My cousin was an iron worker in New York City.  He was strong, proud and he loved what he did.  On Tuesday, April 29, he was in a freak accident at a site in New York City.  He is now in critical condition in the hospital in New York City and it seems, if he survives, his life as he lived it is over.  My cousin's name is Christopher Gunn and he is part of the Iron Workers Union. 

I want to thank this wonderful Union.  I want to give you a little insight into what I saw yesterday and how it has not only greatly, and positively, affected me and my family, but affected every last person in the ICU at Bellevue Hospital in New York City. 

I left work a little early and headed to the one place I hope to never be again, Bellevue Hospital .  I returned, trying to prepare myself for another set of long, heart-breaking hours.  All the while, I found myself hoping that a miracle would occur and Christopher would sit up, open his eyes and say "What the hell am I doing in this place? Let's go home".  It is proving more difficult to imagine as the hours pass and reality keeps repeating in my ear that it is never going to happen, but I can hope.  Trying to rationalize what has happened to him, and what it means going forward, is not something that comes easy in the first few hours and days.  I'm not sure it will ever come easy, or be understood.  

Upon entering the hospital, the attendant at the "check-in" desk asked who I was visiting and I told her, Christopher Gunn. She kind of frowned at me before saying, "I just let 4 people up ma'am".  Trying to keep my cool, but with tears welling up in my eyes, I showed ID, explained that I am family and she need not worry; I assured her I'd sit quietly in the waiting room if there were too many people visiting.  I headed upstairs.

I said hello to Christopher, gave him a kiss and went to join his mother (my aunt) and my mother (his aunt) in the waiting room.  When I arrived, I immediately saw what was obviously two construction workers.  One of the gentlemen was his teacher and a friend.  He told me heart-warming stories and passionately explained that even though he was only 28, he knew this business and it was like he had been on the job for 20 years.  He was good at what he did.  Extraordinarily good.  

Within about five minutes we could all hear what sounded like elephants coming from the elevator toward the ICU.  Through the frosted glass walls, I was able to see that what sounded like elephants, were actually people.  Many people.  However, I don't think any of us were expecting what we saw come through that waiting room door. At least 50 men and women, all in dirt-covered jeans and construction boots, with tattooed arms and hardhats, slowly filed into the room and poured out into the hallway.  "That's not all of us", said one of the guys.  And he wasn't kidding.  

For the next hour (and I later found out that they had been coming all day), a steady stream of approximately 100 "hard hats" came up to the ICU, hugged and kissed my aunt, my mother and I and bowed their heads in prayer for Christopher.  Some were his teachers, some his friends, some just knew him in passing.  All were his 'brothers'.  When his father arrived one of the gentlemen made sure to tell him, "You don't just get respect in this business, you earn it.  And Chris did that. You should be very proud of your son."  

A police officer stationed herself outside of Christopher's room in the ICU, allowing 5 of his "brothers" to see him at once.  She made us promise that once they said their prayers by his bedside and had their chance to see him, they would exit the ICU and the hospital; she needed to make room for the other, approximately 50, gentlemen that were waiting in the lobby.  That poor "check-in" desk attendant.  She thought she'd have a problem with little old, weepy-eyed me.  I'm quite sure the ICU had never seen the likes of this.  

We sat in the waiting room and laughed and cried.  All of us.  Big burly men in hardhats, lowering their eyes and weeping for a fallen brother.  At one point, with tears in her eyes, my mother said, "Who knew that you guys- the whistling-at-women-on-the-street, "blue-collar" worker- were such amazing, kind-hearted, caring gentlemen."  One responded, "We've been called a lot of things.  Nice usually isn't one of them."  I must say, they have been misunderstood. 

Those men and women made a mark on me that I will carry in my heart forever.  They showed their true colors as a brotherhood; they stand by their own, respect their 'brothers' and support the families of those men and women that give their lives, literally, to their jobs.  

We take for granted the blood, sweat, tears and livelihoods that these men sacrifice in order to build the great cities we love to live in.  In a city like New York, forever growing and changing, it's due time we pay OUR respects to those men and women who make it all possible.  They did it for Christopher Gunn.

Regards,

 

Kristen Bykowski - loving cousin of Christopher Gunn