I remember 9/11 like it was yesterday. My wife, CeeCee
Lyles, was onboard United 93. She was a flight attendant. I remember that
Tuesday morning. I had taken the night shift at work and fell asleep at 7:30 A.M.
CeeCee called at 9:47. The answering machine picked it up. I remember her voice, praying for
her family, for herself, for the souls of the men who had hijacked her plane. I
had talked to her the night before. We talked about everything and nothing. Finally,
we were able to talk again. She told me that the plane was being hijacked. I
thought she was joking; I didn’t hear the earlier message. She told me to tell
our boys that she loved them. She said she had to go. I remember her exact
words:
"They're
getting ready to force their way into the cockpit." There was a
scream.
"They're doing it! They're doing it! They're doing
it!"
She said something I couldn’t understand, and the line
went dead. I know that my wife is a hero. She saved hundreds, potentially
thousands, of lives when she and the passengers overtook the plane. But to me,
she isn’t a hero, she’s my wife, and I’ll love and remember her forever.
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