I think by now we all know I work for a professional baseball team as a promo girl. I don't like to blog about it because a.) it's unprofessional and b.) I don't exactly run with a crowd that thinks promo girls in general are rad. Until I hook them up with tickets.
Anyway, on each and every game day, a small plane flies around about two hours before the game starts, and continues throughout the first inning or so, pulling the famous BEES banner. It's a summertime tradition in Salt Lake City; it is adorable, and all-American, and charming. I gaze up at it every time from the park and wonder if Rbf is doing a ridealong up there with the pilot. (Not that you'll ever give me deadlines, but I'm still within my statute of limitations surrounding my year of entitled crazy). It is always a mix of bitter and sweet, as everything in my life seems to be anymore. But, as crashing planes are on my mind all the time, I stare every time and worry that I will see it fall out of the sky, and that the pilot will be killed, and that someone's girlfriend or wife will get that phone call, read that family update, or greet that cop on her doorstep. Because I'm crazy like that.
As I was driving to the ballpark Saturday to work the game, that Bees-banner plane crashed, banner in tow.
It's annoying how we find out these things happen in two stages: first you hear there was a crash. "OK," you say. "Are you saying there was a crash...or that there was a fatality?"
Note to readers from your self-anointed subject-matter-expert: if there isn't a death, I've learned, you learn that right away. The guy was lifeflighted to whatever hospital in whatever condition. Or the guy walked away with minor cuts and bruises.
If the story stops at "our Bees plane just crashed" then you should know to get started with your meltdown right then and there. I know that now. Silly me, got that version of it and had STUPID hope and spent the next 20 STUPID minutes all anxious and worried. And hopeful. And you probably remember my disdain for having hope in those situations. I stood on the field holding a banner and smiling for the jumbotron after the ceremonial first pitch, when our resident announcer takes his place next to me for the promo. And I ask him if we have any news from the team offices, and he gets That Look. And I start crying, because yes, of course the pilot perished. And the girlfriend got that call, the update, the cop. Now she's probably "crazy like that" too. Crazy is a very exclusive sorority. The initiation, we can all agree, is beyond hazing.
One of my dearest friends, Kelly, was simultaneously widowed and paralyzed in a small plane crash, and this weekend was the 14-year anniversary of that accident. Of all the nights she could come to a Bees game to see me, she came to that night's. It's an eery coincidence, but for some reason I was selfishly glad to have her there. I found her on the concourse to chat, which was probably a dumb idea because you ALL know how it goes when you are teetering on waterworks-ing it, and all it takes is a run-in with one of your inner-circle nurturer figures, and it's over. So what do I do? I go find Kelly. I held it together. After all, I'm a paid smile. Kelly kicks immense amounts of ass, and stayed cool when I got ugly-cry-face and delivered the news of that night to her. All she was trying to do was go to a ballgame on that painful weekend with her adorable, amazing husband and not be sad about what happened to her. Apparently, such little comforts just weren't in the cards. I'm sorry, Kelly.
But this is not about Kelly, or the Salt Lake Bees, or me - aside from my paranoia that I am a curse since everything I love turns into plane crashes. This is not my loss, so why did I feel like I was on one of those strap-in free-fall amusement park rides when I got the news while standing on the field, cheesing it with a banner in my hand? I didn't know the pilot or his gfw or his parents. No, all it took was a moment's thought about the woman he left behind, and I was nearly done for the night. That one flash of my mind catapulted me into the deeper, darker corners of my mind. And there's no backing out of there once you've entered.
Now I can't tell you about parents of the departed, or children or coworkers or best friends of the departed. I can't fathom their own shock and sadness. I can't begin to know how to feel for them. But I can ache like a pro for his girlfriend. I can still taste my weird role in that funeral, and I'm obviously still carving out my weird role in its weird aftermath.
All through the weekend and even today I feel, in tandem, her horror as she sees the pictures of his crash site on the news (I was gently given the pictures, two months later, by Rbf's best friend who got them very privately from the Sheriff's office dispatched to the crash site, and nobody else in the world got to see them unless we gave them access). The fact that she is still really in the first 48 hours of shock right now. The horrifying phase she is in right now is something I can barely even think about. That was, for me, the most intense emotional force I've ever endured. I can't even call it "pain." It's beyond it; it's a "force," and it is so dark that all I can say is that it's one shade away from being categorized as evil. The morning after, I think was worse than the first five minutes. I had anxiety all that night, simply anticipating it for her. The next morning, I returned to the ballpark for Sunday's game and stood in the same place on the field while there was a moment of silence for Quinn Falk. He was one year older than Rbf.
But as members of my Board of Loved Ones have noted, I need to not dwell on it. I need to remember that I've already lived that pain, and now I'm 45 weeks in, and that's 45 weeks I'll never have to go through again. And that woman will hit her 45 weeks, and her 1 year, and her 2 year and her 14 year. And with each milestone, she will wonder if she is normal, just like Kelly at 729 weeks. She'll have her first birthday without him, a first of every holiday without him - she will ache even on Halloween.
She will live through the first time his birthday is defined by what age he "would have been." She'll refer to him in the present tense anyway, and gag on her food, and worry that his voicemails will disappear if she doesn't resave them daily. She will probably suffer some degree of damage to her brain from the cortisol, and other emergency chemicals it will overproduce for weeks on end. She will beg God for contact with him, she will beg him directly. She will be asked when she'll be ready to date again, and not know how to answer. She will want to change her name to his anyway. She will glare at his closed casket, and she'll never be the same again. Pretty much that, and about 80 layers deeper, came rushing over me that night.
But as we know, there's more to it than her agony. She will also have so much support from the community that she won't know what to do with all of it. She will know with certainty that someone she loves was able to leave the world in the grandest way he likely believed possible (and you might as well, because we all have to do it in one way or another). She will see him everywhere and in everything, and if she pays attention, she will know when she is in his presence, and she will know that she now has a guardian angel, all her own.
I heard someone quote this in response:
Next post will be lighthearted, I promise.
Anyway, on each and every game day, a small plane flies around about two hours before the game starts, and continues throughout the first inning or so, pulling the famous BEES banner. It's a summertime tradition in Salt Lake City; it is adorable, and all-American, and charming. I gaze up at it every time from the park and wonder if Rbf is doing a ridealong up there with the pilot. (Not that you'll ever give me deadlines, but I'm still within my statute of limitations surrounding my year of entitled crazy). It is always a mix of bitter and sweet, as everything in my life seems to be anymore. But, as crashing planes are on my mind all the time, I stare every time and worry that I will see it fall out of the sky, and that the pilot will be killed, and that someone's girlfriend or wife will get that phone call, read that family update, or greet that cop on her doorstep. Because I'm crazy like that.
As I was driving to the ballpark Saturday to work the game, that Bees-banner plane crashed, banner in tow.
It's annoying how we find out these things happen in two stages: first you hear there was a crash. "OK," you say. "Are you saying there was a crash...or that there was a fatality?"
Note to readers from your self-anointed subject-matter-expert: if there isn't a death, I've learned, you learn that right away. The guy was lifeflighted to whatever hospital in whatever condition. Or the guy walked away with minor cuts and bruises.
If the story stops at "our Bees plane just crashed" then you should know to get started with your meltdown right then and there. I know that now. Silly me, got that version of it and had STUPID hope and spent the next 20 STUPID minutes all anxious and worried. And hopeful. And you probably remember my disdain for having hope in those situations. I stood on the field holding a banner and smiling for the jumbotron after the ceremonial first pitch, when our resident announcer takes his place next to me for the promo. And I ask him if we have any news from the team offices, and he gets That Look. And I start crying, because yes, of course the pilot perished. And the girlfriend got that call, the update, the cop. Now she's probably "crazy like that" too. Crazy is a very exclusive sorority. The initiation, we can all agree, is beyond hazing.
One of my dearest friends, Kelly, was simultaneously widowed and paralyzed in a small plane crash, and this weekend was the 14-year anniversary of that accident. Of all the nights she could come to a Bees game to see me, she came to that night's. It's an eery coincidence, but for some reason I was selfishly glad to have her there. I found her on the concourse to chat, which was probably a dumb idea because you ALL know how it goes when you are teetering on waterworks-ing it, and all it takes is a run-in with one of your inner-circle nurturer figures, and it's over. So what do I do? I go find Kelly. I held it together. After all, I'm a paid smile. Kelly kicks immense amounts of ass, and stayed cool when I got ugly-cry-face and delivered the news of that night to her. All she was trying to do was go to a ballgame on that painful weekend with her adorable, amazing husband and not be sad about what happened to her. Apparently, such little comforts just weren't in the cards. I'm sorry, Kelly.
But this is not about Kelly, or the Salt Lake Bees, or me - aside from my paranoia that I am a curse since everything I love turns into plane crashes. This is not my loss, so why did I feel like I was on one of those strap-in free-fall amusement park rides when I got the news while standing on the field, cheesing it with a banner in my hand? I didn't know the pilot or his gfw or his parents. No, all it took was a moment's thought about the woman he left behind, and I was nearly done for the night. That one flash of my mind catapulted me into the deeper, darker corners of my mind. And there's no backing out of there once you've entered.
Now I can't tell you about parents of the departed, or children or coworkers or best friends of the departed. I can't fathom their own shock and sadness. I can't begin to know how to feel for them. But I can ache like a pro for his girlfriend. I can still taste my weird role in that funeral, and I'm obviously still carving out my weird role in its weird aftermath.
All through the weekend and even today I feel, in tandem, her horror as she sees the pictures of his crash site on the news (I was gently given the pictures, two months later, by Rbf's best friend who got them very privately from the Sheriff's office dispatched to the crash site, and nobody else in the world got to see them unless we gave them access). The fact that she is still really in the first 48 hours of shock right now. The horrifying phase she is in right now is something I can barely even think about. That was, for me, the most intense emotional force I've ever endured. I can't even call it "pain." It's beyond it; it's a "force," and it is so dark that all I can say is that it's one shade away from being categorized as evil. The morning after, I think was worse than the first five minutes. I had anxiety all that night, simply anticipating it for her. The next morning, I returned to the ballpark for Sunday's game and stood in the same place on the field while there was a moment of silence for Quinn Falk. He was one year older than Rbf.
Bees fans observe a moment of silence for Quinn Michael Falk prior to the game. He died Saturday in a plane crash. (Jeffrey B. Allred, Deseret News)
But as members of my Board of Loved Ones have noted, I need to not dwell on it. I need to remember that I've already lived that pain, and now I'm 45 weeks in, and that's 45 weeks I'll never have to go through again. And that woman will hit her 45 weeks, and her 1 year, and her 2 year and her 14 year. And with each milestone, she will wonder if she is normal, just like Kelly at 729 weeks. She'll have her first birthday without him, a first of every holiday without him - she will ache even on Halloween.
She will live through the first time his birthday is defined by what age he "would have been." She'll refer to him in the present tense anyway, and gag on her food, and worry that his voicemails will disappear if she doesn't resave them daily. She will probably suffer some degree of damage to her brain from the cortisol, and other emergency chemicals it will overproduce for weeks on end. She will beg God for contact with him, she will beg him directly. She will be asked when she'll be ready to date again, and not know how to answer. She will want to change her name to his anyway. She will glare at his closed casket, and she'll never be the same again. Pretty much that, and about 80 layers deeper, came rushing over me that night.
But as we know, there's more to it than her agony. She will also have so much support from the community that she won't know what to do with all of it. She will know with certainty that someone she loves was able to leave the world in the grandest way he likely believed possible (and you might as well, because we all have to do it in one way or another). She will see him everywhere and in everything, and if she pays attention, she will know when she is in his presence, and she will know that she now has a guardian angel, all her own.
I heard someone quote this in response:
Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been and there you will always long to return.
-Da Vinci
I hope she knows that. This post is written mainly for her, and maybe someday she will read this...if so, welcome to the GfW sorority. It's very exclusive and it comes at the dearest price. But you're here, and you will - someday - look back and realize that you survived something big.
x and o/km
Video Courtesy of KSL.com
