9/11 – Go Retire Psychiatrist

We took a walk this weekend on Scott Boulevard and eventually found our way to Fire Station No. 4. At first, we were struck by what looked like a real Dalmatian apparently sitting just inside the door. It was a pretty good sculpture. Just behind it was a large American Flag hanging on the wall. Below it was the title “Flag of Honor.”

One of the firefighters noticed us and welcomed us inside. He talked a long time about the Iowa City Fire Department and what they did. They responded to a lot of medical calls. In fact, those were the most frequent calls, fires not so much. He graciously answered our questions, including the one about The Flag of Honor on the wall. It’s to honor the victims and the heroes of the September 11, 2001 attack on America.

Later, I found out more on the web about the Flag of Honor. Over 800,000 Flags have been distributed across America. They’re in many places: public buildings, private homes, police and EMS stations, and firehouses.

I remember where I was on September 11, 2001. I was running up the stairs from the lower level to the first floor. I think I had just finished a psychiatric consultation and I was probably on my way to another one, or to my office. It was my usual routine. Like most general hospital psychiatric consultants, I was a lot like a firefighter, going from one urgent consultation to another, to the critical care unit, the emergency room, and others. My pager was like a fire alarm and off I would go.

I was on the stair landing just going up to the first floor. The stairs overlooked a lobby and the television on the wall was showing a video of one of New York City’s Twin Towers on fire, smoke all around it.

I stopped in my tracks and watched, not comprehending the scene. I can’t remember if the volume was high enough for me to hear the reporter. I don’t think it was. I just saw the fire and the smoke and at that moment I didn’t know what happened. That news I wouldn’t hear until later.

And then much later, in the summer of 2017, Sena and I took a vacation in New York City. Like many tourists, we saw the reflecting pools and Sena took a snapshot of me by the Callery Pear—the Survivor Tree.

The firefighter finally had to excuse himself, because there was somewhere he had to go, something he had to do.

He had probably been busy when we showed up, remarking on the Dalmatian which looked so lifelike, taking pictures of the Flag of Honor, asking questions about what Fire Station No. 4 does, listening to his answers, admiring his patience, his sense of humor, his sense of duty—and thanking him for all of it.

It has been a while since my last post. I’m hanging in there although sometimes it’s difficult to stay optimistic. I’m reminded of the Survivor Tree, the Callery Pear in New York City. You can easily google the story about this tree which somehow survived at Ground Zero after the 9/11 attack on America in 2001. We visited New York in the summer of 2017 and saw the Survivor Tree at the 9/11 Memorial & Museum plaza. It’s hard to believe that was 19 years ago. And now we’re dealing with the Covid-19 pandemic.

I’m still adjusting to my new identity as a retired person. I was reminded of that when I read the recent post “What is your Identity?” on 9/12/2020 by The Good Enough Psychiatrist. She’s resilient and optimistic, traits I admire. I tend to be rigid and pessimistic, especially when I have a lot of time on my hands.

I also need to get out of my head. It’s amazing how easily reminiscence can morph into rumination. Galloping all over the hospital as a psychiatric consultant distracted me from that habit. On the other hand, Sena and I reminisced the other night for quite a while. I was astonished at how much we both recalled about our 42-year long marriage and the adventures and challenges we’ve been through.

Our first house was a challenge. Shortly after we moved in, I had to try to mow the tall grass which had been neglected for a long time. I had to use either a scythe or a weed whacker. I honestly can’t recall exactly what I used but the scythe sounds more impressive, so I suspect it has crept into the story more for dramatic effect. It was a very hot day and my first encounter with my neighbor from across the street was his generous act of lending me his power lawnmower. He was a white man and, back in those days, kindness in that context was uncommon.

The only time I used a power mower other than at that house was when I went to Huston-Tillotson College in Austin, Texas. It’s now called H-T University. It was one of the historically black colleges in the country and I recall feeling a bit awkward there since I had grown up in largely white neighborhoods in the Midwest. Anyway, I helped mow the campus grounds. I guess “helped” might not be the right word, especially if you consider the perspective of the groundskeeper who was in charge of fixing the power lawnmowers I destroyed. I wrecked a few mainly because I kept running over rough, rocky ground. After I dragged the 2^nd or 3^rd ruined mower back to him, he stared at me and shook with rage. Mercifully, memory fails me at this point.

I’m realizing I could probably go on rambling like this for a good while. I guess that might mean I’m gradually adopting the identity of a garrulous old retired guy. I know that sounds pessimistic.

On a more positive note, Sena and I had a great time in New York City three years ago. We’re glad to have the memories. Sena is optimistic and resilient by nature. She’ll help me imagine brighter times coming in the future.