I was holding while the duty nurse at Riverside Methodist Hospital tried to find my mother. No one was answering the phone in his room because he had into a coma a few minutes before my call. At the same time, I was holding on with our travel agent, trying to get tickets for a flight to the US from South Africa or to New York via London. CNN was playing on TV with the sound down, across the room.
As my mother picked up the phone, I immediately told her that I was fighting to get a flight the following week. She was very distraught and told me that he stopped responding to her a few moments before and appeared to be in a coma.
I was angry for not listening to my wife. Her area is cancer research. She told me that Dad's doctors probably were wrong and that he wouldn't last three months. She had begged me to book a flight and see him the week before. But, I had a speech and an exec ed thing and "what difference will one week make?"
My memory is very hazy. As I tried to calm my mother, CNN broke the program with the urgent news about an accident at the WTC involving a plane, which was identifed as a small passenger plane at first, as I remember it. They began showing live footage of the fire which appeared to be not too serious at first. With the sound down low, I couldn't make much sense of what I was seeing. It was so unexpected. Anyway, a fire wasn't as important as my Dad in a coma.
After calming my mother a bit and letting her get back to Dad. I got into a full blown argument with the booking agents who could not get me on a flight for more than a week. I hung up threatening to move our business if they couldn't get it done.
Hanging up I walked toward the TV to turn up the sound. As I reached for the remote control, the second airplane hit the towers.
I actually don't remember much after that except walking outside to stand by my pool and try say some prayers for my father and the people on the planes and in the towers, while my two-year-old tagged at my trousers saying, "Gampa, Gampa, see Gampa?" Everything just seemed surreal. My Dad. The attack. It couldn't actually be real. I had spoken to Dad two days before and he was to be discharged, what happened? It is all a blur to me now.
It took me two weeks to get into America to bury Dad. We were detained for eight hours in a 6' x 4' room in Johannesburg because our luggage had been checked through from Cape Town and the rules wouldn't allow us to retrieve it. Our baby formula and bottles were in the luggage. It was hell, people fighting for seats on planes. Two ladies in Atlanta pulling each others hair and screaming. Trying to keep enough baby formula and diapers at hand during the journey.
My biggest memory is that these bastards had robbed America of its happiness. It's hard to remember now that America was an extremely happy place at the end of the 1990s. The national debt would be paid in a few years. The e-commerce revolution was in full bloom. When I had left after my last visit, America was smiling, when I arrived to bury dad, no one was smiling. People didn't even greet one another in shopping malls in Columbus, but rather just passed in great sadness.
To this day, I am most thankful that Dad never saw the attack on America. He was a patriot and war veteran of the Charleton Heston mould.
As I type these words I am overwhelmed by the feeling that this ugly time will pass. America will eventually be victorious in the war against terrorism. And these terrorists will see that all that they thought they might accomplish through violence has come to naught, whether in this world or the next.