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Thursday, Nov 26, 2009
Ah, the Red Cross. At this point, I can't imagine cuddling up with anything associated with the Red Cross. Perhaps, like Mr. Feinberg, this well-meaning charity was overwhelmed with the fallout of this disaster. But I am still recovering from the incompetence and insensitivity doled out by the organization during the most vulnerable months of my life. In my darkest fury, I wonder if the generous financial help I finally received -- nowhere near Rall's $3.2 million -- was worth the enormous emotional strain it took to get it. Somewhere in this (attention Mr. Rall!) there is a cartoon:
On five different occasions, I met with many different Red Cross caseworkers, each of whom made me tell my story, from the beginning, and answer the same intake questions: How are you doing? Do you have a support system? Are you working? Are you seeing a therapist? How's the baby? And after each lengthy encounter, with teary eyes, the caseworker du jour would console me with a patriotically beribboned stuffed animal.
One caseworker wanted to perform another full intake when I delivered my husband's death certificate. When I said I had just attended my husband's funeral and didn't feel like talking, she perked up: "So how was the funeral?" Three other caseworkers wrongly assumed my Hispanic husband worked as a sweeper for the Port Authority.
In late October, I finally received a check, not the check. It was $21 for transportation expenses sent in a Federal Express envelope. In early November, a visiting caseworker declared: "What a beautiful Jewish looking baby you have!" In mid-November, I received another Red Cross check (again, not the check) in an envelope mistakenly addressed to my dead husband.
In the beginning of December, when a new caseworker called me, I asked her about the status of my family gift. She adamantly denied the existence of the entire Family Gift program. Weeks later, I finally received the family gift that had been promised in September, when my case was prioritized because I was widowed, seven months pregnant, unemployed and in immediate need of alternate housing.
Then, last week, the arrival of the six-month anniversary and the debut of the first 9/11 movie brought yet another wave of rage. Somehow, I am supposed to accept that my husband's death doesn't belong to his loved ones, that his death is a public spectacle that will be viewed by millions again and again. CBS said of its "9/11" documentary that, while it's not visually graphic, the movie allows viewers an opportunity to hear the "thud" of bodies as they plummeted to the ground. No doubt, Eddie's body made one of those thuds.
Why, oh why, do we unearth the graphic sights and sounds of the day, hold ceremonies before hundreds of cameras with ground zero the background in every shot? To make sure "the rawness" doesn't fade, according one CBS executive producer. This is a worthy goal?
On March 11, I woke up at 8:44 a.m. and rolled over so that I could be unconscious for the infamous 8:46 a.m. moment and the horrific memories -- real (mine) and imagined (Eddie's) -- of the minutes that followed. I canceled my therapy appointment and had a manicure instead. And whenever 9/11 entered my head, I banished it with a song I learned in my baby's music class: "A RamSamsam, a RamSamsam, googly googly googly googly RamSamsam."
A successful day, carefully plotted. But the night was ruthless. On a specially arranged Circle Line boat tour, called "Tribute in Light," victims' families were escorted around New York Harbor. The cruise was meant to be a kindness, but they allowed news teams on board. One reporter sat a row ahead of me, her microphone casually dangling nearby to catch my every gasp or sigh. I asked if she could move it; I wanted to toss it overboard.
The tour guide was incongruously happy-go-lucky, reminding us that the snacks are free: "It doesn't get better than that!" he says. Then, as we pulled away from the dock, he piped up: "Are you excited about this? You should be!" I wanted to toss him overboard. Do these impulses, ignited by grief, make me a monster?
