e was walking along the streets of Lower Manhattan that brilliant September morning, walking to a 9 o'clock meeting, when the first plane plowed into the North Tower and the world - his world - changed forever.
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Dave Bernard of Chelmsford was struck by debris that fell hundreds of feet from the clear blue sky. But unlike the thousands of victims who died in the wreckage and rubble, and unlike the tens of thousands more who escaped unscathed, Bernard has been trapped in a cruel netherworld between.
Dave Bernard is grievously injured. In an attack ghoulishly notable for its dearth of living casualties, at the core of a story in which every corner and crevice has been illuminated by network TV, he lies without fanfare in the intensive care unit of the Massachusetts General Hospital, unable to speak, eat, or even breath on his own.
He is, officials believe, one of just a handful of victims still hospitalized from the attack.
Yesterday, Nancy, his wife of 33 years, sat in a windowless waiting room on the seventh floor of the hospital talking about the plight behind them and the journey ahead - every word, every sentence, streaked with hope.
Seasons have changed since her husband entered the hospital. His 57th birthday has come and gone. His mother died the day after Thanksgiving.
But, says Bernard, a petite woman with gentle laugh lines grooved around her eyes, ''I'm not angry. I feel for all the people who lost someone. I walked by all those pictures in New York of all the missing people. I'm one of the lucky ones.''
The lucky ones. Dave Bernard flew to New York on Sept. 10, and set out for a meeting in Building 7 of the World Trade Center the next morning.
Until that point, his appeared to be an idyllic life. A golfer with a 9 handicap and a voracious tennis player in peak condition, he worked as an industry specialist with the IRS in the Stoneham office. His wife, his college sweetheart, ran her own Christmas ornament business.
Together, they have three grown children, including a daughter, Jill, who married this past July. The Bernards recently vacationed in Thailand, took a backpacking trip to the floor of the Grand Canyon, and hoped to visit Italy soon.
Just before 9:20 a.m., he was rushed to New York University Hospital with two punctured lungs, a broken left shoulder blade, 13 broken ribs, and a severe spinal cord injury, among others.
That night, with no word from him, Nancy and their children furiously phoned New York hospitals, finally locating him at 4 a.m. The family arrived in the city that afternoon, and Nancy didn't leave for the next 80 days as her husband was shuttled between three New York hospitals.
She sent e-mails to anxious family and friends from her hotel room every night. She took long walks. She indulged in an occasional manicure, and, in her own words, ''micro-managed'' her husband's care. Their children arrived every Friday.
At one point, his health improved so much that he sat up and ate. At another time, his children were frantically summoned to his bedside. These days, he is fighting off dangerous infections, mostly sleeps, and has no apparent memory of the attack. His doctors are unsure if he'll be able to walk again.''It's mostly infections now,'' Nancy says. ''He gets rid of one and he gets another.''
This past Saturday, he was flown to Boston and transferred to Mass. General. After the attack, local hospitals prepared to save overflow casualties that never came. Now, with him, they have a chance.
In the larger world, we bomb Afghanistan, we hunt terrorists, we steel ourselves against the specter of new assaults.
But for Nancy Bernard, the battle is being fought in a nondescript hospital room. It is a war, like ours, without any clear end, but with a cause as virtuous and urgent as any other.
Brian McGrory can be reached by e-mail at mcgrory@globe.com.
