Remembering the Trauma of 9/11

In the August 14 issue of the newsletter, we introduced you to the new AAFS Vicarious Trauma ad hoc Committee. Our committee aims to be of service to the entire membership of the AAFS by introducing resources that can help members cope with the trauma we see every day. The goal is to build resiliency and thrive in our careers. 

In remembrance of 9/11, this week includes an article from Criminalistics Fellow Brian Gestring, MS, detailing his personal experience.

Reader discretion advised:

This article details the painful memories of one disaster response team member from the September 11 attack on the World Trade Center.

Forensic providers' work is critical but often comes with a hidden cost. There are systems in place to treat victims of physical trauma, but the needs of those who are exposed to the trauma of others (e.g., vicarious trauma) are often overlooked.  

It's reasonable to think that suffering trauma is worse than being exposed to it, but that was not my experience. Twenty-three years ago, I was part of a disaster response team from the New York City Medical Examiner's Office who responded to the attacks on the World Trade Center. Shortly after arriving at the scene, the South Tower collapsed. My last memory was running and trying to dive under an FDNY ladder truck before it all went black. To this day, I don't know how I survived. Many that weren't far from where I was standing did not. 

I was found unconscious by the North Cove Marina and was evacuated by a New Jersey State Police Boat to Jersey City. I had a significant head injury, a gash on my hand down to the tendons, and somehow managed to screw up my leg. I needed several surgeries to put Humpty Dumpty back together again and pull all the glass and metal out of my eyes. But I was lucky. I survived. It was a long time before I recovered from the physical injuries that I sustained that morning and, like many others, there are some lingering issues I will be dealing with for years to come.

While I will never forget the level of pain that I endured, the physical pain was not the thing that bothered me most. Before the Towers collapsed, we were walking through what would soon be called Ground Zero. When you live in New York City, you grow accustomed to a certain level of background noise. That morning, it was eerily quiet. Above the low growl of diesel firetruck engines and the occasional squawking of a responder's radio, all you could hear was tinkling from the falling glass shards punctuated by loud thumps that sounded like exploding water balloons. Those loud thumps were the jumpers. Falling from such a great height, they were simultaneously hypnotizing and horrifying.  It was impossible not to watch them. It felt like I made eye contact with several, and as I did, their horror was transferred to me.

Even as the hospital tried to remove my contact lenses around the embedded glass and metal in my eyes, I could not get the jumpers out of my brain. Over the years "Never Forget" has become a slogan to remind people of the horrors of that day. For me, I don't need a slogan. I will take those jumpers to my grave.

I've never written about that morning. It's uncomfortable. We're not in this line of work for the money. We do what we do because we care. When I saw things I couldn't unsee, the caring cut both ways and left deep and lasting wounds that don't have visible scars.  

As we are collectively exposed to more and more horrible events from individual atrocities to mass casualty incidents, we must, as a profession, learn to recognize the risk associated with vicarious trauma and learn how to take care of our own.