I was on the 64th floor of the North Tower when the plane hit. There wasn’t any smoke at first and no fire. My co-workers were calling the Port Authority, who we worked for, and they were telling us, “Stay there, we’ll send someone to get you.”
We turned on the TV, and that’s when we learned it was a terrorist attack. We waited about an hour and then headed for the stairwell, and I went out in front with my friend Rosa.
At the 13th floor I bent over to take off my shoe, and the entire wall caved on top of me.
TEN YEARS LATER: THE POST REMEMBERS 9/11
COMPLETE 9/11 ANNIVERSARY COVERAGE
I could feel chunks of the building hitting me. Then the whole staircase tipped and came down, but the way it fell, it curled over me, and I was in kind of a little pocket.
My feet were pinned, my head was squashed between two pieces of concrete. I could only move my left hand.
When I opened my eyes I thought I’d gone blind. It scared me so much to have my eyes open and be in the pitch black. I heard a man crying. “Help, help, help,” he said. I shouted back, “Hello?”
But I never heard his voice again. I just lay there, and prayed for someone to find me. I had no idea how much time passed. I’d felt around with my left hand and there was a small opening near my head. I put my hand through and prayed.
“Please, God, I can’t take the pain.”
I kept praying for I don’t know how long, and then someone grabbed my hand. “I’m Paul,” he said to me. “I’m here. Hang on. The rescuers are coming.” It took a long time for them to find me, but he kept holding my hand, keeping me calm. “Just stay with me,” he’d say.
They cut me free after 27 hours of being trapped in the rubble, I later learned.
My right leg was crushed, and my head had swelled up, but otherwise I was fine. When my boyfriend got to me at the hospital the first thing I said was, “Write down the name Paul so I don’t forget.”
I never found him though. Nobody could tell me who he was. It’s a mystery to me where he came from. I would love to meet him. Whoever he was, he was an angel.