September 11: Our Fairfield community remembers

By Nina M. Riccio, Publications Writer

Loss is a part of the human experience; we've all felt it, and on some deep-down gut level we realize that learning to cope with it makes us stronger and more appreciative of what we have. Yet whatever our personal stories might be, most of us have never had to deal with a loss that is both sudden and accompanied by a grief that must be conducted with the world watching.

The events of Sept. 11, 2001, shook the nation to its core and precipitated a chain of political events that changed the world order. For most of us, initial shock gave way to anger and sadness for victims who were overwhelmingly, achingly young. But for the families of the 14 Fairfield alumni killed in the World Trade Center, that grief was not only profound, but personal. Five years later, they're still dealing with that grief in their own ways, most of them drawing on the twin pillars of faith and family for strength.

From shock to sadness

"If you had called me a few years ago, I couldn't have even spoken to you. I was that bad," Elizabeth Andrews admits. Her son Michael Andrews '89 had moved back home in 2000 so that, in addition to his job at Cantor Fitzgerald, he could open a bar in New York City with some of his buddies. It was Michael himself who finally helped her reach a turning point in her grief. "It was about the third anniversary of his death," she remembers. "I had a dream that I was coming home from Mass, and he was standing in front of our house. I called to him, "Don't go! Don't go away!' Then Michael put his arm around me and we walked into the house together. As we walked, he said "Don't worry, Mom, I'll always be here with you'." The dream was so clear, she says, that thinking about it helps a great deal whenever she feels down. Another key in helping her cope is her big, close-knit family. She and her husband Ed had seven children and now have lots of grandchildren. "If I didn't have them, I don't know what I would do."

For Cathy Lynn Birch, learning to accept the death of younger brother Marc Murolo '95, another Cantor Fitzgerald employee, was more gradual. "There was no turning point for me. I think time has just allowed me to handle it better," she says. "I worked at Cantor for 10 years - five of them with Marc - and it's still shocking every time I see the New York City skyline." She's grateful that Marc's body was found ("so many families don't have that," she acknowledges), and her parents find it comforting to visit the mausoleum where he is buried. Someday, she hopes, her own son Marc, now 21 months, will follow in his uncle's footsteps and go to Fairfield. "My other brother and I graduated from Fordham, but I encouraged Marc to go to Fairfield because I thought it was a good fit for him, and it truly was." Birch recalls. "Fairfield became a huge part of his life; his years there were probably the best of his life and it was the place where he made some of his closest friends."

Not surprisingly, faith has played a big role for many in dealing with death. "Life for me stopped that day," says Claudia Cappello, mother of Jonathan Cappello '00, another Cantor employee and the youngest of the Fairfield alumni lost in the Towers. "Sure, we go on and do what we have to do, but it's a new life now. I'm not the same person I was before. Yet I know Jono is in a better place, one where he's safe and happy. Jono may have left this earth but I know that Jesus met him. And on the days when I need him the most, the days I can't even move, I feel his presence." Jonathan was a big guy who "could charm the birds out of the trees, and there are times I can physically feel his arms around me," she says. Her family - husband Bob, sons Robert and Jamey, and grandchildren Kathryn, Olivia, and new baby Jonathan - have been "life sustaining," she says. "We draw strength from each other. My sisters live on my street, my parents are in the same town. They never leave me, and I'm so grateful for that. Together, we stand strong."

Steve Hagis Sr. recalls the Bible study session his son, Steve Hagis '91, led just a few weeks before his death. "He told the group that he would be ready to die for Christ, and asked who among us could say the same," he says. "It was a tough question for the rest of us to answer, but Steve had no hesitation." Steve Jr., another Cantor employee, had a chance to put his faith into action in 1993 after the first Trade Center bombing, when the 6'10'' former basketball player met a paraplegic struggling to go down the stairs and ended up carrying him 40 flights. "Daddy was a big guy," Steve's son Daniel, then 4, said shortly after his death. "I hope Jesus is strong enough to carry him."

At some point, there's a realization that you'll never get over the grief and that it's just going to be an ongoing part of your life, says Dan Slattery, brother of Christopher Slattery '92, a senior salesperson in Cantor's equity trading group. "You realize he's in a better place," he sighs. "You get past the anger at some point and move on to acceptance." A big part of that acceptance for the Slattery family has been their annual golf outing to raise funds for the scholarship they've established at Fairfield University in Chris' name; like many families, they've funneled their emotions into something positive. "Chris loved golf - though he was never very good at it," Slattery says, unable to resist a typical brotherly jab. "The annual Chris Slattery Golf Classic (www.chrisslatterygolfclassic.com) is the best way we could think to celebrate Chris and to bring together many of the people he touched. Some of Chris' friends come from around the country to be with us; there's no doubt that he had the best circle of friends that anyone could have."

When the world is watching

No one, of course, can anticipate what it's like to deal with a death that's part of an earth-shattering historical event. While the outpouring of help and consolation from friends, neighbors, and even strangers were comforting at first, in the end, the spotlight is just too hot and the reminders far too frequent for many. "I stopped going to church regularly," admits Michelle Lunden, widow of Michael Lunden '86, who also worked at Cantor Fitzgerald. "After September 11, there were so many eyes on me that I began to shy away from it all. Now, I tend to do my praying in private rather than in public. I've found a place in my heart to put it."

Even sitting down to watch an evening television program can be difficult. "You can't imagine how many times Sept. 11 is mentioned on L.A. Law," Elizabeth Andrews said. Tracy Donovan '77, who lost her brother, Frank McGuinn '74, on the 105th floor of Tower One, agrees. "I've had to watch those Towers come down so many times, and every time it happens, it's like a bandage being pulled off a wound that hasn't yet healed." An oncology nurse, Donovan witnesses families dealing with grief and loss every day, their shock and feelings of helplessness giving way to an anger that can last quite a while. She dealt with all those familiar emotions herself after the Towers collapsed on her brother, who left a wife and three daughters. "The experience has given me a broader insight to suffering and healing," she says. "I'm better able to see the bigger picture."

With four children, then ages 2 to 10, Danielle McGuire knows a little something about chaos. Yet those first few months after her husband, Patrick McGuire '82, was killed in his Eurobrokers' office on the 84th floor of Tower Two went beyond anything she could imagine. "It was so crazy and hectic," she says. "We would be out for an hour and the answering machine will be filled with messages when we got back. People were constantly dropping by, constantly in the house." While it was wonderful to be surrounded by so many caring people, there came a point when the kids needed to get back to a predictable routine, she says.

Mary Jean (M.J.) Heller '86 also points to community as an important source of her strength - both today and in those awful days five years ago. Like McGuire, she was left with four small children when husband Joe Heller '86, a commodities broker with CARR Futures, was killed. "We had been in Ridgefield (Conn.) for 10 years at that point and had many friends, but I can honestly say I didn't know what big hearts they had until this happened," she says. "My kids are doing really well, and I chalk that up in part to our community of friends, and to my parents, who have gone out of their way to make sure they can get to all their games and practices, scouting events, and after-school activities."

Life has gotten easier as her two boys and two girls have gotten older, she says, but there's a sadness as she looks back on those fun, toddler years. "I really don't remember them," she admits. "They're a blur. I really miss Joe's light-hearted approach with the kids; he'd work late, but when he'd come home he'd be fun and silly at a point when I was at the end of my rope." Heller also stays in close contact with many of their mutual Fairfield friends, sometimes vacationing with former members of the "Caddyshack," as Joe and his housemates, including Mike Lunden, used to call their place.

The positive side of the public arena, however, may be the memorials, a solace for many and something that most families wouldn't have after a death. Donovan and her family attended the dedication of the Fairfield University September 11 memorial outside Alumni House and pronounced it "a beautiful day." Her sister-in-law, Frank's widow Lynn, has become active in the planning of the September 11 memorial in New York, and even traveled to Oklahoma to consult with those involved with the Oklahoma City National Memorial. The Slattery family has regularly attended the reading of the names at Ground Zero and the Cantor Fitzgerald memorial ceremony in Central Park. "Listening to those names being read is emotionally draining," says Dan Slattery. "A lot of families share our pain and come to memorialize those who were so tragically lost. There is a deep connection of loss and sorrow shared by the families in attendance."

While Claudia Cappello hates going to the cemetery ("I can't look at Jonathan's name etched on that stone," she says), she finds great comfort in the memorial tree planted in his name at Jonathan's high school. "It's tall and strong with these crooked, crazy branches," she says. "It's so Jonathan, so perfect! I go there all the time." The Cappello family has also established a scholarship at Fairfield University in Jonathan's name, which has been awarded since 2002. "Jonathan's roommate Mike has a bar in Long Island, and he approached Bob and I about holding a fundraiser there. We raffle off trips, theatre tickets, sports tickets, and all sorts of things. People are so generous, and we usually raise about $35,000 to $40,000," she says, noting that the event gets bigger each year.

Family remembrances

"In the end, I just had to get up and take care of four kids," Danielle McGuire says simply when asked how she managed in those days and months five years ago. When her husband Pat died, her youngest were preschoolers. It's her two boys, then ages 10 and 7, who remember their dad the most. They talk about him a lot, and she encourages it. "Pat did everything with them, from playing Wiffle ball in the backyard to coaching their teams," she says. "He used to joke that he deserved the title 'best dad ever' for his tombstone, so of course that's what we put on it!"

Pat was easygoing, happy, and (rumor has it) something of a partier. "He loved life. Fairfield did a good job with him, considering he was really there enjoying himself!" McGuire laughs. So when the anniversary of his death comes around each year, family and friends celebrate in a way that honors his life. "We go down to the Jersey shore and a good friend celebrates Mass. Then we block off the street, send off balloons, and play the Rolling Stones, which was Pat's favorite band. It's really a great day, and one that we all look forward to every year." Despite it all, her family has been blessed. "It's still a good life because of my children, my friends," she says. "My daughter has some medical issues, but basically we're all in good health, we've been able to stay in our home, and we have so many wonderful people around us."

For Michelle Lunden, the challenge is to help her son, Matthew, now almost six, remember his father Michael without associating those memories with sadness. "He was only nine months old when his father died, and the support groups and counseling for children (that were established after Sept. 11) aren't really right for Matthew at this point," she explains. "In general, Matthew is not sad - he's got the same happy-go-lucky disposition his father had." But on random days, something triggers the tears that his dad can't be with him. "Who can tell what brings it up?" Lunden says. "I try to address his questions as they come. I read somewhere that the most successful kids are those who have weathered a lot of change in their lives, and Matthew has certainly had his share of that." She's stayed close to Michael's family - she warned her current husband that he would be inheriting an extra set of in-laws when they married - and cherishes the strong support network that friends and family have provided for them.

For the children of Christopher Orgielewicz '87 - Ryan, 11, Thomas, 8, and Katherine, 5 - remembrances include Father's Day notes and handmade birthday cards. "We attach the cards to three balloons and release them from a park on the Sound," says his widow, Olga. "Chris is still very much a part of the family, although he's not physically present." Orgielewicz, who worked for Sandler O'Neill in Two World Trade Center, "was a very moral person who lived his life to make us happy. I am inspired by how much he loved us and how devoted he was, and that example has inspired me to be the best and do the best for my kids," she says. While the boys have some memories, daughter Katherine, born just weeks before his death, does not. "Yet in some ways she's the one who misses having a father the most," says her mother.

If it is indeed true that learning to cope with loss ultimately makes us stronger, Olga Orgielewicz is an example of that. "These last few years, I've found a strength I didn't know I had. I'm so aware of all that's around me. I am so confident. Chris' deep love for me is what got me through my darkest times; it's enough love to last me a lifetime."