Sense Memory

Today, I stopped at a favorite cafe to get an iced coffee after I dropped off EJ. I don't normally indulge in expensive coffees given our financial constraints, but I was feeling just a little bit sorry for myself.

The day was absolutely beautiful, and I had no real reason to be down, but I had just battled a four-year old for what seemed like eternity (and was likely 20 minutes) about whether or not she had to wear a sweatshirt on the playground at preschool. It is as warm as summer today---glorious, in fact---but this morning, it was still cool, especially in the shady area where the kids play. She started asking, "Can I take this sweatshirt off?" before we left the house---over, and over, and over---and after I had answered her, "I don't know yet, honey, we'll have to check the weather," enough times to ensure that she wasn't simply forgetting what I said, I did the exasperated-mom thing, saying, "That's it, I've answered you, take a minute to think about what I've already said---you have the answer---and DON'T ASK AGAIN." I didn't yell, I was simply, well, emphatic. Sigh. Not a best moment for either of us.

See, the fights over warm clothes aren't new, and they are just plain tiring. She has been coat-averse since the fall, and this morning, I thought I was tricking the system by putting a sweatshirt on her--a sweatshirt doesn't have a zipper, or buttons, or even look like a coat. She was not falling for my not-so-slight of hand, though---a warm layer is a warm layer, whether it be coat or jacket or sweater or sweatshirt. Suffice it to say, great frustration ensued for both of us, and while she did refrain from asking me again in our own home if she could take her sweatshirt off, before we even got out of the car at school, the barrage began again. It took a deft preschool teacher stepping in as EJ stomped and huffed and generally played up the downtrodden-drama as much as she could to turn the situation around with the promise that, in ten minutes, EJ could take that hateful sweatshirt off. What the teacher omitted, of course, was that they were going back inside in 10 minutes. Genius. I walked away having not really won the battle, but at least escaped it. Bless that teacher.

So there I was, feeling a little weary and more than a little silly about actually getting worked up about a sweatshirt, when I drove the car over to the cafe, ordered an iced coffee, and tried to turn the ship around. I chatted with the kind staff, many of whom remember me from the hours I spent at that cafe working on my master's capstone. I felt a little cheerier.

Before I could leave, I heard a familiar sound---a helicopter almost directly overhead. My first thought was that it must be Flight for Life, given that I was near tall buildings and a big open park, both of which might be good for emergency helicopter landings. I stepped outside, and I could see the large, open-bottomed, orange helicopter with a rope and hook hanging from it moving about, definitely not a medical helicopter. I found out later from a friend who also witnessed this that the helicopter, an S-63 Skycrane, to be exact, was delivering a chiller to the top of a building. Even without knowing this at the scene, though, I realized thankfully that this must be something far less life-threatening than a critical injury.

I should have been reassured, but I felt panicky, and my stomach started to twist. I regretted having the acidic coffee, and wanted to get home to drink a big glass of water and eat something very bland. I couldn't put my finger on it---I think helicopters are cool, I had seen how particularly cool this one was, and I was on my way home on a sunny day. I couldn't shake that tense feeling though, especially in my gut.

About two minutes into my five minute ride home, it hit me. 9/11. That was it. Not 9/11, specifically, but the early mornings/late nights for weeks following 9/11, being awoken in our little townhouse in Arlington less than a mile from the Pentagon by the sounds of helicopters almost directly overhead. Or jets. Or some manner of military flying machines. What I remember about them was that they were loud, they were close, and the presence of them, instead of saying "you are safe," seemed to say "something could be out there." Having not lost a family member or close friend in the bombing, our trauma was nothing compared to others, but in an odd turn of events, I had received the call that my uncle had died unexpectedly that morning in Denver only minutes before the first building was hit, and was on the phone trying to make plans with my mom when we heard (and I felt) the Pentagon strike. It was certainly enough personal and national tragedy to leave a lasting memory.

It was the days following that, though, with the ominous overhead flying, that I remember as being particularly terrifying, especially as we sat stuck on the East Coast, unable to join the rest of my family for the funeral. Waking to the sound of something right above you, circling, patroling, policing...but maybe, what if it isn't a US helicopter? What if it is...no, go back to sleep, it is just precaution. Yeah, that is what my body felt today when I heard that helicopter, and that was the memory my poor stomach was chewing on when I couldn't get sips of my coffee down.

As soon as I'd identified this memory, I could let the physical feelings of it go. That was done, I was fine. I pondered how the body is such an amazing thing, as it tells us (especially when we can't quite figure it out through thinking, alone) that the balance has been upset, but also, when it has been reset and restored. I thought about how far we'd come as a family since 2001---how 9/11 was before we had EJ at all, before we were in grad school, before we imagined we'd be here enjoying sunny days in Hyde Park. I thought about how much I know my uncle would have loved my daughter, and that made me happy, not sad. As quickly as I had felt anxious, I suddenly felt calmer than I had all morning, and started to chuckle to myself about the sweatshirt debacle. "So much nothing to worry about," I said aloud, then laughed at how strange a phrase that was.

When I picked up the kiddo from school, it was short-sleeve weather. I grabbed her discarded sweatshirt, handed her a snack and we headed to our little garden. We then went out for a little lunch, then after that, walked under the warm sun with the breeze in our faces to get some ice cream. We indulged together, and I thanked God for every moment of the day, sweatshirt and all.