Wednesday, November 27, 2002

Frequent Cryer Doug Hennessee I cry when I fly. Sometimes, I can get away with just a sniffle and watery eyes, but that's the exception; more often, I cry like the in-flight movie is "Old Yeller". It wasn't always this way. The first time I remember it happening was about four years ago, when I was beginning a heavy period of flying alone on business. There I sat, en route to Arizona or D.C. or God knows where, looking down on the grid of country square miles as they faded into the horizon. I realized, suddenly, that I had tears streaming down my face. This caught me totally off guard, and had to actually retrace my thoughts to figure out why I was crying. My wife Jane and I had a newborn son named Linus. As a brand new parent, probably flying for the first time since his birth, I figured it was natural to get a little emotional as I thought about my family back home. I remember thinking that it was odd that I didn't start crying as a result of some specific thought. I didn't dwell on it. On the next flight it happened again. Seemingly out of nowhere, thoughts of Jane and Linus came to me, and I just started bawling. I couldn't believe how much being away from home was affecting me. I didn't know if I was crying out of fear, love or joy. It felt like all of those, and more. I was overwhelmed. And so it went. Whenever I learned I would be taking another flight, my first thought was of trying to wipe my eyes on my sleeves out of view of the other passengers. Each flight was the same; I would sit in my window seat, gaze upon the landscape below, and just cry. Unfortunately, on one flight to Phoenix I absent-mindedly turned to the woman in the seat next to me just in time for her to see me bawling like Ed Muskie. My eyes were red, floodgates completely open, and I realized how I must have looked. I had no idea what to say. I ended up pointing to the open Civil War book in my lap, shaking my head and saying, "Those men were so brave." I had to stare out the window all the way from Nebraska to Sky Harbor International to avoid making eye contact with her again. Over time, the crying became a part of my flying routine. I accepted that it would happen (and still does whenever I fly alone), but accepting it was easier than understanding it. I've never been someone who spends a lot of time telling people how much and why I love them. I figure, rightly or wrongly, that the people that matter just know how you feel, and it saves everybody a lot of awkwardness and embarrassment if we don't have to sit around, hold hands and recite love sonnets to each other. Eventually, though, you start to feel that you've put off the kind words for too long, and the longer you wait, the harder it is for them to come out. Your emotional books start to feel out of balance, and before you know it, instead of planning to tell your own parents how much you love them at your college graduation, you're sitting at your son's graduation, and you haven't said a damn thing to anybody. That's where my Fantasy Strategy comes into play. I have carefully cultivated an elaborate fantasy about the moments just before my death, wherein I live just...(gasp)...long enough...(gasp)...to tell all of my family and friends who have rushed to my deathbed...(gasp)...how much I love them. And they, in turn, tell me how perfect their lives have been with me involved, and then I...(gasp)...die happy and guilt-free. I have seen this so many times on TV, I feel like I've already died that way hundreds of times. I've got my lines down pat. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, I have not been able to adapt that fantasy to accommodate a plane crash. If this thing goes down, I'm alone here in the plane, Jane and Linus are back on the ground in St. Paul, and I'm sure not going to be spilling my guts to the guy in the seat next to me who has fallen asleep on my shoulder. There isn't going to be any deathbed reunion and reconciliation. Whatever mundane words and actions I left them with are it. How will I tell my family all the things I should have, but didn't? I can write it on down on the barf bag, but anything I write will burn up in a crash. Nothing survives. Damn Hammacher-Schlemmer for not selling a lead document flask in Skymall magazine! I would have bought 20 of them by now. If we get word that we are going down, maybe I can fight off the other two people in my row so I can dial that in-seat phone in front of me in time to get through... So why haven't I told them? Why wait for that plane to go down? After all these years, I tell myself I'm still working my way up to it. I'm probably putting myself through unnecessary anguish. They know I love them. But there's something about being on that plane alone that makes me feel like I've been holding something back. Some lucky people can communicate their love freely and easily, in a way that doesn't make them or their loved ones feel awkward. The rest of us let it build up inside, but sooner or later, it usually finds a way out. Love knows where the cracks in your armor are. It may squeeze through those cracks in the form of words, but it can come out other ways, too. Like tears. Some people cry at weddings, or when they look at old photographs. I know men whose love for their father (or son) comes out most while watching Field of Dreams; I know a woman who cries whenever she looks at baby clothes. Me? I cry when I fly. 3:41:26 PM

Here is a picture of my son, Linus.   2:53:41 PM