone who has had a direct connection with 9/11 can find their way through it like I did.

Mike Romano

September 3, 2010

I read through this riveting story twice, feeling as I were at Mr. Romano’s side, invisible to him, as he walked through experience on the day of 9/11. What is especially striking is how one can leave one’s home for a routine workday, and by nightfall, one’s life could be changed forever.  I am not ashamed to admit that I probably would have fallen to pieces. He walked through that valley of debris and dust, and survived.  It is for him, the other  survivors, many with physical, emotional and mental  reminders that will live with them forever, and  the murdered,   that we must keep September 11, 2001 in our hearts and memories. Sure we continue living our normal lives, but “forget and move on”? Never! Remember Who We Are!