I hope this doesn't sound callous, but what really hit me hard was the deaths of the firefighters.

My dad was a firefighter until he retired about 10 years ago. Every day he went to work, my mom and I knew he might not come back. We would get Union mags from the firefighter's union, and the back page was always a requiem for firefighters who fell in the line of duty. New York always topped the list.

Firefighters are a unique breed; but their families are also different from other families in certain ways (which I imagine they share with the families of police officers and others who have a higher than average chance of dying in the line of duty): they live with the ever-present fear for the lives of their loved ones who work in dangerous duty. Every time Dad went into a burning building, it might have collapsed on him, he could have died from smoke inhalation, any number of things could have taken him from us. When he finally retired, my mom, my sister and I all breathed a collective sigh of relief: a sigh which had been pending for decades.

There were also moments of poignancy in his career as a firefighter. He rescued some kids in a trapped elevator once, and also he had a man die in his arms once. He was (and is) a strange contradiction of toughness and tenderness. I remember him crying when his last dog died. This from a man who had carried people from burning buildings, with hardly any thought of his own safety. Thank God he made it through alive, and is enjoying the fruit of his life's labors.

I feel so bad for the families of everyone who lost loved ones in these horrible, horrible attacks. But I really feel like I understand --from the inside-- a little more of the sadness of the families of the emergency workers. May they find strength and solace and hope in the days to come.

Alex