(The following was written for the Sept. 20, 2013 issue of "NSSC This Week")
On September 11, 2001, the New York Fire Department's Ladder 12 Company was assigned to search the upper floors of the Marriott Hotel at the World Trade Center. While they were on the 18th floor, the first tower fell and all eight members of the company were knocked down.
Deciding to quickly head downstairs due to the severity of the collapse, leaving the bulk of their equipment behind, they reached the fourth and fifth floors and could go no further due to debris. That was when Lt. Philip Petti headed upstairs along with firefighter Angel Juarbe to recover their equipment -- in the hopes that it would help them all escape.
As they ascended, they received several mayday calls from a member of Ladder 4. Petti answered his fellow firefighter's call for help -- staying in touch with him even as they climbed the stairs.
Petti also kept in touch with his company as they searched for a way out. Both Juarbe and Petti collected their tools and headed up until they could go no further, continuing their search for the hurt firefighter even as they descended the stairs.
Unbeknownst to Petti and his fellow firefighters in the Marriott Hotel, Ladder 4 was assigned to the tower that had just collapsed, so there was no way they would have ever found the injured firefighter.
The other members of Ladder 12 and a few civilians continued looking for a way out. When they found a possibility, firefighter Michael Mullen started to head back in order to show Petti and Juarbe the way.
Mullen was only 10 feet away from the opening when the second tower collapsed, killing hundreds including Philip Petti, Angel Juarbe, and Michael Mullen.
That same morning, I was in sixth grade in Michigan. I can still recall the ping of the TV when my teacher quickly turned it off as we came back from lunch and the way she told us that our parents would have something to talk to us about that night.
In the evening, my brother and I were told that my uncle was at the WTC site but that he was probably fine. The following night, we were both sat down on our family room couch and told that my uncle -- Lt. Philip Petti -- was missing.
The shock of that news lingers with me still. I felt as if every part of my body were shutting down. My heart clenched tight and my head began to spin, I couldn't speak, my breath caught in my throat and I couldn't let it go. I violently tried to comprehend this news, but nothing made sense.
My world, as I knew it at 11, was shattered.
Our TV seemed to be on almost nonstop for months, the images glaring on the screen as everyone tried to make sense of a senseless act. My life was in constant flux for several months as we traveled from Michigan to New York regularly to be with our family in our original home.
We attended several ceremonies, a memorial Mass for my uncle in October, and, ultimately, a funeral in December when my uncle's body was discovered together with Juarbe's; Mullen's body was also found.
We met the Juarbe and Mullen families and grew close to them; they shared a sorrow with us only other 9/11 family members know. I never knew the entire story of my uncle's bravery until I was an adult, but even as a child I knew he was a hero, along with his fellow rescue workers.
I sometimes struggle with the fact that he'll be remembered for how he died, because I want people to also remember the full life he lived.
Uncle Phil was quick with a witty joke and laughed loudly and easily. He was the oldest of my mom's four siblings. He was what my grandma would occasionally call a "wise guy," but he had a big heart and family was extremely important to him.
A favorite memory of mine was the 40th birthday party we had for him following my brother's fifth birthday, which was carnival themed. Everyone in our family participated; there were ring toss and other games lined up around our backyard, with friends and families from the neighborhood joining in the festivities, too. It was one of those unforgettably good days when everyone had a great time.
That night when they brought out the homemade sheet cake for my uncle, with all of the candles aflame, my mom had convinced me to also bring a water sprayer as a joke. I remember how hard he laughed, how everyone all laughed, and then he pulled me over to help him blow out the candles.
Uncle Phil was definitely the best at giving big bear hugs -- the kind that will almost crush you. He was humble and humorous, passionate about sports. He loved every aspect of being a firefighter, especially the camaraderie, the family that comes with being part of the FDNY.
Another time, when I was seven, I visited Uncle Phil's firehouse. We sat in the truck, and I learned about what it's like to be a firefighter: sliding down the pole, teaching kids fire safety, the sound of the alarm, pulling all-nighters, and other nuances that I was in awe of. Later on, we sat at the table and enjoyed egg creams my Uncle Phil made as he also cooked dinner for his buddies gathered at the firehouse.
They reminded me of my own family, how we simply always loved being together. We sit or stand around my grandma's kitchen table -- all 22 of us now -- sharing stories and memories; we laugh out loud sometimes without being able to stop until tears start to well up in our eyes.
Those tears after 9/11, especially in the few years following, were sometimes sorrowful. Holidays were quieter than usual. That Christmas Eve a chair was missing, a plate was not filled, and the mood was more somber than joyful. The booming voice of my Uncle Phil and his laughter could only be heard in our minds as we recalled memories or looked at family videos and memorabilia.
When I think back 12 years ago to that fateful September, it's hard to believe I was just a child. In the immediate aftermath, I felt as if I were forced to grow up, see the world more broadly than the tiny scope it had once been: friends and family and the towns I grew up in.
Each year we do something to remember Uncle Phil and all those who were killed. Initially, I was too young to be able to go to the WTC site; for a few years, it was little more than a devastated hole in the center of New York, and so I stayed and watched the memorial with my grandparents.
Later on in middle school, I finally went to the site, and did most every year following. The first couple of years I attended the memorial, the WTC site was little more than a pit, and we would wait until after the names were read until we walked down to the towers' footprints to place flowers in the pools of water created by pieces of wood.
I had the honor one year of reading the names of people who had perished as part of the memorial and was able to read my Uncle Phil's as well. I also had the honor the first year I went to the site to shake Mayor Rudy Giuliani's hand and thank him for coming to my uncle's service.
Each year my entire family, as well as many other victims' families, relives and remembers September 11 in their own way.
Even now, whenever I see a fire truck whirring past me or I go to the WTC site, I am always brought back to age 11. I lose myself for moments or minutes at a time, experiencing it all over again through the eyes of my child self. Even now, at 23, it still seems unreal.
Yet I am reminded of my uncle's and others' courage every day I go to work at the military base in Natick, where my uncle's prayer card hangs on my wall. At a young age, I had the utmost respect for our military service members and I understood their sacrifice on a very personal level.
My best days at work are when I have the opportunity to interview Soldiers who have risked their lives for the sake of others, for the sake of my own, and share their stories. Their sacrifice prevents another 9/11 from happening.
I will always remember 9/11, my Uncle Phil, and all the lives lost but never forgotten.
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