I’ll never, for the remainder of my life, forget what I saw on my TV screen the morning of September 11th as I was eating cereal in my apartment in Dublin, Ohio. I was watching the news waiting for word about weather and traffic. I was going into work late… can’t remember why. A straight-faced news reporter was talking about a plane that had struck the World Trade Center. It was burning in the background and replays of the tragedy were beginning to air. As she was talking, behind her head the 2nd plane struck. She didn’t see it coming, but her audience did. I did. I have never seen fear like that on anyone’s face. The reporter lost all emotion and was terrorized. Panic. What the hell just happened?! What the hell is happening?!
That day was like no other. That week. That month. That year.
Before September 11th I loved to fly.
Now. I. Hate. It.
I leave for Ohio a week from Friday. Straight flight. No stops. Two and a half hours. For the last 2 days I have been praying so hard for safety. I tell God it’s ok with me if I go to Heaven. I’m not worried about me. I worry about my children. My kids would be devastated to lose me. My husband would be shattered. Their lives would never be the same. Ripped at the seams.
Flying gives me anxiety. I am not comfortable with any of it. Airport security or not. I hate to fly. I have to prepare mentally and just grin and bear it during the travel. I immediately start thanking God as soon as we land.
My flight home is the same. Straight. No stops. Two and a half hours. I should be home by naptime on Sunday as long as there are no delays.
I can’t wait until I get home and I haven’t even left yet.