The perfectly centered chest pressure began around 6 pm on Tuesday evening, right after I left session. More than two days later, it hadn’t abated. This wasn’t an anxiety attack – at least not one that I’d ever experienced. Normally when I have a panic attack it feels like an anvil/anchor/cruise ship is pressing down on my chest, but it radiates, causes breathing difficulty and often tears. It also eventually passes. This pressure was constant, and when I felt a wave of nausea (a heart attack symptom along with chest pain/pressure) I decided it was time to head to the ER if only for peace of mind.

My dad drove me to North Shore Hospital while my mom stayed with Elaine and Sienna. Both my EKG and blood work came back normal, but they decided to keep me overnight for observation in something called the CDU (Clinical Decision Unit) so they could take a CAT scan of my heart using contrast dye in the morning. They kept telling me that having heart disease at 39 was abnormal, but not unheard of, so they wanted to be absolutely sure. What’s bizarre is that I never panicked throughout the entire experience (in fact, when I went for the CAT scan the following morning, the technician remarked about my calmness. Crazy, right?).

I spent the night alone as my dad had gone home not long before I was moved to the CDU. I texted with Elaine a bit before she went to sleep, but then it was just me and my thoughts. I lay in bed thinking about what I was missing at home: the security of being next to my amazing wife, the sleeping little girl who would turn 18 months while I was in the hospital. I wanted to hear Sienna shout, “Daddy!” with a huge smile on her face. I wanted to cuddle with Elaine. I longed to see something like this:

My blood pressure was consistently low (around 93 over 51) which was worrisome, though I normally have low blood pressure, but despite thinking about my funeral, expecting to hear I needed emergency bypass surgery or stents put in, I still didn’t freak out. I read a bit and eventually fell asleep.

The CAT scan was weird. When they injected the dye it felt like my body had filled with boiling oil, especially in the groin area, and my mouth tasted like pennies. I’d rather not have to go through that again. Later, back in the CDU, after a few hours of having to listen to the 30-year-old woman next to me who had a thick Long Island accent and gasped and exclaimed, “Oh…my…God!” over and and over as Maury Povich pronounced someone “The Father,” the doctor came in and said I was perfectly healthy. Strangely, I didn’t feel relief. I was just like, “Ok. Cool.” I can’t explain this reaction.

My mom picked me up and drove me home (many thanks to my parents for their help!). In the car she mentioned that she’d told her therapist about the events of the last few days and he said that it was possible my anxiety had entered a new phase, one in the which I showed growth. In his opinion, there was a chance that instead of manifesting in a full-on freak out, my anxiety simply sat there in my chest, and because I was growing emotionally, I didn’t panic. I need to discuss this with my own therapist, but it’s definitely possible since I HAD just left session when the pressure began and as already stated, I never became hysterical. All I know is that I missed Elaine and Sienna so much while in the hospital.

I hugged my wife and daughter when I got home, and then I started to unravel. Elaine said it was normal, that it was like air was suddenly and violently being released from a balloon. Irrational thoughts and exhaustion hit me like a tsunami, so Elaine put me to bed. I slept about four hours, awoke a bit disoriented, the pressure in my chest a little less, but I was ready to celebrate Sienna’s 18th birthday by going to the carnival that happened to be going on down the street.

Have I grown emotionally? Has my anxiety reached a new, improved level? I don’t know, but I have hope. All I know is that a night away reminded me how much I loved the people in my life and mere hours after I left the hospital (where despite remaining eerily calm, I feared learning I’d either suffered a heart attack or was about to), my little family – my gorgeous wife, my beautiful daughter, and I – walked down the street and enjoyed ourselves at the fair.

Deep breath.

That’s what I though the morning of Sienna’s first class. Elaine doesn’t know this. No one knows this. I was extremely nervous and I was so so glad my wife was going with Sienna and I to this music class at Thinkertots in Bayside, NY, because I’m not sure I could have done it alone. I know my daughter needs to get out as much as possible and I’ve been working on it, but I’ve also been dragging my feet because of my own fears about…what? I’m not sure, exactly. I just know I feel still feel a bit anxious taking her out and going to a class alone, most likely being the only dad in the room, felt very overwhelming. I think that’s one of the reasons I couldn’t decide on that class at Alley Pond Environmental Center that I wrote about a few blogs ago. Maybe I disguised it as a nap issue when in reality it was all about me?

Regardless, Sienna needed a class and so we signed her up for a music class Sunday mornings which allowed Elaine to go as well. Elaine teared up when we attended Thinkertots’ open house. She’d never told me how much she wanted to go to Sienna’s first class, but the morning of the open house, after Sienna was signed and sealed (she’d been delivered nearly 18-months prior…ha-ha!), Elaine disclosed just how much she wanted to go and I felt this enormous relief because no matter what, I wouldn’t be alone.

So back to the morning of the class itself. I was nervous. I wasn’t sure how many other parents and kids would be there. I wasn’t sure how Sienna would react, but I knew she needed to socialize. I leaned heavily on Elaine without her knowing about it. It turned out only two other kids were there; a 2-year-old and a 9-mo-old. Both were accompanied by women, so I was, as expected, the only guy. Sienna sat on Elaine’s lap for the early part of the class which allowed me to channel my anxiety into taking photos. She seemed nervous and a bit scared of the louder songs during which we used instruments such as bells and maracas handed out by our teacher, Miss Michelle. But she liked the slower songs and when we got to “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” she gave me a smile and came over to sit on my lap. Then the scarves and bubbles came out and that’s when Sienna really began to enjoy herself and so did I.

By the end of the class my anxiety was gone. I’d survived and even came out my shell a bit. Sienna and Elaine had a great time. We’ll be attending music class every Sunday until the end of January and I hope more kids and parents show up because I really want Sienna to interact with other kids and I wouldn’t mind spending time with other parents. If another dad shows up, that’d be great, but if not, it’s ok. I realized after the class that having Elaine there was a bonus, not a crutch. The class was all about my daughter’s experience and her growth. Well, that’s not true – it’s also about our bonding in a social situation and that might be what’s most important. I’m happy to say looking forward to this Sunday.

It’s hard to believe that Sienna lives in a world in which the Twin Towers no longer stand, that when she’s studying about the tragedy of 9/11 in school textbooks, she’ll probably feel as far removed from it as I do from JFK’s assassination, Pearl Harbor, the Holocaust, and so many other significant historical events. So how will I teach my daughter about 9/11? About how the world changed and didn’t change when those planes hit the towers, another hit the Pentagon, and a fourth was brought down by courageous passengers over Pennsylvania during the worst foreign terrorist attack on American soil? I guess it will be through the memory of actually living through it as my mom must have learned from her parents who fled Poland during World War II and my dad must have learned about living through the Great Depression from his parents. Fact: I was in Manhattan on that day. Fact: I was not near the destruction nor do I know of anyone personally who perished, but like almost everyone I know, I know people who knew people – Elaine’s friend’s husband; my father’s always pleasant acquaintance. And so I’ll describe to Sienna what I saw and lived through, things she can never truly learn from textbooks.

The most lasting image I have of 9/11 is standing on the roof of my office building on 22nd Street and 2nd Avenue, watching the Twin Towers burning while across the street, a handful of boys played schoolyard basketball under an azure sky. It was eerie, seeing life change forever and go on simultaneously, watching innocence up close and evil in the background. I never saw the towers fall for I’d left the roof just before the first crumbled so I could call my dad who worked in Chinatown to make sure he was ok, so like most people, I only experienced that devastation during the constant loop that was television over the next few days.

I remember one of the professors at work being stranded in Florida, how she was frantic, unable to contact her firefighter husband for days while he bravely helped victims and then worked all hours clearing Ground Zero. I will tell her how many such intrepid people eventually succumbed to cancer and other illnesses thanks to toxins they were forced to breathe.

I remember my dad picking me up at work, us driving to Queens, and me staring at a Manhattan skyline where a giant dust cloud had displaced the World Trade Center.

I remember attending the only candlelight vigil I’ve ever been to. It was held that night in front of my apartment building. Strangers cried and hugged each other.

I remember the city, the country, the world coming together.

I will tell Sienna how the entertainment and pop culture machine screeched to a halt for the first and only time in my life, and that when it returned, it did so cautiously; David Letterman’s sadness and weariness, his wondering if it was ok to laugh again; me attending my first ever World Series game, Game 3 between the Yankees and Arizona Diamondbacks at which President George W. Bush threw out the first pitch as snipers lay still as stone on top of old Yankee Stadium.

I will tell Sienna about the grief that consumed the city, but also the love and unity.

I will take Sienna to the World Trade Center Memorial and wonder if she can feel the presence of the iconic Twin Towers as we stand in front of the beautifully designed fountains in which are carved the names of lost citizens and police officers and firefighters in the shadow of the Freedom Tower, a building that for her will be part of her normal landscape, but for me will always feel something like an intruder.

I will show her the giant purple beams of light that appear each 9/11. I will let her watch the names of the lost being read by their loved ones. And when she’s old enough, I will show her United 93 and explain the visceral reaction I had when I first saw it, the film being one of the very few I’ve seen that really hit me emotionally, and how I often watch it on 9/11 as my way to remember and honor the thousands lost that day.

I will be there to answer any questions she might have and will do so openly and honestly, and I will hope that she never has to experience something akin to or worse than 9/11, something that will forevermore necessitate the word: Remember.

I couldn’t sleep last night. For the first time in awhile, I thought about my grandmother who passed away 7 or 8 years ago – I just remember it was on Thanksgiving. Maybe it was spending time with my extended family for Rosh Hashanah that brought up thoughts of my grandmother. Maybe it’s all these memoirs I’m reading. Maybe it’s the many recent Facebook posts I’ve seen celebrating either 91st birthdays or those no longer with us. I’m not sure. All I know is that when thinking about my grandmother, my heart remained hardened and I still felt betrayed because in essence, the woman was a bully. But I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I’m not very good at forgiveness, but it’s something I need to learn. Maybe writing about it will help.

Frances Kornbluth was a hard woman whose icy blue eyes and hefty girth reflected her steely, obstinate personality.  She was full of contradiction, hypocrisy, and black and white opinions; no matter how much knowledge you obtained, you could never be right and you could never know more than her. She demanded and deserved reverence for being older, but her tactless and harsh treatment of others eventually turned her into caricature.

As a kid, my grandmother’s braggadocio, backhanded compliments, broken promises, and obvious barbs intimidated the hell out of me, and I used to cringe whenever I knew we were visiting her or when I heard her gravely voice destroyed from decades of heavy smoking.  She even had these talon-like fingernails, always painted dark red.  I wondered if they could pierce my flesh as easily as her tongue punctured my self-confidence.

“You had better not ever bring home a fat girl,” she once told me, her ample frame stuck in the restaurant booth where we sat.  I sucked in my stomach to mask my own chubbiness.

“You’re not a real baseball fan,” she once admonished me, her finger pointing accusingly at my youthful face after I’d expounded on my beloved New York Yankees. There were no further comments from her, just those painful words deflating my childhood enthusiasm.

Her worst offense (in my mind) came when I was fourteen.  At the time I was a struggling junior high school kid.  I was lethargic in my studies with a massive procrastination problem. My grandmother decided to make me a deal; if I would bring up my grades beyond a 90 average, she would quit smoking, a habit that she’d practiced for more than forty years and loved.  The deal was struck in a restaurant and my parents, sister, and one of my best friends were witnesses.  No one except me believed my grandmother could quit smoking if I came through, but she was adamant.  She could quit whenever she wanted.

By the end of the school year, my grades had improved dramatically and I had far surpassed the agreed-upon threshold.  I had held my end of the bargain and consequently, it was time for my grandmother to do the same. As promised, she quit. I was so proud of myself, not just for getting my grades up but for getting my grandmother to quit a habit I found repulsive. And I was so proud of her for quitting. When I caught her outside smoking a cigarette a few months later, my heart sank, but it wasn’t until I accused her of going back on her promise that it actually broke. “There was no deal. I never said such a thing.” Any respect for her died at that instant. I’m not sure when my love for her did. I don’t know if I ever loved her, to be honest, though I can say that without a doubt, her bullying fed into my depression and lack of self-esteem.

As I got older, I adopted my father’s approach to dealing with her.  To my mother’s chagrin, we goaded her into making buffoonish statements. By doing so, we made her into a cartoon, a mascot. At family get-togethers, we’d challenge her until she said something outrageous that could get the whole family (except my mother) chortling behind her back. I do feel guilty about that.

Now nearing 40, I can understand what caused her inability and outright refusal to appear weak or vulnerable.  She came to New York from Poland when she was just sixteen.  She spoke no English and had little family in the United States. She was supposed to be followed by her parents and brother but they fell victim to Hitler. Like most immigrants she learned American ways and values on the fly: hard work, persistence, family. She married a brilliant doctor and had a child but lost her husband at a very young age. She spent most of her life working.  She took a job at Lord & Taylor and eventually retired with a prestigious title but little in the bank. She suffered from diabetes and high blood pressure.  She relied heavily (but without recognition) on the good will of my parents who paid for her apartment, drove her wherever she needed to go, and took care of her when she fell terminally ill.  She led a difficult life of heartbreak and it only makes sense she would construct mental walls of the thickest material.

In her final months, as she lay ravaged by lung cancer, my grandmother finally praised her family and told us how much she loved us. This woman, who for as long as I knew her would never acknowledge her mistakes even when faced with blanket proof, finally admitted she had been wrong (though she did go to her death defiantly believing OJ Simpson innocent). She told me she was proud of me, proud of all the things I had accomplished and all the successes she knew were in my future. She called Elaine, then my girlfriend, beautiful and wonderful. I sometimes wonder, though, had she made some miracle recovery, would she have denied ever saying these words?

My mother, who once broke her collarbone when she was younger and was terrified my grandmother was going to hit her because of it, believes the lesson to be gleaned is: “Never wait too long to tell people you love that you love and appreciate them. It’s just not worth it.”

My grandmother will never know Sienna. I’m puzzled as to how I’ll describe her should my daughter ever want to learn about her great-grandmother. Will I have learned to forgive by then or will my heart remain angry and hurt? I wish for the former, but expect the latter, probably because bullying brings up such rage in me. But I want to forgive. I want to let go. I hope this is the first step.