Tell Them to Never Forget

As told by…

Gary Smiley, NYC Paramedic

Part Two

I thought about my son. I had lost my own father about a year and a half earlier, and I’m lying there trapped beneath this ambulance thinking, I’ve been doing all this crazy stuff for my job all these years and now…I got myself killed. My son’s father just himself killed. And apparently there are tapes of me screaming for help over the radio, but, thankfully, I don’t remember much of it. But I do remember that my thoughts shifted, and I remember thinking, Dad, if you're out there, you've got to get me out of here. And that was the last thought I can remember before they pulled me out. I asked my father, “Dad, if you’re out there, please get me out of here. I don’t want to die.” And I guess my dad had something to do with it, because I was in the kill zone, I was sixty feet from the base of the north tower. And you know most of the people around me were killed.

They pulled me out from beneath the ambulance and took me to a triage area for treatment, but I remember saying, “I’m not going to stay here, this is insane. I’ve gotta go back to work.” And they were like, “Don’t you realize you were just crushed underneath a truck?” And it was at that point that the second tower fell. And people were running around saying the craziest things. Like I remember the emergency services cops were saying that we were under attack, and they had bombed the white house and the empire state building, and that they were shooting rockets at us. I remember one cop saying they were shooting rockets at us from the Woolworth building which is over like twenty blocks away, and I mean you were like, what the…it was just total insanity.

I was so hyped up on adrenaline at the time that I didn’t realize the extent of my own injuries. I had inhaled large quantities of cement and gypsum, and I had suffered crush injuries, and it wasn’t until I started turning blue and was told that I looked like he was going to die that I realized the seriousness of my injures. I gave in and agreed to be transported to Long Island College Hospital. And one of the ER nurses saw me come in on the stretcher and broke down hysterical because she thought she was seeing a ghost. She had already been notified that I had been killed.

Within a day or two my kidneys began to fail. Shortly after that my overall health began to deteriorate. I developed severe sinus problems, and lesions formed on both of my kidneys and my spleen. And but for an excellent hospital staff and a wonderful man named Dr. Stephen Levin, I might not be here today. Dr. Levin, Occupational Health Specialist at Mt. Sinai Medical Center, took me on as a patient and saved my life. He really took care of me. Oddly, despite all the junk I inhaled, my lungs were never affected. Dr. Levin believes that genetics played a part. He told me, “Genetics said your lungs are not going to be bothered, Gary, but other parts of you will be.”

And he was right. I suffered with severe sinus problems. I was living on antibiotics, and I was constantly sick. Going to sleep at night was always a challenge. I couldn’t breathe, and I would freak out, and I couldn’t sleep. I used to have terrible nightmares. I would wake up screaming. But Dr. Levin made sure I got proper care. He started me on anxiety medications, and in 2009 I had a five-hour sinus surgery at Mt. Sinai. The left sinus had completely solidified. The doctors rebuilt my sinus cavity, rebuilt my septum, they took out some turbinate, basically they fixed me and I have been sick only a few times since.

I still suffer from insomnia. I just don’t sleep well anymore. It’s just something that I’ve learned to live with. And about once a year I have a very petrifying day where I go to the hospital and get my kidneys scanned. I inhaled buildings, and people, and everything else I should have never inhaled, and now I’m paying the price. I also have blood sugar issues, and problems with my pancreas and liver, and my memory is no longer sharp, but overall I’ve been maintaining okay. My life has normalized to some degree. I keep on track, I watch what I eat.

I remember my son saying to me when this all started, “Daddy, I’ll just give you one of my kidneys.” I guess I must have done something right. There were times in the first few years when I just wanted it to end, it was just too painful. The only thing that kept me going was my kids.

You know, as I look back, there’s no explanation. For whatever reason I’m still here. My partner, Danny, and I survived, but a lot of the guys who stayed in the AMEX Building with Danny were killed when the second tower fell. And you know, to this day I believe that if I had stayed there I would probably have been killed too. I used to go through a lot of problems saying, “I got these guys killed.” I mean after all, I was the one who suggested we set up there. But they kept telling me, “You didn’t kill them, Gary. They were there too.” I guess everybody made tough choices that day.

So, I eventually lost 27 people that I knew very well. About four or five that were very dear friends of mine, and that still haunts me today. But a good thing happened in 2007. I was picked in the lottery to be one of the readers at the 9/11 Memorial. I got to read the names of the firefighters, EMT’s and paramedics we lost that day. And I got to read my friend’s name—Jimmy Coyle. And that was a real honor. It was a big closer for me. I got to say goodbye to my friend.

A Day of Disaster

As told by my friend Mitchell Stern

"The Shark"

Retired NYC Paramedic

It was September 11, 2001. The air felt crisp, and the drive from one side of Staten Island to the other was absolutely fabulous. I remember thinking about the onset of fall. Soon the leaves would be changing. It’s favorite time of year. As I had done every day for the past month, I arrived at the store at 5:00 am, fired up the grill and turned on the coffee to get the morning started. My new restaurant, Uncle Mitch’s Kitchen, was quickly becoming a popular spot, and soon my regulars began to arrive. Like me, they were early birds. After a 24-year career in EMS, I was used to getting up early.

“Good morning,” I said as my customers began to arrive. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Gonna be,” one of my new friends said. “Let’s get that coffee going, Mitch.”

“Way ahead of you,” I said pouring from the freshly brewed pot. We stood around and chatted for a while. I served a few breakfast orders and told a few jokes. We were just beginning to discuss the Giants’ upcoming season when the phone rang. I glanced at the clock as I was reaching for the receiver—8:50.

“Mitch,” my wife said. “You need to turn on the television.”

“Which channel?” I said reaching for the remote.

“Any of them,” she exclaimed. “All of them!”

I turned on the TV, and for the next fifteen minutes we all stood in silence and watched the scene unfold. Smoke and flames poured out of the tower. Emergency crews were arriving in droves. I felt a rush of adrenalin as I tuned the radio to 1010 WINS in hopes of gathering more information. The reporter added some details and said that fire and police requested all retirees and available personnel to report to the closest firehouse for mobilization. I had recently retired from EMS, following a 24-year career. I had done my part, but I knew in my heart that I had to go back.

“That’s me,” I said turning to my waitress. “Hold down the fort.”

“What?” she said glancing at the customers. “Where are you going?”

I tossed her my apron and pointed at the television screen. “There!”

I flew home, not stopping for lights, stop signs or traffic. All I could think of was getting to Manhattan fast. I still had a job to do. My wife was waiting for me when I pulled in the driveway at home. “Here,” she said handing me my uniform and equipment belt. “I figured you’d be needing these.” I donned the uniform and turned on the portable radio I had received as a retirement gift from the FDNY Communications Commissioner. I turned to the Special Operations channel for PD and heard the craziness that was on the air. A massive evacuation was in progress. Firefighters were going in. They needed more units.

“What’s happening?” my wife said. “Can’t the fire be contained?”

My wife kissed me. “Be careful,” she said as I was jumping back in my car. I waved goodbye and raced toward Manhattan. My mind raced ahead of me. Some sort of plane had hit the tower. What in the world was happening? What would they ask me to do? I realized there would be danger, but I had no concept of the destruction that lay ahead. I was pumped up on so much adrenalin all I could think of was getting there. I was on the Gowanus Expressway approaching the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway tunnel when my cell phone rang.

“Are you crazy?” my brother-in-law exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to help.”

“But, Mitch, you don’t do this anymore, man. Let them handle it.”

“You don’t understand,” I explained. “I worked with these people. I have to be there.”

A Port Authority Officer waved me through the tunnel. When I came out the other side I saw road barriers already in place, and an area set up for construction personnel. Guys in yellow helmets were standing around waiting. Apparently this was a huge undertaking. They were mobilizing for the worst.

I parked my car and trotted a few blocks to the to the unified Command Post on the first floor of the North Tower. The street was littered with concrete and glass. People poured from the building, but I saw a line of firefighters humping hoses and other equipment, walking the other way, going in. I glanced at the smoke-filled sky. It seemed so strange to see the top of the tower on fire. The destruction was obvious, but I still got a feeling the worst was yet to come. A mass casualty incident was about to take place. I ran inside the building and found the Incident Command Chief.

“EMS,” I said practically out of breath. “How can I help?”

“You a paramedic?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. We have a treatment sector set over on West Street. I need you there. Go!”

I exited the building and started toward West Street. People were running in every direction. Some wore uniforms, others civilian clothes. Police shouted orders, sirens wailed all around. Fiery pieces of debris showered down from above. I knew I needed to move fast.

I was running across the plaza toward West Street, dodging falling debris, when I heard a strange sound above all the din. I stopped and glanced at the sky. A large shadow flew dangerously low and fast. It seemed out of place in the sky above Manhattan. I knew what it was in an instant.

“No!” I shouted.

I watched in horror. The plane crossed the rooftops and plowed into the North Tower, exploding in an orange ball of flames that poured from both sides of the ruptured building. The shock wave knocked me down. My eardrums almost burst. I lay on the ground looking up at the building almost unable to comprehend what was happening all around me. Then the debris started to rain down, much more than before. Hot burning pieces of building and people fell from the sky.

“God,” I shouted jumping to my feet. “Run!”

I ran for my life with hundreds of other people.

“Those poor people,” I cried. “Those poor people!”

I made it to the West Street South corner in one piece. The injured were everywhere. I saw people burned and cut. It looked like a war zone. I spotted an ambulance and ran over.

“How can I help?” I said. “What do you need?”

“Set up triage,” the medic shouted. “Send us priority patients.”

I set up a triage area on the sidewalk beside that truck and began sorting patients. And the wounded came pouring in. Burns and lacerations. Inhalation injuries and broken limbs. It was like the emergency room on a busy Friday night, only worse. Chaos ruled. People were scared out of their wits. I did my best to keep myself together, but it was like trying to hold back a fire without water. There was no controlling the scene.

“You, sir,” I said to one man. “Your arm is broken, but you will have to wait. Help me with her,” I shouted reaching for a critical burn patient. “Let’s get her to the ambulance.”

And so it went, for what seemed an eternity. More medical personnel arrived, more ambulances and supplies, but so did the victims. It was overwhelming. In twenty-four years of emergency service I had never seen such a mess.

“Hey,” I heard someone shout. I glanced at the closest ambulance. A paramedic was leaning out of the back of the truck waving me over. “Hurry,” he said. “Burn victim, man. We need help!”

I ran over and jumped into the ambulance grateful to have a break from triage.

“What you got?” I said.

“She’s shutting down,” he said. “She can’t breathe!”

The victim, a middle-aged female dressed in a singed blue business suit, appeared to be unconscious. She lay on the stretcher with severe burns over her face and a large part of her body. Another paramedic sat in the captain’s chair holding a bag-valve-mask over her face attempting to ventilate her. Both of the medics looked like I felt, on the verge of panic.

“Have you tried to intubate her yet?”

“We tried,” the first medic responded. “We, neither of us, we couldn’t get it. Can you help us?”

“Sure thing,” I said trying to remain calm. I climbed around him, waited while the other medic moved, and then positioned myself at the head of the stretcher. The victim was barely moving air. It was obvious her airway was closing. “Hand me the laryngoscope,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”

I was just about to reach for the laryngoscope when I heard a low rumble.

“Oh, my God,” one of the men said. “What’s that?”

The ground began to shake. The rumble turned to a roar.

“The tower’s collapsing!”

I glanced out the back of the ambulance and saw a huge brown cloud rushing toward us. Thankfully, someone on the outside of the truck had the presence of mind to slam the back door. Then a tremendous wave of dust and debris poured over the ambulance and enveloped us.

I had thought we were far enough away from the tower. I had feared that it would tilt back where the plane had struck it, and that top portion might fall off, but the entire tower? The ambulance shook like a toy as huge chunks of debris struck us. I suddenly remembered my patient.

“Help me,” I shouted. “I need a number eight tube.”

I inserted the laryngoscope blade into our patient’s mouth past her tongue and lifted.

“Okay,” I said snapping my fingers. “I see her vocal cords.”

He placed a #8 endotracheal in my hand. I was just about to insert it into the victim’s mouth when I felt a tremendous impact. Something heavy hit the truck. The roof began to bend and collapse down upon us as if stepped on by a giant.

“Oh, my God!”

My helmet took most of the force, but my neck felt like a pogo stick being pushed down under the weight of the roof. At first I thought my neck was going to snap. The entire rear compartment was being crushed. I dropped the laryngoscope and lay down as best I could. The roof pushed down and finally stopped just inches from my face.

“Help!” I shouted. “Help!”

The other medic joined in. Several minutes went by before some firefighters removed the back door with a crow bar.

“We thought you guys were goners,” one of the men said.

“So did we.”

The patient’s stretcher was removed from the truck. We took care of her airway as best we could, but decided, that with all the dust and smoke we just couldn’t stay there any longer. There was too much devastation. Too much debris and confusion for us to continue working on West. We moved our operation into the American Express building and continued treating patients as they arrived.

As some point I glanced at my watch—10:59. Just over two hours had passed since I first received the call, but it seemed like eternity. My neck didn’t hurt, and I was breathing okay, so I decided to continue my work.

Hours later, after finishing triage and moving over to help with search and rescue on the pile, I decided to call it quits and go home. My uniform was covered with white and gray dust. My nose felt clogged like I’d been doing concrete work. I didn’t feel too bad, but maybe that was just the adrenalin still working, because my wife informed me that my speech sounded slurred.

“Something’s not right, Mitch. You need to go see the doctor.”

I made appointment with my personal physician, Dr. Tambour. He examined me the next day and sent me St. Vincent's for further evaluation. After numerous examinations and x-rays, it was determined that I had suffered multiple compressions of my cervical spine with a linear fracture of one of the bones. I was admitted and underwent surgery. I came out with rods in my posterior cervical spine, and a halo around my head. I spent the next three weeks in the hospital and was discharged on September 30th. I never received compensation and have since had many medical problems.

What started out as a beautiful day in Staten Island, ended for me, in disaster.