I can safely presume that I am far from the first or the only to think or write about what I am about to express. Yes, I am fine. I survived that day of infamy. Oddly and fortunately enough, so did everyone I know. Then as now, I cannot help but feel a sense of guilt--guilt for having survived, guilt for being largely unaffected by a day marked by horror, tragedy, then anxiety.

The fact is that I "survived" only because many other people in the same city died or remained missing after September 11th, not because I struggled to escape from the crumbling towers or their immediate vicinity. The fact is that I work in Times Square and live near the 59th Street Bridge. The fact is that even if I did work in or near the World Trade Center, I was at the periodontist's office in midtown that Tuesday morning. One of his assistants asked me at 9:15 a.m. whether or not I worked at the World Trade Center. I thought it was a most random question. Then she told me two planes had flown into the Twin Towers. Even then my subconscious disbelief translated into a conscious and momentarily flippant reaction. Not that I broke into laughter; just that I did not take the news seriously at first. Therein commenced my survivor's guilt. I went to work that morning nevertheless and left early afternoon. I went with a friend to donate blood, but no more was needed. I spent the rest of the day numbly dazed on the couch watching news on every channel, fielding phone calls and relaying messages among family and friends. Without much to mourn or to contribute in the confusion, I continued to go to work every day since Tuesday.

The feeling of guilt guided me to Union Square the following Saturday, hoping to fulfill an emotional vacuum. It was the first time since Tuesday I even traveled below 42nd Street. I strolled through the park, observing the faces, reading the signs, viewing the flowers, hearing the activity. I sat in the sun, trying to absorb the continuous mourning and remembrance. I wanted to engage but I was a mere tourist. At one point I caught a "missing person" sign posted on a tree with the picture of a father, his baby son in his arms. The missing person was Antonio Javier Alvarez, his birth date, May 12, 1978; I presume now that he is among the fallen. He and I shared a similar first name and the same birthday, only he was two years younger. His tragic story struck my heart, the first time it had been struck so intimately since Tuesday. Given the common threads that joined me and Antonio, I thought for a brief moment, why him and not me? He did not deserve that fate more than I do. So why him? It may have only been a momentary thought, but to wish for one's own death is rare, if not insane. Without an answer, I resorted to an empty feeling of guilt.

Although I understood from the beginning that life for me and death for the next person--say, Antonio--are determined by a higher power and not to be comprehended by any mortal, only now have I come to accept that reality, one that is ultimately inexplicable even through religion. For whatever reason it may be that I continue to live, I cherish that I live. But as I move on in life, I remain held back in thought. Given an evolved mindset, I still reflect on the days in and since mid-September. I was safe on the 11th. Further, I have been mostly unaffected by its consequences. I felt a sense of insecurity two days later when the president of my company informed us of bomb threats in other major office buildings in Times Square. But that fear evaporated in all of two hours. The Anthrax anxieties came and passed for most of us, but for me, it never really came. I have been taking Doxycycline, an antibiotic drug prescribed to me by the periodontist after surgery in October. Doxycycline, he informed me, also prevents Anthrax.

So life goes on.

My survivor's guilt

Life goes on...

...but a little differently

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