(Editor’s note: Many people remember exactly where they were on Sept. 11, 2001, when our nation came under attack. We asked readers to share their thoughts and memories. We’ve included their responses here and on Page 8.)

By MARK EDWARDS

BLAKESLEE

As a police captain in Plainfield, New Jersey, I ended my shift at 3 a.m. on Sept. 11, 2001, looking forward to a few days off.

I went home to the apartment I shared with a friend in Montclair. My friend, who worked a typical 9-to-5 job, woke me and said a plane had struck the World Trade Center. I immediately sat straight up, thinking, “terrorists,” and while I was getting dressed, the second plane struck.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and headed to the roof of the building, which offered a panoramic view across the Meadowlands and Giants Stadium to the Twin Towers in the distance.

There I stood, staring at the gaping holes and rising smoke until the first tower collapsed. I watched dust roar through the street canyons and then rise, cartoonlike, into puffy white clouds above the city.

Stunned by what I had witnessed, I returned to my apartment and retrieved my portable police radio. I switched to the New Jersey State Police Emergency Network channel, which allows departments to communicate directly with one another. Soon, the Port Authority Police broadcast a request for any agency that could supply picks, shovels and pry bars. Having just watched 220 stories disappear from the skyline, I struggled to comprehend that request.

Like most cops, I couldn’t sit still. I returned to Plainfield Police Headquarters, where the emergency management center was already operating.

By evening, the chief decided to dispatch a team to assist the NYPD. He asked me to lead it. I thanked him for the confidence but declined, explaining that I expected to be called in another capacity as a peer counselor with the New Jersey Critical Incident Stress Management Team. Our mission was to help first responders process traumatic experiences and reduce the risk of long-term effects such as PTSD.

Ground Zero

The next morning, as expected, I received a call from NJCISM founder Roland Kandle asking me to respond at the request of the Port Authority Police. I was the first to arrive at the PAPD Tactical Center in Jersey City, where I established a command post and began checking in team members. Once enough personnel had arrived, I sent the first team into Ground Zero. Later that afternoon, the team leader called to say they were overwhelmed and needed additional counselors. By then, enough people had checked in for me to assemble another team, hand off the command post and head into the city.

We reported to the Port Authority’s on-site command post at the Manhattan Community College gymnasium. I was told to walk the scene to understand the magnitude of what we would be facing.

The first thing that struck me was the dust. It was as though we were walking on the moon. Everything in sight was gray. Chambers Street had been plowed and washed down, leaving piles of debris at the curb that resembled wallboard compound. Dust drifted from nearby buildings like snow squalls in the Poconos.

Ground Zero itself was beyond description.

Rescuers knelt atop the cooler sections of the rubble pile, sorting through debris by hand and passing filled five-gallon buckets down human chains to waiting trucks. Other parts of the mountain of debris were still hot and smoldering.

Ironically, my first counseling encounters were not with rescuers, but with two Port Authority police officers who had taken Sept. 11 off. They were waiting for word on partners who were among the missing.

The NJCISM team maintained a 24-hour presence into early January, then remained available as needed. Within days of the team’s reduced presence, Roland Kandle, who had been there throughout the response, died suddenly of a massive heart attack on Jan. 8, 2002.

The forgotten work at Fresh Kills Landfill

After several days at Ground Zero, I returned to Plainfield.

Back at headquarters, officers informed me the chief had authorized volunteer assignments at the Fresh Kills Landfill once I drafted the necessary policy. Exhausted as I was, I completed the paperwork so officers could begin volunteering.

Much of the debris removed from Ground Zero was transported to Fresh Kills, where workers painstakingly sifted through it for evidence, identification, valuables and human remains. Their difficult and emotional work is often overlooked when people discuss 9/11.

Officers volunteering there were required to check in with me, which limited my ability to return to Ground Zero. Still, the importance of that role became clear when one female officer and mother returned from Fresh Kills shaken after encountering debris that appeared to have come from an on-site day care center.

A final return

My final visit to Ground Zero came on March 5, 2002, when I accompanied disabled police Sgt. Swasie Turner, who had lost a leg after being deliberately struck by a motorcyclist in Merseyside, England.

Along with eight English firefighters and police officers, Turner traveled from the White House in Washington, D.C., to Ground Zero in his wheelchair during an 11-day fundraising journey. His companions carried buckets to collect donations for the families of those lost on Sept. 11.

I had the honor of escorting the group for three days from central New Jersey to Ground Zero, where bodies were still being recovered.

Although the World Trade Center has since been rebuilt and a memorial and museum now stand there, I have never returned.

Never forget

The slogan that emerged from Sept. 11 was “Never Forget,” yet there are those who choose to.

The death toll that day was staggering, but the number of 9/11-related deaths since then has exceeded it. Some cannot forget, and I count myself among them.

On New Year’s Eve 2009, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Doctors traced it to a lesion in my lung they attributed to exposure at Ground Zero. Following brain surgery, radiation and chemotherapy, I was declared cancer-free.

Years later, I began experiencing episodes of passing out. Last year, doctors determined I was suffering seizures caused by scar tissue from the brain surgery. Every morning, when I take my anti-seizure medication, I receive another reminder of Sept. 11.

Overall, I consider myself blessed. I continue to serve as a peer counselor for emergency responders and remain active with my church, local food bank and fire department.

In a time when volunteers are increasingly scarce, I believe many of our problems would be eased if more people focused on serving others rather than serving themselves.