Ironically, I was out of the house all day, at the 9/11 clinic, where we continue to be assessed for the physical damage that may or may not have been caused by prolonged exposure to the toxins thrown up by the blasts, and the fires that continued for months.
So I was in a 9/11 state of mind, for the physicians always go over everything about that moment you learned the Tower -- Towers -- had been / were hit, what you did, where you went, immediately, thereafter, and then the days and weeks afterwards. I hate this process with all my heart. El V has to force me to go these check-ups and appointments, which he insists I do, as I've developed a mysterious cough and shortness of breath subsequent to (note -- I am NOT saying consequent of -- still too soon to know) the 9/11 event, days and weeks and months thereafter.
So I hadn't heard a thing about this terrible, bloody event in Boston until unlocking my door, when my neighbor -- who also, needless to say, went through 9/11 as well -- rushed to ask what I thought, and then told me what had happened. As it turns out a close friend of hers was at the Finish Line when it happened.
I have nothing else to say. But it was a weird day, consumed with images and memories of catastrophe, bewilderment and numbness. For us, at least, at our stage of life, 9/11 is a huge demarcation of our lives' before and after, and not only for us personally, but for our neighborhoods, for our City.
And then -- this news.
The huge difference is that the emergency rooms and services were all primed, ready and waiting to do their work. There wasn't any. There wasn't even any blood.
In Boston today there is a great deal of blood, a great deal for the EM tams and Emergency Room team to do. Too much to do.