7: A Life in Flight

Reading time: 17 minutes

Thanks for joining me! This email contains the seventh chapter of my “Dreaming In the Real” manuscript. We are almost finished with Part One, Digging Through the Rubble, nine chapters of the historical timeline. Soon, you will be entering a magical and healing journey in nature. Bi-weekly episodes reveal how immersing myself in the natural world while preparing vibrational essences helped me gain insight and healing after my adult life crumbled due to the unaddressed trauma of childhood adversity. I hope my story inspires you to seek deeper self-awareness and connect to nature’s wisdom and transformative power.

PLEASE START HERE to access the episode list and preceding chapters.

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“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”  ~ Rumi

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DURING MY FIFTH year in Alaska, I met the man who would become my husband, all thanks to his grandmother. I had met her while visiting my parents in California. She gave me his phone number and encouraged me to call him when I returned home, but I didn’t. I forgot. I had no shortage of suitors. She pestered him until he called me, and we met at the McHugh Creek trailhead outside of Anchorage. I took some friends as backup in case he turned out to be undesirable, but he wasn’t.

Our first real date was at the Merrill Field Airport in a hangar where he was staying as he modified and updated his Piper Super Cub bush airplane. He wore wire-rimmed John Denver-style glasses and a leather pilot's jacket. His deft fingers played Gordon Lightfoot songs on an old acoustic guitar, and his deep, liquid, resonant voice reached deep into my heart. He seemed as solid as if the earth beneath his feet could fall away around him, and he wouldn't even notice.

Brad worked as a bush pilot in McGrath, a small town and village on the Kuskokwim River with just a few hundred residents. I visited McGrath and soon realized that Brad was clear about his career path and committed to making it happen. He knew what he wanted. My path was unclear and full of obstacles. Besides a desire for connection, I was unsure about my desires and had no long-term goals. We fell in love despite our differences, or maybe because of them.

In late October 1986, we towed an old horse trailer filled with our belongings behind my Camaro Z/28 down the Alcan highway, which included several hundred miles of dirt road. We were going to get married in Auburn, California, with our friends and family present, and Connie would be my matron of honor. After two weeks of hectic last-minute organizing, my dad gave me away with a sigh of relief, and I took a new last name as the perfect redemption.

At our joyful reception, a woman from my parents' neighborhood took me aside. She told me that my mom's health was suffering now because of the trouble I caused her as a teenager. Carrying a lifetime of guilt about my teen behavior and being unable to help my mom, I looked down in shame and agreed, "I know."

The memory still haunts me. It's heartbreaking that, as a young woman, I carried so much familial shame I didn't even question the validity of her ill-timed comment.

TEN DAYS LATER, we left to help Brad's former colleague start a commuter airline in Pago Pago, American Samoa. We spent the first few months on Oahu where Brad worked seven days a week at the airport preparing the aircraft, and I worked four days at a Waikiki travel agency.

The owners of Samoa Air were not happy that I was there. Brad getting married and bringing his wife was not part of their agreement, and they didn't include me in company socializing. Most nights, Brad called from a bar or restaurant to tell me he would be home late because he had to wait for a ride from a co-worker as we couldn't afford taxis or rental cars, and the bus schedule didn't coincide with his erratic hours. If he could, I knew he would have returned to the hotel. He wasn't a drinker or night owl. So, Brad shared his meals with the crew, and I saw my new husband briefly in the morning and late at night when he was exhausted. During my alone time, I explored Waikiki with my portable CD player and Paul Simon's Graceland as the soundtrack to my new life.

On the South Pacific island of Tutuila, our lives centered around Samoa Air. I worked at the ticket counter and handled baggage, while Brad worked long hours, seven days a week, flying and maintaining the aircraft. He was determined to earn his commercial captain's license, so he never took a day off. As a result, we didn't have much time together.

During my free time, I snorkeled, beachcombed, and learned how to make Samoan dishes. Oka, a delicious mixture of raw fish, lime, and fresh coconut milk, remains my favorite. I also became close friends with Tasalaotele, a coworker and the first female commercial pilot in American Samoa. We were both thrill-seekers and enjoyed lying flat on the tarmac at the end of the international runway, where 747s landed and took off just feet above us. We also liked gathering spiny lobsters during low tide and watching the waves crash on the rocks below the dramatic cliffs of Turtle and Shark Cove. Legends tell that an elderly grandmother and granddaughter jumped into the sea from the cliffs after being cast out of their village during a famine and later reappeared to the villagers as a turtle and a shark.

AFTER SIX MONTHS on the island, Brad met a goal for flight hours, and we decided the Samoa Air experience was no longer the best for us. He found work with a friend, his best man at our wedding, and a helicopter pilot working outside of Sacramento. We moved to northern California, close to my parents, friends, and his grandmother. I fantasized about creating shared life goals, hoping we would now shape a life that worked for both of us.

I secured a corporate job in Rancho Cordova, working as a travel services and meetings administrator in the technical sector of the growing cable television industry. My role involved long hours planning travel for our employees and orchestrating events and conferences. During work-related travels, I attended HBO and Showtime events, where I occasionally danced and rubbed elbows with celebrities. I received various work-related rewards and bonuses, including weekend stays in wine country and a two-week, all-expense-paid trip to French Polynesia for two. Money was tight, so these rewards allowed Brad and me to enjoy some fun experiences together, even though they weren’t his cup of tea. He yearned for the rugged wilderness of Alaska, backcountry skiing, and camping in the snow rather than island beach resorts.

I became pregnant about a year after settling into a small apartment complex in the El Dorado foothills, which we co-managed to save money. Two weeks into my second trimester, I had some spotting, and an ultrasound revealed our avocado-sized fetus with tiny arms and legs no longer had a heartbeat. I could barely endure the torture of carrying our dead bay inside of me, but the doctor said it was best to let the miscarriage proceed naturally.

Brad was at a bachelor party when the contractions started. As the pain and intensity increased, I doubled over with pain, passing blood clots and tissue. I called Brad and asked him to come home, but he was committed to staying with his long-time friend. Suddenly, I was thirteen years old again with a broken arm, waiting for my mom to pick me up from school. I don't remember when Brad came home, but I was alone when we lost our baby.

After the miscarriage, Brad kept his feelings to himself. I had no idea if he was also struggling or grieving. My efforts to create a sense of connection and belonging seemed to wither away while the familiar feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy flourished.

ONCE DAILY LIFE was back to almost normal, Brad and I flew to Alaska to fly his Piper Cub home to California. When I called my mom from the Anchorage airport to let her know we had filed our flight plan, my dad answered.

“Your mom has been in bed for three days. I don’t know what to do,” he said.

“What do you mean you don’t know what to do? Can you get her to the hospital?”

“No, she’s barely conscious, and I can’t lift her.”

“Call an ambulance, Dad!”

Later that day, bad weather forced Brad to land his small bush plane on a remote logging road surrounded by spruce trees near the Alaska and British Columbia border. I used the border station radio phone to call my dad. It turns out my mom was in the hospital, recovering from alcohol poisoning and malnutrition. The doctor told my dad that if she had been drinking anything other than beer, she would probably be dead. The carbohydrates kept her alive. However, the doctor warned her that if she continued to drink, she would die.

We slept on the floor of the border station that night, waiting for the storm to pass. By morning, we were ready to face the challenge ahead. One of the border crossing agents stood to watch for approaching logging trucks on the narrow dirt road as we attempted to take off uphill with the wind—the only way out. Even with my limited understanding of aerodynamics, I knew we needed a headwind to provide lift. In the back seat of the tiny two-seater airplane, I watched Brad scramble to keep the plane in the air. We barely reached the tips of the trees before we crashed back to the ground, destroying the little plane Brad had invested so much of his money, time, and energy. We were unhurt but stranded in Skagway, Alaska, for days, waiting for an FAA investigation and someone to clear away the wreckage.

MY MOM NEVER drank again. Unable to face the circumstances of her life, she chain-smoked, feeding progressive emphysema and depression and draining her vitality. She ate ice cream every night and still lost weight. She coped with her disintegrating physical and mental health with determined denial, dashing my hopes that her sobriety would provide the opportunity to reconnect with her on a deeper level.

IN 1989, BRAD and I bought a small house with financial help from his grandmother, a fixer-upper on an acre outside of Jackson in the El Dorado foothills. Brad built a new deck, and I planted a garden, but the house never got fixed.

Instead, we became a unifying force in our local extended family. I organized and hosted holidays and birthday celebrations with both sides of our families. Even with bare subflooring and unfinished sheetrock, everyone thought we were the perfect couple living an ideal life. We enjoyed being together, doing simple things, and spending time with friends. Brad had access to one of his employer’s helicopters and a small airplane, so we occasionally traveled to Tahoe for shows and to Montana to visit his family.

In the spring of 1990, a month after my twenty-ninth birthday with the fragrant narcissus in full bloom, our son Tyler was born. Unlike my mom, I gave birth naturally, without medication. Connie gave Brad a break, coaching me through the final contractions while holding my knees to my chest. Tyler was slow to emerge, and when his heart rate fell, the doctor performed an episiotomy, cutting so deep he severed my pudendal artery. I lost consciousness for a moment but gained a beautiful son with wide-eyed awareness.

Brad and I cherished each moment of parenthood. We playfully fought over our time with Tyler, even the diaper changes. We were close and loved having a baby in our lives. I chose to breastfeed, and both grew and made homemade organic baby food. We used cloth diapers when disposable diapers were all the rage, filling my need for a simple life. We were building the kind of home and family I didn’t have growing up, but it didn’t last long.

Brad couldn’t achieve his career goals in his current position. As a result, he decided to take a job in Alaska that required a six-month extended stay. He believed that this would provide him with the experience needed to find a better job closer to home. We were both aware that his career could potentially take him away from home, but the thought of raising Tyler alone overwhelmed me. Before we got married, he promised me that he wouldn't leave for extended periods of time.

With Tyler not yet a year old, we recorded a videotape of Brad playing with, singing, and talking to his baby boy. We didn’t want Tyler to forget his dad. Tyler watched the papa-tape every day his dad was gone, and I worked full time, commuting an hour each way to Rancho Cordova. My parents brought me groceries and baby clothes from time to time, but my mom wasn’t strong enough to hold a baby, let alone help me care for him.

I had been taking night classes at a local community college but had to quit, feeding the shame over my past failures with school. But I couldn’t do everything. When Brad told me he wouldn’t live where I would need to be to work in marine biology, I realized my aspirations weren’t a priority anyway, so I joined a local wildlife rescue group. Caring for injured birds at home distracted me from thoughts that my expectations of entrusting my heart and life to another may have been wrong.

After Brad's six-month absence, a new job took him out of state again. He bought a small camp trailer and lived in helicopter logging camps in Oregon for two or three weeks at a time. It was better than being gone for six months, but I grew resentful as my energy stretched thin. When our time together dwindled, so did our connection. Brad had a perfect job to avoid the stressors of parenting and home life, but I was right in the middle of it.

He didn't understand my concern for my mom or how the dynamics between my parents had affected my childhood and now my adulthood so profoundly. When I shared my feelings about our family dysfunction, he dismissed me, saying that he didn't think the dynamic between my parents was all that bad. Even after witnessing my dad shut down my mom in a violent outburst, shaming her with disparaging name-calling during a recent conversation around the dining room table.

How I coped with life's challenges probably made me hard to live with. Perhaps Brad was wise to be away. I was living through the filter of my wounds, unknowingly repeating patterns from my childhood in my marriage. Specifically, I set my needs aside for someone who didn't acknowledge that I had any. I was following a codependent belief that if I fulfilled someone else's wants and needs, they would do the same for me.

Wanting to fill our home with love and life, I adopted a corgi mix and two long-haired white cats from the local animal shelter. Tyler and our three furry friends distracted me from the stress and anxiety growing within. Connie’s kids were a bit older than mine, but we still spent time together when we could. Two of my other close friends had their firstborn children around the same time as me, and we enjoyed mom and kid activities together, including birthday parties, camping, and excursions to zoos and wildlife theme parks. I was building a life apart from Brad.

Having Tyler to love and care for was my saving grace. I read all the latest child-rearing books and relied on my tried-and-true survival mechanisms of holding myself to unrelenting standards. I became a super mom, super daughter, and super employee. I wasn’t aware that my need to please others was eroding my identity, but I knew the stress of doing everything alone was too much. I lost weight—twenty pounds my slender body couldn’t spare.

IN THE FALL of 1991, my mom was diagnosed with advanced nasopharyngeal cancer and inoperable stage four lung cancer. She gave up smoking just like she did drinking—cold turkey. Because she wouldn't survive anesthesia, the surgeon removed her septum, upper palate, and most of her upper lip using a local anesthetic while she was awake.

It took all my strength to clean and dress her wounds while not revealing my horror in the face of her suffering. I could hardly breathe. Bearing her pain was like trying to carry the world. Unable to survive reconstructive surgery, she wore a paper surgical mask to cover the hole that was once her face. She was being erased.

On the morning of her surgery, I took a pregnancy test, and both indicator dots turned pink, indicating that I was pregnant. Just as I had a strong feeling that our first baby was a boy, I had a strong feeling that this baby was a girl. Being a mom was the most rewarding part of my life, but at that moment, the heartache I felt for my mom overshadowed the joy.

My mom’s care became a priority. After paying taxes and childcare expenses out of my small salary, our health insurance was my only job benefit. I cashed in my company stock to extend the insurance coverage and left my full-time job and two-hour commute. I began designing campaign posters for local politicians and brochures, logos, and business cards for small business owners, but exhaustion and stress got the better of me. Eight months into my pregnancy, I came down with pneumonia and a strep infection. Brad came home from work early to watch Tyler, and I spent five days in the hospital attached to oxygen, IV antibiotics, and a fetal monitor.

As I spent more time taking care of my mom, my dad became more distant. I showed him I loved him with hugs he didn't return, helping with his chores and making his meals. I was hoping for his reassurance that he loved me—something I would never receive. I didn't realize it then, but his patterns of being quick to anger, withdrawing, dismissing, belittling, and depriving himself and his family of pleasure and affection were all coping mechanisms resulting from unaddressed trauma. The harsh and controlling man had lost himself in his inner turmoil. I think his inability to love others caused him to suffer as much as my mom and I combined.

OUR DAUGHTER WAS BORN in May 1992, in the warmth of almost summer—a little bundle of love named Katherine Delores, after my mom and Brad’s. She was headstrong, tenacious, and fiercely determined even as an infant.

With a new baby, a toddler, pets, and a mostly absentee husband, when my mom’s cancer progressed, I quit working altogether. Even without a job, the daily round-trip drive to Auburn on winding foothill roads to care for my mom was more than I could handle. Fortunately, a hospice nurse came twice weekly to bathe her and check her vitals and medications. I was grateful when Nancy began to spend more time with our mom, giving me some time to rest. She and I grew closer, almost like sisters but not quite friends.

Ironically, towards the end of her life, my mom received a sizable inheritance from her aunt. She had her own money for the first time and maintained the only control she had known over a bank account we shared. She generously gave money to her grandchildren and bought gifts for everyone she loved. Together, we arranged her memorial, which included renting a large bed and breakfast in Mendocino for her extended family and renting a helicopter for Brad to fly us over the coastline to scatter her ashes. She instructed me to keep the balance of the money after her passing. My relationship with Brad was suffering and my future was uncertain, and she felt Nancy didn’t need it.

It was spring when my mom’s world shrunk to a hospital bed in her home art studio. She refused to take the oral morphine the doctor prescribed for her pain, and when her organs began shutting down, she stopped sleeping. Nancy and I spent these intense, emotionally charged nights with her, watching her speak to unseen beings. One night, she jumped out of bed, exclaiming to someone we couldn’t see, “No, I’m not ready to go yet.” 

In the end, she was ashamed of her emaciated appearance. I was the only person she wanted near her, plus her boy, Tyler, and baby, Katie. Everyone else was hurt and upset with me for enforcing her wishes, but they honored them. When the pain seemed more than she could bear, I asked her if she was ready to go. Lacking the strength to speak, she nodded and squeezed my hand. I called her doctor and told him what was happening. He prescribed phenobarbital, a standard end-of-life palliative sedation, and told me she would never wake up once she took it. Wanting her transition to be peaceful, I quickly drove the two miles to the pharmacy.

With her and I alone in the room, I told her what the doctor said. She nodded and squeezed my hand. I held the tranquilizer to her lips, and with difficulty, she swallowed it with some water. Holding her hands, I repeated, “I love you, momma. I love you more than anything.”

Her eyes were already closed, and I watched the slow rise and fall of her breathing. I was finally helping her escape her suffering, but in my mind, her freedom had never looked like this. Within minutes, she released a body that could no longer sustain her pain.

Unable to bear the weight of my grief, I slid to the floor and cried.

NEXT: Chapter 8 - The Profound Weight of Absence

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