A Chick in the Cockpit (21 page)

We had a wonderful week of walking on the beach and eating Mexican food. Having my dad there was a great buffer to dampen the strain of our marriage. We could tease each other in front of my dad about real issues we were having, but Brad couldn't use his anger in response since my dad, who'd paid for this trip, was sitting right next to him. Brad was trapped into smiling and giving me a knowing nod. The result is that we had a wonderful week, which gave me a glimmer of hope and excitement for our future. We also both knew this would be our only break before we had two kids in diapers, so we slept as much as possible and detached from the real world.

We came home to find an exhausted but happy grandma Bernice. We thanked her profusely, and as she was walking out the door, she turned around and said, “Oh, by the way, I cleaned out your medicine cabinet and threw away those crazy pills that had Brad's name of them. He doesn't need that stuff anyway. Just witchcraft...”

I was too shocked to respond. Who in this world would go into someone else's medicine cabinet and throw away prescriptions?

That was the end of it. Brad never went back to the psychiatrist again and the pills were gone. I'll never know if it would've worked or not. Like I said before, accidents wouldn't be accidents if only...

Happiness was now two girls in diapers, and book club was where I retrieved my sanity. From the day Piper was born, she rarely napped. Always happy and self-entertaining, she was a comparatively easy child, and I was blessed to have my second child be so easy to please. But the exchange was that I seldom had a quiet moment. From sunup to sunset it was a conveyer belt of food in a child, food out of a child. It was perfect, but I missed the outside world. I didn't even have time to read a book to somehow escape the loneliness. At least when I was flying I could still escape with a book.

Don't tell anyone, but my pilot seat used to make a great reading chair, too. Once an airplane is set on autopilot and is at cruising altitude, a pilot's job switches from actively participating to actively monitoring the situation. While paying attention, pilots are also trying everything they can to pass the time, just like the passengers, so after a few games of Farkle with the other pilot, I'd push my seat back and open a book. Of course we're not “supposed” to, but pilots need constant input, and books kept me thinking. Since I also had to spend long lonely hours commuting to and from work each month, I had time to read a novel each week.

Now, with two kids in diapers demanding round the clock attention, my reading addiction became a physical craving. I didn't just miss the reading, I missed being in the outside world and, just like millions of stay at home moms, reading was the only way for me to escape my four walls and enter another world. If I couldn't leave my house, I could at least live vicariously through the words of others through my books.

My sanity saver during this mom chaos phase of my life was book club. It was that simple. It was the only time where I could engage my brain, be a grown up, and listen to how other adults processed the same words, but took from it a different meaning. I relished when someone had a completely divergent view from what I did. I wanted to know why and how their brain dehydrated the words to find the origin of meaning. The discussions took us off in different directions as we related everything we read to our own lives.

Listening to the intelligence and thoughtfulness of these book club women made me ashamed that I'd ever thought less of the power of women. I had pulled away from this feminine camaraderie for so long because I thought it would make me weak in a man's world, when, in fact, those bonds are stronger than anything man has ever created.

I reveled in split opinions over a book because I could see how each woman's past experiences shaped their perspectives. Listening to their contrasting viewpoints unintentionally triggered my ability to gain the internal strength I needed to thrive in a situation that held me captive. My psyche accepted that I had to live with my abuser for now, but I learned to view it from a different perspective.

While Brad controlled my external actions (I had to watch everything I did and said so as to not make him angry), I was fully in control of my internal feelings, where I could transcend beyond my prison. Since I was struggling with my shame, each moment of joy that I ever experienced was reflexively blotted out by the tall shadow of my self-reproach. Book club taught me to separate the stories and to view each character through my own perspective. I realized that I could have a happy story in my heart. Even though I was trapped, I could still fly. My story didn't change, but the way I viewed it did.

It took years to write the ending of my story, but with their help, I had configured a storyline to allow me to live while I worked toward getting myself out. I concluded I could be simultaneously my own captain and copilot of my own story. My captain character was the old me. When Brad wasn't around, she allowed me to make the most out of every day and accept that it was okay to experience joy, no matter how small it was. She was the one who knew how to soar, but was trapped in the hangar. Since the captain had the most responsibility, she was also the one who held the most shame for what her life had become.

While Brad was home, my copilot character was in charge of us. She was a quiet warrior who knew what to do to survive. She had honed her skills to keep the beast calm. She did as she was told and held her tongue for fear of offending. She was exhausted from having to tiptoe through her life, but carrying the weight made her strong.

With two grandchildren racing through the world, my parents made regular trips out to visit. I relished the visits because Brad would put on a great show for us all. He would help cook and do laundry and all the “honey-do” lists, and he would make himself useful and busy all day. My parents commented how helpful he was, and wasn't it wonderful that he cooked for us. Good God. If they only knew what my life was like when they weren't around. I had never told them anything. I'd never told a soul about my arrest and ensuing year of parole-directed therapy. I'd never told anyone I'd been hit or called every vulgarity one could think of, or that my entire life savings was gone and I couldn't be a pilot again. No one knew except me, and I was going to keep it that way. I disconnected from myself and I wouldn't admit my failure because I'd worked too hard to admit my stupidity. How could I ever explain my subversive life? I wouldn't declare an emergency, even though I'd had a catastrophic, structural failure. I was going to crash, but I needed time and distance before setting it down.

Still unable to get over my constant nightmares about my husband hurting me or my children, I could hardly walk into our nursery without cringing at the memory of being attacked in that room. I couldn't look past the spot on the carpet where the bleach had removed all the color. It was a caustic reminder of the blood I'd spilled from my C-section incision. Blood spilled because of Brad.

Resigned to the realization I would have to tough it out with Brad, I was adamant that we move to another house. It was a superficial fix, but I needed to get out of the negative energy that fermented within these walls. The business had suddenly done very well and the housing market was booming. Our financial future was glowing like a hot star. Moving to another home was a Hail Mary relationship pass—a new home, a new focus, a new life. I thought maybe a shift of scenery would help press the reset button.

I was still worried about our huge debts and thought I could help by eliminating a part time employee and fill in at the office. Brad had told me that he would never allow me to work in our office. We had an argument about it, and I simply said I was coming into the office whether he liked it or not, since it was my company. His lucid reply was that if I came to the office against his wishes, he'd just call the police and tell them I was “out of control again,” and since I had been previously arrested, I'd be sent to jail again. He said it matter-of-factly, without any emotion. I bit back the retort. After all, it wasn't about just me anymore. I had two little girls, so why the hell would I risk
that
to work in the office? I still wanted to be able to contribute to the household income, so I came up with alternative ideas.

We put our home on the market, and I began thinking of a way to make some money at our next destination. I have always loved animals, especially horses, so I was thrilled to find a horse property in Conifer with a four stall barn, electric and water, an arena, and seven flat acres—which is rare in the mountains—and a dirt road that led to miles of trails.

I ran the numbers and realized I could net about eleven hundred dollars per month by boarding horses. It was a work from home dream, and I thought I could take the extra income and use it to pay bills and start a college saving account for the girls. It was a far cry from the six figure income I used to earn, but my pleasure was now in simple things. I schemed that we could also use some of it for vacation and fun money since we hadn't had a vacation since before Piper was born. Finally, maybe we could get ahead of our financial burdens and actually have some fun.

I ran the numbers past Brad and showed him the home. He liked the style of the house; I liked the barn. I showed him how I would make money at this, and with the real estate market booming, it would be a great investment. Brad mentioned that
finally
I'd be contributing to the household income. Brad liked telling people that he was the president of our company, while I, on the other hand, did nothing but “stay at home.” He never mentioned threating to have me arrested if I tried to come to the business that
I
bought for him.

We talked the home seller down forty thousand dollars off the list price and shook hands. We'd already received an offer on our other home, so we set a closing date.

Closing on our new home to start a new life was an abnormal landing. We got it on the ground, but it wasn't pretty. The money we'd counted on from the sale of our house never appeared because the buyers never showed up for the closing, so my dad saved the day by writing us a check for our new house—all the while Brad promised we'd pay him back in a few weeks. But the housing market crashed shortly after we bought the house, and the money took a long time to appear before we could think about paying back the loan to my dad.

In the meantime, it didn't take long before Brad began considering my dad's equity in the home as his. He took out a second mortgage on our house to pay for a new salesman, and I lost focus of our finances because I forgot what normal looked like. I was always operating in emergency mode, looking at one indicator at a time instead of the big picture. I just couldn't see the towering cumulonimbus right in my path because I was so focused on one instrument—my attitude indicator. If I had paid closer attention, I would have realized the instrument was completely upside down.

20
After Landing Checklist

1.
You're still vulnerable to other aircraft, so be vigilant

2.
Electrical load – reduced

3.
Flaps - up

4.
Pay attention to airport markings, especially hold short

5.
You're not done yet

The After Landing Checklist is requested after the flying pilot lands and gets the aircraft safely clear of all runways. The most immediate need is to shed some of the electrical load you'd been demanding of your aircraft. and to bring the flaps up.

In the “Olden Days,” flaps were left in the landing (down) configuration if you were being hijacked and unable to communicate your emergency. It was a visual cue to everyone around that you or your aircraft were in trouble. You can just imagine how many false alarms there were because leaving the flaps down is easy to do because after landing, you are focused on being on the ground and getting the cockpit ready and positioned for the next trip or flight crew. You are also relieved to be back on terra firma and that relief can create complacency. It's important to remind yourself that the flight isn't over until you get to the gate, chock the tires, and shut down the engines.

If the copilot had been flying the leg, there is a moment of transition from pilot to pilot. It's a transfer of control, and in those moments, you have to be both captain and copilot. If the copilot performed the landing, many large aircraft are configured so that the captain is required to taxi to the gate. Because of this, there are a few moments where duties are being transferred, and the copilot goes from flying pilot to radio operator again—all the while completing the after landing checklist. This also means that the copilot has to instantly redirect his/her attention from outside the cockpit to the inside of the cockpit in order to review airport diagrams and taxi instructions. 99.9% of these transitions go without a hitch, but nothing is perfect.

There was an “incident” in 2008 when an Air Tran Airways Boeing 737 had landed and was given instructions to hold short of runway 34R at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport after clearing the runway. The copilot performed the landing and exited the runway on a high-speed taxiway. Without realizing it, the copilot had rolled passed the illuminated hold short line for the other runway and actually stopped right on runway 34R and then gave control of the aircraft to the captain. The captain shifted his attention from inside to outside, not realizing they were on the runway, then called for the After Landing Checklist while simultaneously shutting down the right engine to save fuel (common practice but in this instance, he shut down the engine within 45 seconds of landing. This should be done as time permits). At that exact moment, a Northwest Airline's Airbus 330 was given takeoff clearance on runway 34R—exactly where the Boeing was sitting. The Northwest Airbus blasted down the runway, rotated, and flew right over the top of Air Tran. They missed each other by about 425 feet.

“Diverted attention during taxi” was the root cause of the incident. It only takes a moment to get distracted, and the brief transition period from looking outside to looking within can lead to a disaster. Often, the stress of a difficult landing causes the pilots to let down their guard since it is such a relief to be on the ground. This was just an incident, and the “Wreckage and Impact Information” category on the National Transportation Safety Board was thankfully left blank.

The irony is that the departing aircraft never even saw the other aircraft in their way. They were unaware that they were 425 feet away from death until they got to their destination. The problem during takeoff is that forward and downward visibility is partially blocked during rotation as enough lift is created to rotate and pull the nose wheel off the ground, but the rest of the aircraft still needs a little more airspeed and lift before it is ready to fly. The departing aircraft performed a normal takeoff and departure, not realizing there was another aircraft on the runway. Maybe it's best that the crew never saw the aircraft sitting on the runway—who knows how they would've reacted? Maybe they would have yanked back on the yoke and tried to fly before they had enough airspeed which might have resulted in a stall, right into the other aircraft.

Somewhere in my landing, I transferred control. Since I was busy chasing two little girls, I unknowingly, handed over control, assuming I would get it back. When I finally pulled my head out of the cockpit and looked around, I realized it was too late and that I was committed to my forward momentum. I could see the cliff closing in as I careened towards the end of the runway.

Our new little ranch was situated at 8500 feet in Conifer and I could almost touch the airplanes I used to fly. Since the housing market had crashed and the other business was struggling, I quickly filled up my barn and time with other people's horses. I had been around horses most of my life, but this was the first time I was solely responsible for their care. I also had the new dynamic of dealing with horse owners, and they were more of a pain in the ass than the horses were.

The first lesson I learned rather quickly was that each horse produces about fifty pounds of waste every single day. Roughly in a year, with four to six horses, I was moving about 73,000 pounds of manure and pee, by myself. I would strap Piper into the Baby Bjorn on the front of me and put Lindsey in the backpack and we'd all go out and clean the barn. Within weeks, I had developed lower back pain that wouldn't go away and created a constant level of agony that eventually made me nauseous. Never before believing in chiropractic, I was willing to try anything to get some relief. I was grateful that after just two sessions, I was once again pain free.

Instead of doing all this manual labor with two kids strapped to me, I opted to just get up before Brad left for work so he could watch the kids while I cleaned the barn. Seven days a week, fifty two weeks a year, I would head out in all weather and take care of my magnificent beasts. Brad wouldn't let me get my own horse again, so I had people paying me to feed my addiction. I didn't get to ride them, but I was grateful for their presence.

Like a Buddhist monk in training, I found a level of Zen being out in the silence of the barn while I shoveled shit. Brad hated to be out there, so the compromise was that he kept an eye on the girls while I went to work. The fifty feet to the barn was a great commute. I'd get most of my chores done in an hour, walk in the house while simultaneously Brad was walking out. Most days, the girls would still be sleeping so they'd wake up to find me dirty and reeking of manure, but wide awake and ready to start our day.

Horses are notorious fence breakers. The mares kick and squeal and, inevitably, they'd nail a fence with their hoof. At first, Brad would help out with some of the repairs around the barn and paddocks, but after a while, if I needed help, he would charge me.

Since the move to Conifer, the economy had completely collapsed. The housing sector, which was where our business was, had receded to the depths of hell. We barely had enough home closings to pay the mortgage, so the money I earned from boarding horses was now the only thing putting food in the fridge, which made Brad
charging
me for repairs all the more insane. What was once fun money was now feeding and clothing us. The money I earned boarding these horses filled his stomach with food, as well as his children's, yet he charged me for his help. His justification was that he already had a job and that he'd never agreed to two.

The hours spent in the barn alone saved me. It was those serene moments in the wee hours of the morning that drove my spirit to break free from the shackles of someone who wanted to control and give rise from someone else's pain. I knew I needed to prepare quietly, with extreme patience and focus. These hours of contemplation while shoveling shit gave me strength and focus. The Zen saying,
Before Enlightenment; chop wood, carry water. After Enlightenment; chop wood, carry water
looped in my brain. I just changed it to throw hay, shovel poo. It was the drawing in of my focus that changed me.

To Brad's dismay, I applied and was accepted to the University of Denver's continuing education program in the fall of 2008. Brad probably thought my criminal record would be cause for denial of entry to college, but fortunately they don't ask, so I didn't have to tell. They accepted some of my credits from the University of Minnesota, but none of my aviation credits at Embry-Riddle. Even though I had almost four years of college already under my belt, the best case scenario was that if I took classes every single quarter, without a break for three years, I would get my BA degree. So I spent the next few weeks applying for several scholarships and won a Daniels Fund Scholarship that would pay a significant chunk. Landing check complete.

I learned more in three years than I had in my previous forty years combined. Since online classes are heavily reliant on research papers, I excelled. I flourished in the hours of research, interviews, and Turabian style. I reminisced how I'd once been very smart, and I could be smart again. I shoveled shit for my girls, not for me. I inhaled information about globalization, international economics, financial instability hypotheses, and I conjured up visions of grandeur working at the World Trade Organization. The college experience at forty bolstered my confidence that I could once again be a driving force in this world.

The University of Denver is known for its travel abroad requirements to complete your degree. In my Global Studies program, I was required to visit a foreign country. I tried to wiggle my way out of the seven day trip by explaining that I'd been to twenty-two countries and couldn't I just write a research paper on another country's economic structure? The answer was an unequivocal “no,” which meant I had to go to Quebec City, Canada. Geez, really, eh? This is not what I considered a foreign experience, but in July of my second year, I was heading to Canada for my “foreign travel” experience.

The trip allowed me to think about myself, and I hadn't done that for years. The person I used to be gasped in the mirror at my reflection.
Hey, I remember you! What happened to that encompassing smile you were born with, that twinkle in your eye, that contentment that comes from knowing who you are and what you want? What happened? Did you remember the basic rule to just fly the airplane? What? No checklist for this particular emergency? So what? You're the manufacturer, make your own...

I came home from Quebec with a refreshed attitude because I'd found the “old me” again—the Me who knew how to take control of her life. My captain me. I didn't care what Brad thought of me, and I didn't try to hide my disdain of his existence. I stopped pretending. I flat out told him “no” to things I wouldn't do or agree with, and he was taken aback at my change in behavior.

Since I had been gone for a week and my mom-guilt was overwhelming, I decided to plan a day out with the girls the day after I got back. That morning, I had Lindsey on my lap and we were looking online for information on children's activities in the area. We had a new desktop computer, and I was still getting used to the functions. I was Googling “Jump Street” and accidentally clicked on a previous selection of Brad's which turned out to be the furthest thing from a children's activity. Lindsey got an eyeful of completely naked women showing their most prized possessions. Lindsey thought it was hysterical that a grown woman would forget to put her clothes on.

I sent Lindsey to the kitchen for an apple and clicked on “view history.” Page after page of pornographic websites appeared. Mostly run of the mill porn, but a few had girls that were dressed like little school girls—pigtails and uniforms, minus the shirt. Some of the sites were truly hardcore and others with sadomasochistic themes. I really didn't give a damn that he was looking at porn, but it wasn't just a little. I had caught him looking at porn many times before, but now it was hundreds of sites, and some of them were chat rooms. Now I knew why Brad was so adamant that we get Skype hooked up to the computer.

Considering our deteriorating lives, I didn't blame Brad for turning to porn. We're human with human desires, and I understood the need for a sexual outlet, but Brad was raising two little girls and his thinking that this was okay didn't sit well with me. Not only did I not want this in my home, it just added to the misogynistic view that Brad had of women—that women were just objects to use and abuse.

That night, I told Brad what I had found. He said his behavior was completely normal and that, once again, I was the one with the problem. “So what if I've been looking at porn since I was sixteen? Get over it. Every guy does.” He said he would find a marriage counselor the next day to prove that his behavior was “normal.”

My reply: “Please do.”

“Actually no, viewing pornography every day is not a normal or healthy activity,” explained Bridgette to Brad, marriage counselor number two. She ran through the wide variety of pitfalls that pornography had on a relationship and marriage.

“Pornography all too often crosses the line into addiction. Those people who exhibit a pathological pursuit of rewards can easily become addicted (I liked that term “pathological pursuit of rewards” because it described Brad; he took everything from everybody and moved on). It also desensitizes men who are in a relationship with a woman, which can dehumanize her, and is often the breakdown in a marriage. The woman also feels like she could never live up to the images the man sees. And it's true. She can't. Most of the images are digitally corrected and, of course, most of the bodies have been surgically altered, if you know what I mean.”

Bridgette was young with two boys of her own. Her analysis of our situation was blunt, to the point, and emotional because she often gave advice in the context of a mother's point of view. She was teary-eyed when discussing our situation and the effect it was having on our children. I liked her. Brad hated her.