I've worked every night in my sleep since the attacks on Sept. 11. I suppose my mind is playing out emotions I don't allow myself to experience when I'm awake.
In some of those dreams I realize I have anthrax. I stand in front of a mirror looking at a big blister on my face and feel only fear. Then suddenly I'm stumbling upon the debris of the World Trade Center, wandering through miles of crushed cars.
I joined the National Guard right out of high school. It was the perfect answer for a girl who needed money for college and had a thirst for adventure.
Basic training was at Fort Dix in New Jersey — my first time away from home. Later I did my training as an air-traffic controller in Fort Rucker, Ala. The schooling was challenging, but I loved it.
I was with the 416th Air Traffic Control Platoon in Phoenix, Ariz., doing normal drills one weekend in January 1991 when we were called back to the conference room early. "Hey, maybe we've been called to war," someone joked.
Sure enough, our unit was on alert. We were going to Saudi Arabia to be part of what was then called Operation Desert Shield.
In the space of a week's time, I dropped out of college, put everything I owned in storage, gave my employer notice, made out a will and gave power of attorney to my mother.
I was 21 years old.
A week after the terrorist attacks, KSL-TV asked if I would go to New York City. Something familiar returned to the pit of my stomach. I wanted the assignment. Of course I wanted the assignment. But I would have to fly. Leave my husband. Go to a place where thousands had died.
I called my mother on the way home to pack. She didn't try to hide the panic in her voice.
"No," she pleaded with me. We talked about the feelings we both had 10 years ago when I was told I'd be going to Saudi Arabia. She asked how the attacks made me feel.
It's odd, I told her. I still feel a sense of duty to my country, even though I am no longer in the military. I want to do something.
In 1991, we landed in Riyadh and drove our trucks out of the belly of a huge C-5 Air Force cargo plane. I had my own "deuce and a half" — a big truck — to drive. My captain said to make sure to keep the lights off. We had our passwords. There was no fooling around anymore.
We stayed in these crazy-looking condominiums before leaving for our final destinations. The landscape looked like something out of a "Planet of the Apes" movie — brown, militarized, hideous.
We would eventually see the devastation of a ground war firsthand. We came across an Iraqi convoy that had retreated from Kuwait: miles of destruction, burned out cars, blood, ammunition, clothes strewn everywhere. Thousands had died here only days before.
I was not prepared for that idea.
I had never been to New York City before, so I had no way to compare its absolute low point to anything else.
Before I saw the barricades and police, before I smelled the thick haze of burning insulation coming from the site of the World Trade Center, I saw the destruction on people's faces.
Just 10 minutes off the airplane and I knew I was in a war zone again.
Deadline pressure kept me focused. I wanted to bring the images home. I thought being close to it would somehow allow me to get a handle on what had happened. But it didn't seem real.
There is nothing left at ground zero. Metal and dust.
People sounded matter-of-fact when they talked to me. They wanted to talk; they just couldn't cry anymore.
For five months in the Persian Gulf I did my job as a senior control tower operator. We handled air traffic for the last refueling point about 40 miles south of the frontline. Every day I talked to the pilots of Apache, Cobra, Chinook and Huey helicopters before they flew into battle. Hearing the same voices on the return flights always brought a smile to my lips.
More than once I heard shelling in the distance. Sometimes the ground would move. We were always "in full equipment," including weapons and gas masks. I had cut my hair short at Fort Huachuca so the mask would have a good seal.
One morning we were told we would be given a shot to prevent anthrax. I had never heard of anthrax. They assured us it was precautionary, but they also told us the FDA had not approved the medicine. They told the women — there were seven in my unit — not to have children for five years.
The shot sent a burning sensation down my arm. It was sore for days.
I thought a lot about the rescue workers when I was in New York City. They must be tired. They must be frustrated.
I was carrying a lot of heavy television equipment and standing in long lines for the appropriate press passes, but I managed to catch myself before vocalizing any complaints. I had no business feeling sorry for myself.
Thousands of candles were lit every night in Union Square. Thousands of people prayed for peace. I fought back tears more than once.
One photo especially struck me. A blond, blue-eyed man, very handsome. Missing, the flyer said. He worked on the 101st floor of the trade center's Tower One. He was probably working at his first job out of college. He was probably so proud. He had the world by the tail and his whole life ahead of him.
He was 24 years old.
As both a reporter and a soldier I have been trained to be objective. I put my fears and my emotions aside to face the enemy or to cover the story. It's what you do to do a good job.
But this assignment has been different.
I can't help but see the story as a soldier.
And I am not ashamed to say I see it as an American.