There are three groups of people affected by the events of Sept. 11.

There are those who lost loved ones as the towers fell and spend each anniversary in memoriam. There are those that did not have any personal connection and remember the day as an American tragedy, something to be written about in history books.

Then there is the group I belong to. It's a sort of middle ground filled with "what ifs" and uncertain feelings. We knew hundreds of people involved and could have lost someone, but was lucky enough not to. The group that was so close to being part of one group, but will never be removed enough to be a part of the other.

On the morning of Sept. 11, I was in my AP history class as we watched the second plane hit the second tower. My hometown of Montgomery, N.J., is only 45 minutes outside New York City, and nearly everyone at school knew someone in the city that day. I walked friend after friend down to the office, their hands gripping mine as they awaited news as to whether their family members were all right.

I didn't get the news as quickly.

While I was safely tucked away in a classroom, three of my uncles, who are all brothers, were being rushed to ground zero. My family has always been proud to have two New York firemen and one New York policeman in the family, but on that Tuesday in September, it amounted to three times the amount of fear.

The oldest brother, Joey, was at home when the planes hit. He was called into work and transported with the rest of his firestation on the West Side highway where teams of firefighters were sent into the rubble to begin the rescue efforts. He said the site was so large and so dusty they were hard pressed to find anything.

As the day went on, a third building, World Trade Center 7, fell. The clouds of dust were so large that the firefighters had to throw on their air tanks, and in the commotion my uncle was hit in the head as a fellow fighter swung his on. He was nearly knocked out. At that point, he said it became clear -- the rescue mission had turned into a recovery mission.

The middle brother, Tommy, was also called into the fire station on his day off. Though he now knows he was stationed near the West Side Highway, at the time he said it was too chaotic to get accurate bearings. He worked straight through that night and the next day, not getting a break until after 30 hours. And even then, he returned the very next morning.

He said the sight was overwhelming, and the aftermath, with funeral after funeral, has stuck with him. But what he remembers most is the brotherhood he felt on the day and for months following the attack. On the nights he spent sleeping at a firehouse in Greenwich Village, local restaurant owners brought anything the firefighters needed. Volunteers came out in masses, so many that, for safety reasons, some were turned away. Two of those volunteers were welders from Ohio, who had driven out with equipment to help cut through the steel. My uncle ran into them twice as they slept in their truck each night and worked each day.

The youngest, Billy, was sent to Ellis Island and then to hospitals in northern New Jersey to identify the bodies of those already determined dead. But before he started, Billy wanted to know if his two brothers were OK. He knew he would never be able to handle unzipping a body bag and finding one of his brothers inside.

He spent the following months assigned to a station/morgue where people came to find their loved ones. For those that came searching, he would take DNA samples from the insides of their cheeks. But, often times, they didn't find a person; just a boot or an arm. And it was more than just individuals searching; entire fire companies would come searching for one crewmember. My uncle said one of the hardest things was seeing grown men break down and cry.

Five years later, they still remember the events of that day in perfect vivid detail, down to the Vicks Vapor rub my Uncle Billy rubbed inside his nose to help mask the smells. Five years later, when my Uncle Joey sees a plane flying too low, images still flash through his mind. But five years later, I still see them at every Thanksgiving. I can still pick up a phone and hear their voice on the other end of the line.

That's why I'm a part of this middle group, stuck in the middle ground, unsure of how I should react each Sept. 11. While part of me spends the day contemplating the "what ifs," the other part of me realizes that I cannot even compare my experience to those who lost someone.

So maybe it's less about playing a who-is-affected-more game. Maybe we should all consider ourselves lucky just for being here to read this. Because five years later, we're still here and we're stronger because of it.