Day Dream Believer at 30,000 Feet

(Sorry, this isn’t about the Monkees’ song, though Davy Jones is fantastic on that tune. But stick with me.)

In my dad’s final year of life (he was 88), he was still active. At least as active as he could be. He had given up driving, and walking was difficult. Still he persisted in living as much as he could.

One day he decided to trim some backyard bushes, a task he had done a million times in his long life. He loved working outdoors, the sweat glistening on his sun-kissed skin. In my youth, he had a habit of firing up the mower just outside my window at 7am on Saturdays, a not so gentle reminder that schoolwork wasn’t the only work to do.

But on this day, his 88-year old body betrayed him. I wasn’t there when he fell face first into a half-trimmed bush, the shoots slicing skin. I showed up the a few days later, after his ER visit and some rest. When I saw him, I was stunned by the cuts and punctures all over his face and neck and hands and arms. Blotchy patches of red and purple bruises radiated from his paper-thin skin. He looked like had been locked in a room full of angry bobcats.

It’s surprising, stunning really, to see your parent in that condition. I didn’t want to point and react or ask too many questions. Clearly, he was embarrassed, his pride wounded more than his body. Falling face first into the shards of a bush, he didn’t want much conversation on that topic. So, I lied and said it didn’t look too bad.

He had tried to do something simple and normal, and his body had betrayed him, as if he needed another reminder of his mortality at 88.

On a flight from Dallas to Fresno, I recalled this incident last week. Sitting alone in 17D, I had little else to do, my mind wandering from memory to memory. I finally drifted off to a frustrated sleep, maybe twenty minutes until I gave up. Annoyed, I pulled out my laptop and began to write.

Do you remember the scene in Apollo 13 when the crew is having fun with weightlessness? It’s pretty cool stuff watching the actors flip around, float duct tape to one another, like big kids in a bouncehouse. (If you’re curious how they achieved zero-gravity, check out this two-minute clip.)

I ask the question because with no warning my Denver-bound Southwest flight simultaneously banked hard (and I mean hard) left and dropped. I threw my hands on my laptop as it began to rise from the tray table. It was like a horrible magic trick, not Hollywood make-believe.

Past 17D there was an audible gasp from my fellow passengers, followed by absolute silence. I glanced up to see if oxygen masks were falling from the heavens; they were not.

The entire event lasted no more than ten seconds, though the emotions persisted. The pilot righted the plane, and we continued roughly until we landed in Denver. The couple next to me locked hands, and the woman across the aisle pulled a small bottle from her purse and drained it. She wasn’t drinking alone.

Upon landing, I heard loud sighs. Lots of sighs. Finally at the gate, the dude behind me remarked, “I wonder who shot the missile forcing the pilot make that evasive maneuver?” He wasn’t the only one trying to console himself with comedic relief. A woman mused to no one in particular, “Southwest needs to stop buying their gas at Costco.” Ah, the comfort of near gallows humor.

And no, there was never an announcement from the pilot or flight attendants about what had happened.

For ten seconds, somewhere over Colorado, I was convinced my plane would crash. Dead certain, in fact. Like many of you, I’m guessing, I’ve wondered how my end would come. In that moment, I knew I would corkscrew into a dive, followed by an impressive fireball in the Rocky Mountains. I would be a headline, the lead story on the news.

Back to that ten seconds on the plane. I actually thought, “Hmm, I never dreamed I would die in a plane crash.” I’ve never been more afraid or more aware of death. It was the scariest moment of my life. (Spoiler alert: I did not, in fact, die in a plane crash.)

Yet in freefall, I was terrified AND peaceful. I never knew those feelings could co-exist. My faith in Jesus was tangible, as real as the laptop I was holding down or the seatbelt restraining me. I didn’t want to die, but I was ready.

Honestly, that surprised me. I’ve always feared death, musing I would “die stupid.” Like maybe I would drive the wrong way down a one-way street and not even realize it until a bus hit me. Or I would dig out a reluctant piece of bread from the toaster but forget to unplug it. A plane crash? That was never on my radar.

Later, I reflected again on my dad. His bush-trimming incident had hurt and humiliated him. It was a graphic reminder of his mortality. I could have mentioned that when I saw him, but I’m sure his response would have been something like, “Ya damn fool. I just lost my balance and fell. Getting old is the shits.”

To be clear, he wouldn’t have been wrong. I’m 66 now, and it ain’t easy. I receive mail offers from cemeteries for discounted plots. As a writer, I’m not interested in those plots just yet. Plus, Facebook keeps showing me lists of my life to come.

Today, I’m alive and well and back at my writing office, aka Jason’s Deli. The incident at 30,000 feet, I’ll call that a gift. It isn’t often I’m shaken to my core with visceral fear, reminded of my temporal place on this side of heaven. I’ll live as well and as long as I can, continuing to write and teach and think as I am able. As we know, nothing is guaranteed.

I know that even more now. I had a preview, a quick snack with the Reaper.

I have no grand resolutions moving forward, no revised bucket list or sudden shifts in life. One thing I’m pretty sure of, though. When the shrubs grow tall in front of my house, I’ll call my landscapers to do the work.

Thanks for reading!

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