New Jersey border, only twelve miles from
midtown Manhattan. It’s a short drive to the hospital where Traci will get surgery
for severe epilepsy.
I don’t ask many questions of my
passengers because they might not want to talk. I can respect that. But the
nonprofit I make these runs for gives me a little information just so that I
can be prepared.
Traci’s on nine medications and still
having more than forty epileptic seizures a day. Her best chance at a normal
life is surgery to divide the hemispheres of her brain. She’ll have to relearn
how to do everything—even how to see.
So I’m deeply humbled after we land when
she tells me—eyes wide and excited—about the thrill of seeing the
Manhattan skyline in the distance as we approached.
“I love it, too,” I agree. “I’m so glad
you gave me the chance to fly here. Will you let me fly you home after you’ve
recovered?”
She nods exuberantly, and catches me a
bit off guard when she hugs me after climbing out of my plane. My throat
catches—whose wouldn’t?—and I ache to hold my own kid again, remind
myself that she is well. Even though I’m only asked to make these runs once or
twice a month, these precious hours with these families makes me appreciate
every day that the only worry I have about Hannah is whether she’ll focus
enough to get through her homework tonight.
I’m lucky. So Goddamn lucky.
“I can’t thank you enough for doing
this,” Traci’s mom tells me after her daughter has climbed into the awaiting
car. “Driving is so hard on her at this point. I never know when she’ll have a
seizure.”
“It’s my pleasure. Call me when you need
a flight back. Or if your husband gets time off work and can join you in New
York while she’s recovering. I’m glad to fly him here.” I hand her a post-it
note with my phone number on it, and my first name. Just my first name.
I wear a different hat when I do these
trips, quite literally—a beat-up baseball cap advertising Pop’s donuts
that was given to me by a six-year-old cancer patient who lost her hair during
chemo. I wear it to remind me that sometimes the people I meet on these runs have
happy endings. Kaylee Mitchell did. It’s been three years and she’s in
remission.
But I also like that no one recognizes me
as a billionaire CEO when I wear my cap. Today, I’m just a guy with a plane.
I started doing this right after the
divorce. Hannah was still with her mother most of the time, back then, and I’d
been eager to take on an excuse to get my bird up in the air more often.
What I hadn’t expected is how much it would
change the way I value everyone in my life, especially my daughter.
Outside of being a dad, flying these
people to where they need to go is the part of my life that I cherish the most.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I watch
their car head off toward Manhattan. I slide it out and see my father’s photo
appear on the screen. A pinch of worry bites my stomach. My dad isn’t usually
one to call me on the weekends. Weekends tend to be Mom territory. I can’t help
immediately worrying about Hannah. She’s with them this afternoon. “Hey, Dad,”
I answer.
“Son. You still with Amelia?”
“Yep. We’re in Teterboro. Is everything
all right?”
“Fine. Your mother and Hannah are baking
a pie. When were you planning on heading home?”
“I’ll be flying out in a few. Just going
to fill up the tank and check the weather.”
“That’s why I’m calling. We’re under a
severe thunderstorm warning here. Your mother didn’t want you flying in it. There
are a couple tornados in Pennsylvania too, according to some weather app she downloaded on her phone or something.”
He says the word “app” with considerable
disdain. He hates his smartphone, probably more because Mom makes him wear it
on his waist just in case his mind gives way to another spell of vascular
dementia and he wanders off to God-knows-where. One of those apps he detests
will help us
midtown Manhattan. It’s a short drive to the hospital where Traci will get surgery
for severe epilepsy.
I don’t ask many questions of my
passengers because they might not want to talk. I can respect that. But the
nonprofit I make these runs for gives me a little information just so that I
can be prepared.
Traci’s on nine medications and still
having more than forty epileptic seizures a day. Her best chance at a normal
life is surgery to divide the hemispheres of her brain. She’ll have to relearn
how to do everything—even how to see.
So I’m deeply humbled after we land when
she tells me—eyes wide and excited—about the thrill of seeing the
Manhattan skyline in the distance as we approached.
“I love it, too,” I agree. “I’m so glad
you gave me the chance to fly here. Will you let me fly you home after you’ve
recovered?”
She nods exuberantly, and catches me a
bit off guard when she hugs me after climbing out of my plane. My throat
catches—whose wouldn’t?—and I ache to hold my own kid again, remind
myself that she is well. Even though I’m only asked to make these runs once or
twice a month, these precious hours with these families makes me appreciate
every day that the only worry I have about Hannah is whether she’ll focus
enough to get through her homework tonight.
I’m lucky. So Goddamn lucky.
“I can’t thank you enough for doing
this,” Traci’s mom tells me after her daughter has climbed into the awaiting
car. “Driving is so hard on her at this point. I never know when she’ll have a
seizure.”
“It’s my pleasure. Call me when you need
a flight back. Or if your husband gets time off work and can join you in New
York while she’s recovering. I’m glad to fly him here.” I hand her a post-it
note with my phone number on it, and my first name. Just my first name.
I wear a different hat when I do these
trips, quite literally—a beat-up baseball cap advertising Pop’s donuts
that was given to me by a six-year-old cancer patient who lost her hair during
chemo. I wear it to remind me that sometimes the people I meet on these runs have
happy endings. Kaylee Mitchell did. It’s been three years and she’s in
remission.
But I also like that no one recognizes me
as a billionaire CEO when I wear my cap. Today, I’m just a guy with a plane.
I started doing this right after the
divorce. Hannah was still with her mother most of the time, back then, and I’d
been eager to take on an excuse to get my bird up in the air more often.
What I hadn’t expected is how much it would
change the way I value everyone in my life, especially my daughter.
Outside of being a dad, flying these
people to where they need to go is the part of my life that I cherish the most.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I watch
their car head off toward Manhattan. I slide it out and see my father’s photo
appear on the screen. A pinch of worry bites my stomach. My dad isn’t usually
one to call me on the weekends. Weekends tend to be Mom territory. I can’t help
immediately worrying about Hannah. She’s with them this afternoon. “Hey, Dad,”
I answer.
“Son. You still with Amelia?”
“Yep. We’re in Teterboro. Is everything
all right?”
“Fine. Your mother and Hannah are baking
a pie. When were you planning on heading home?”
“I’ll be flying out in a few. Just going
to fill up the tank and check the weather.”
“That’s why I’m calling. We’re under a
severe thunderstorm warning here. Your mother didn’t want you flying in it. There
are a couple tornados in Pennsylvania too, according to some weather app she downloaded on her phone or something.”
He says the word “app” with considerable
disdain. He hates his smartphone, probably more because Mom makes him wear it
on his waist just in case his mind gives way to another spell of vascular
dementia and he wanders off to God-knows-where. One of those apps he detests
will help us
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