Mom’s Last Lesson
The brother of a Pentagon victim writes about his family’s decade-long journey.

By MARK S. GETZFRED, NY Times, September 8, 2011

My brother Larry was killed on Sept. 11, 2001.

A Navy captain, he was in the command center at the Pentagon when the aircraft flying American Airlines Flight 77, at that point literally skimming the ground, slammed into the building at 9:37 a.m.
As a family, we lost a bit of our provincialism, our naïvete that day. We no longer felt safe in America.
Don’t misunderstand; we were aware of the dangers. All five of my older brothers served in the Navy — from the Cuban missile crisis to the gulf war, a Getzfred had been in uniform. Only myself and my younger brother had not. Three made it a career — Larry with about 40 years, Bill with 35 and Ron, 21. We just didn’t expect the danger to hit so close to home.

Ten years later, I can’t sing “God Bless America,” the song that was played at Larry’s funeral, without choking up.

As a family, we have become more vocal in our feelings. My nephew Dan recently got into an argument with other college students who questioned the need to assassinate Osama bin Laden, the terrorist behind the attacks.

We have also become more cynical and more questioning of authority, particularly our elected leaders; we can be quick to criticize, and slow to compliment. My oldest brother, Robert, while acknowledging the accomplishment of killing bin Laden, forcefully reminded a reporter for The Omaha World-Herald that it did little to bring Larry back.

And we worry that the solidarity that Americans had after 9/11 is being lost as the memory of that day fades and the country seems to fracture along political and class lines. My brother Ron won’t let the anniversary pass without taking photos to work as a reminder to co-workers, even as they weary of his efforts. “I will never forget,” Ron says, and he simply wants them to do the same.
As brothers, we are closer than we were before the attacks, partly because we know how suddenly someone you come to take for granted can be taken from you. We’ve learned that the scars of that day will define us only if we let them.

That was probably the last lesson my mother taught her six surviving sons. Her life also ended on Sept. 11. She wasn’t in the twin towers, the Pentagon, or the planes that were hijacked. She was home in Elgin, Neb., three hours northwest of Omaha, on the edge of the Sandhills.

On that day, my mother lost her favorite son — and her will to go on. Though she would live for five and a half more years, she would never recover. She sat in her living room, in front of the television, and crocheted or quilted. Around her, pinned to the curtains, or taped to the wall, were tributes to Larry, a shrine that did little more than deepen her sense of loss. Eventually, dementia would overwhelm her.
Larry had been her sounding board since Dad died in December 1972. My brother Jim may have been the one to fix her faucet or her roof, but Larry was her chief counsel, even though he hadn’t lived in Elgin since 1963, when he joined the Navy. She often started her sentences, “Larry thinks ...”

It was hard for her to understand how the attacks could have occurred on American soil. She would repeat to herself, “But there’s no war going on.” Each September, she would replay that day by watching the memorials on television, and cry.

“I just want to see what happened to him,” she would say. In her mind, she was waiting for the Pentagon to call about his status. But by this time, she had dementia.
I think I understand my mother’s struggle a little better today than I did then. Looking back, you realize that moving on after 9/11 wasn’t easy. The wound was deep, in part because we watched friends and family die right in front of us on live television. And then, just as quickly, we were caught in a time loop, helplessly waiting for some closure while rescuers combed the rubble for victims and as those fatal minutes out played over and over.

As I watched the Pentagon burn that day, I knew that Larry was dead. From the look of the fire and the building, it was unrealistic to think anything else. And I was editing articles about the attack on the Business Day copy desk, watching the news and talking to family members. Yet I couldn’t stop hoping, no matter how irrational it was — that he had just been hurt and wandered off, or was in a hospital somewhere, alive but not yet identified. Perhaps, if I dialed his cell, he would answer.

After the attacks, memorials came in waves — a public service at the Pentagon, a private service at Fort Myer near Arlington National Cemetery, followed by memorials in Nebraska, in Connecticut, in Maryland, at the Naval War College in Newport, R.I. Finally, a funeral in Illinois after Larry’s body had been identified.
And then we had a choice: dwell on the loss, or find a way to move on. For my brother Bill, that meant throwing himself into his work (he was also in the Navy, with a wife and son who demanded his attention). Each of us married a strong woman who wasn’t afraid to help us pick up the pieces and move forward. Still, there were frustrations.

For me, anger was a release — for a lot longer than it should have been — and that anger was caused by feelings of helplessness. My wife, Liz, came to sense when those emotions would surface, and, usually with a comment or two, could back me down. “Stop being so critical,” she often said. “Maybe they just made a mistake.”

A friend, Steve, counseled me to stop being angry all of the time, saying, “It gets in the way of living.” Afterward, I was often embarrassed by how irrational I had become.

I also started to do things in a rush — everything, no matter how minor, needed to be taken care of, now. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

The anger led to tremendous lows, and I could roam aimlessly. I once ordered a cup of coffee at a Starbucks and when it came time to pay, the barista handed it to me and said, “Take it — you need it worse than we need the money.” I left without saying a word.

Controlling my emotions is a work in progress. Flashes remain.

For Larry’s wife, Pat, moving ahead meant leaving the protective bubble that had enveloped her. “You have to go on,” she reasoned. “There’s something else you have to do with your life.”
So began a progression that included taking over the family finances and overseeing the maintenance on the house and the car, as well as becoming chief counselor, disciplinarian and cheerleader for her daughters, Larissa and Kristina. Larry’s death shifted the family center; he had been the instigator, the team captain who made sure everyone was involved.

Ten years later, Larissa, 22, is finishing a degree in psychology at American University; Kristina, 21, is completing a degree in elementary education at the University of Alabama. And like most students, they are wondering about the job market.

Only a handful of their friends know how their father died. “I introduce it on my own time,” Kristina says.
The day was so traumatic that people “react more strongly” when they find out, Larissa says, something that she would just as soon avoid.

Pat is also thinking about the next phase of her life, possibly working with families and children.
Larry and the Navy can still dominate the conversations when my brothers and I gather, which, despite the efforts of Betty, Jim’s wife, isn’t as frequent as it should be — distance and work are the excuses. Ron is in the South, I am on the East Coast, Bill is on the West Coast, and Jim, Bob and Darrell are in the middle.

Cellphones, e-mail and Facebook have made it easier to stay in touch. So has sibling rivalry of the next generation. The 72 photos of a family outing that are e-mailed by my niece Megan on Sunday night are followed a day or two later by a like number from her older sister, Sara. You can’t help but join the conversation.

The last reunion was more than a year ago, at an alumni banquet of Pope John XXIII High School.
I usually come away from those gatherings inspired by my brothers. In Ron, I find an incredible optimism that things will always work out, and that laughter is a cure-all; in Darrell, a confidence that you have to trust in yourself; in Bob, a relentless passion for your beliefs; in Bill, the idea that hard work will pay off; and in Jim, the realization that family is above all.

From Larry, I have taken away the idea that the world is what you make of it.

When I was young, he would come home on leave and talk about the places he had seen and things he had done. He had the photographs to back it up. He helped me see beyond the corn and soybean fields that encased Elgin.

Inevitably, around the anniversary of the attacks, reporters will call with questions, and our responses will reveal a Midwest pragmatism that life must go on, no matter how tragic that day was.

We will also tell reporters that while Sept. 11 should be a day to honor those who died in the attacks, we should not forget the more than 6,000 Americans who have been killed since then while fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq.

As for those questions about the direction of this country, well, perhaps a code that Larry lived by can offer, or at least a hint at, a way. As a naval officer, Larry tried to put the interests of the men and women in his command ahead of himself and his needs.

The idea seems so simple.

Mark Getzfred is a deputy weekend editor at The Times.