ABSTRACT
That afternoon, two women in their early 40s approached the Department of Mental Health table, clutching their pocketbooks, eyes wide. They had fled from one of the towers and wanted to speak to someone. One woman was black, the other South Asian. They were almost exactly the same age, had worked together for years, and both had their periods that day. There was so much to do, so many to help, so many places to be in at once. Volunteers were needed at the hospitals, the Family Center, the morgue, Ground Zero, the bond trading firms, schools, hotlines. There were survivors, injured, witnesses, rescue workers, family members, each group with different needs and different timetables. But as an individual clinician, he focus had to be on the person in front of his: her story, her needs, her particular losses. The real work was not in the numbers, but in the moments.
