9/11 Reflections: Mike Rubin
On the last morning of his life, Mark Schwartz was staged with Hunter Ambulance between 1 and 2 World Trade Center. My son, Rob—then a New York EMT, now a Tennessee paramedic—was a few yards from Mark when the South Tower began to buckle. The two rescuers separated as they tried to outrun falling steel. Rob was the lucky one; his head, back, and broken leg have healed.
My friend Larry—a paramedic and NYPD officer—drove from his Queens precinct, “the 113,” and reached Ground Zero soon after the North Tower collapsed. He would have arrived earlier had he not encountered a shooting and traumatic arrest—not unusual for Jamaica, even on days when skyscrapers don’t implode. Larry worked many shifts on the pile until December. He’s as healthy as anyone old enough to be his father.
I wasn’t there with Larry, Rob, or Mark. I missed that bus. I wouldn’t know what a churning cloud of pulverized office space looks like or what sounds bodies make after free-falling 100 stories. And my organs haven’t been compromised by carcinogenic debris. When terrorists took down the Twin Towers, I was 50 miles away in a makeshift command center, safe from gravity and burning jet fuel. I did fill in for an exhausted crew a week later at the world’s most famous crime scene, but my biggest challenge was using a porta potty without a flashlight.
That embarrasses me. It always will.
My job on 9/11, and during the eight days that followed, was to track WTC victims arriving at area hospitals. It was a logical assignment for me. As supervisor of medical control for Suffolk County, I had access to the right people. We spoke with each other hourly because texting was not yet a thing. Human voices were as comforting as they could have been in a world that would never seem the same.
Keeping tabs on survivors turned out to be much simpler than I’d expected. Also useless. Most of the injured had either perished or walked away. My biggest contribution was spelling names right.
Staying behind as other medics responded was hard. I wish I could have found a better way to help. I’ve thought about that a lot. I suspect many of you have, too.
We’re an odd breed, EMS people. Scene safety and PPE are pounded into our heads as priorities from day one, yet we tolerate tons of risk. Our employers are complicit; they look away as long as we break rules efficiently. I know Rob and Larry understand those things because we’ve talked about them. I’m not sure what Mark thought. I can’t imagine discussing that with his family.
To the rest of you who were there, do you wish you weren’t? I haven’t heard that from anyone, but perhaps stoicism gets in the way. Were there horrors you try to unsee? Again, I wouldn’t know. I’ve had my share of memorable calls, but none with buildings falling on my head.
Some of you who weren’t there feel as guilty as I do. You’ve told me so. I could write more about that, but let’s be honest: No one should give a shit about us no-shows. This is a time to remember those who served. The rest of us have to make peace with our choices. Here’s what I learned: Be bold when SOPs don’t cover ballistic airliners.
If showing up is 80% of success, as Woody Allen suggested, then Mark, Rob, and Larry are golden. So are a thousand of their fellow responders. Some were far away when the towers fell; others were too close. All showed up. We remember them on 9/11 by telling their stories. We can honor them on other days by not missing the next bus.
Mike Rubin
Paramedic, Nashville, Tenn.
