September 11, 2001
I have never written about this before. Even after all these years, September 11 remains difficult for me to talk about, and I still can’t bring myself to watch many of the memorial ceremonies. The memories are simply too painful.
About a month before September 11, we went to dinner with Jason and Sandy. During dinner, our conversation turned to dying. Jason said, “I want a band and a party.” We all agreed that none of us would want a sad event. We would want a happy celebration of life.
Little did we know that, in less than a month, that conversation would become a reality.
That morning, my ex-husband and I were packed and ready to leave for Greece on vacation. Then my mother-in-law called to tell us that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. We turned on the television, and as we watched, the second plane hit.
My sister was a United flight attendant and was on duty that day. As the news continued to worsen, we struggled to comprehend what was happening. I remember saying, “We need to unpack our bags. We aren’t going anywhere.”
Because my sister was on reserve, I immediately pulled up her schedule. I was relieved to see that she was safe, on a plane about to take off in Sacramento. Then we began calling all our friends.
When we called our good friend Jason Dahl’s house, a mutual friend and neighbor answered. He told us that Jason was on Flight 93.
Jason was a United 757/767 instructor in Denver. Every so often, he had to pick up a trip to remain current, and this was the trip he was flying. His wife, Sandy, was also a flight attendant and had traded him into the trip, leaving the paper trail that confirmed his flight number.
The day before, September 10, I had left Jason a message on his cell phone while he was commuting to Newark. He was planning a surprise anniversary party for Sandy that Friday. I told him we wouldn’t be able to attend because we would be in Greece, but that we would get together when we returned.
We never got that chance.
Our phone rang constantly that day. Friends and family were checking on us because we both had careers with United, and two United airplanes had been used in the attacks.
Once we learned what had happened, we went to Jason and Sandy’s house. For the next two weeks of our vacation, we spent every day helping Sandy navigate the unimaginable—canceling credit cards, getting affairs in order, gathering information, and helping in any way we could.
Sandy had given me Jason’s little black address book, and I began calling the people listed in it to gently deliver the devastating news that Jason was the captain of Flight 93.
A few other close friends joined us as we planned Jason’s memorial service and a gathering afterward at their house. I called the people in his address book to make sure they knew the details and could attend.
I remember calling a retired pilot friend of Jason’s. We both cried as I gave him the grim news.
There was so much to process.
I drove Jason’s truck home from the Denver employee parking lot. He had a little lunch left over—half of the grapes were still in the baggie. He also had the newspaper’s advertising section, with a piano circled. He had been planning to buy one for Sandy for their anniversary.
I cried the entire 50-minute drive, knowing that Jason would never drive that truck again.
At the same time, we faced the painful process of collecting Jason’s DNA and completing extensive paperwork to assist the FBI investigation alongside Sandy. My heart hurt so badly for her and for his son, Matt.
For those two weeks, we did not turn on the television news at Jason and Sandy’s house. We wanted to protect Sandy from the constant images and coverage of the devastation. Our focus was on her, on Jason, and on helping the family get through everything that had to be done.
But when we went home at night, I turned on the television and watched the news. Finally, I let myself cry.
Something else was happening to me during those days. The grief and trauma from the airplane crash I survived in 1989 came rushing back. It was as though the events of September 11 had opened a door I had kept closed for many years. The sadness and anxiety came over me in waves.
I was trying to be strong for Sandy while carrying my own memories and emotions from another devastating airplane crash.
It was one of the most painful periods of my life.
And yet, when I think back on that time, I also remember the way people came together—friends, family, coworkers, strangers, first responders, and an entire nation trying to help one another through something none of us could have imagined.
There were so many stories like Jason’s. So many lives lost. So many families forever changed. Behind every name was a person who was loved, a family waiting for them, plans that would never happen, and futures that suddenly disappeared.
September 11 was an incredibly painful time for our country. But it was also a time when we saw extraordinary courage, compassion, and unity.
I will never forget Jason.
I will never forget Sandy.
And I will never forget those who were lost and the families who have carried that loss for 25 years.
We remember. We honor. We will never forget.
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