In our motel room, the phone rang around 9 a.m., jolting us from our morning routines. Back in 1987, the only reason a motel phone would ring was for a wake-up call or a noise complaint. Unfortunately, it was neither of those.
My mother, sitting sideways on the bed beside the nightstand, answered the call. She spoke softly for what felt like forever. My siblings and I bounced on the beds, flipping through channels on the TV, and pleading with her to hurry up so we could head to the amusement parks. Finally, she hung up, and I anticipated an apology for taking so long. Instead, I watched in shock as she broke down in tears and ran to my dad, burying her face in his chest.
I had never seen my mom cry before.
Words like “plane crash,” “fire,” and “Detroit” spilled from her lips, but they didn’t register until I pieced it together: My grandfather had been in a plane crash in Detroit. A plane crash.
In the following days, more details trickled in, often overheard as the adults spoke in hushed tones. I heard murmurs about the pilot’s prior infractions, suggesting he shouldn’t have been flying. A passenger had taken an earlier flight home to surprise his son at a Little League game, my mom mentioned.
At just 9 years old, the questions flooded my mind. Did the passengers know where the exits were? What became of those who couldn’t escape? Was flying really safe? And why don’t all planes just fall from the sky?
As I grew older, the questions only multiplied.
My understanding of that tragic day is shaped by my 9-year-old perspective, with bits and pieces gleaned from faded newspaper articles. The plane had tilted dangerously while landing, its wing hitting the ground and causing it to flip over before colliding with a concessions truck right outside the terminal. On March 4, 1987, nine out of the 16 individuals aboard Northwest Airlink Flight 2268, en route from Cleveland to Detroit, lost their lives. My grandfather, a lifelong smoker seated in the rear smoking section, was not among them.
I had posed a few questions back then, but when they went unanswered, I quickly learned to keep quiet. Some topics were too painful for my mom to discuss; after all, this was her dad. Other details were simply not meant for young ears, leaving me with a fragmented understanding of the event. It was the kind of information a mother, navigating her own grief, chooses to shield her children from.
Now, as I stand in the middle of my own life, I find myself grappling with similar dilemmas. There are truths that children shouldn’t be burdened with yet. Some experiences are so traumatic, even adults struggle to comprehend them. How does a mother navigate her daughter’s questions about death, God, and the inexplicable nature of life when she herself is still searching for answers?
As the years passed, my curiosity about that day morphed. Did passengers converse, perhaps exchanging stories about work or family? Did they remember the safety instructions? Or were they too busy flipping through magazines and sipping cocktails, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster? What was it like to experience a plane flipping and bursting into flames? What did it feel like to be engulfed in fire? Did life truly flash before their eyes? Did they pray in those last moments, and if so, why were their prayers unanswered?
Eventually, those questions quieted as life moved on. My teenage years consumed me with sleepover plans, makeup, and boys, and the crash faded into the background.
But recently, the inquiries have resurfaced. Perhaps it’s the natural progression of life, where thoughts of mortality become more prevalent as we age. Maybe it’s because my husband occasionally travels for work, causing me to worry. Or could it be that my eldest son is now almost nine—just as I was when the crash occurred—placing me in that poignant space of both daughter and mother?
Whatever the reason, my old questions have returned, alongside a slew of new ones. What thoughts raced through my grandfather’s mind during those traumatic moments? How did my grandmother react upon receiving the distressing phone call? What impact did this tragedy have on my parents’ relationship? Were the survivors able to move on, or were they forever haunted by that day?
Some answers exist: My grandfather exited the plane through one of the emergency exits, despite suffering burns. He lived for another 25 years, witnessing the marriages of four grandchildren and the births of six great-grandchildren. He celebrated his sixtieth wedding anniversary. While I can no longer ask him my questions, I can turn to my mom and grandmother, knowing they might share what they once protected me from.
As I navigate this middle phase—watching my parents age, comforting friends experiencing loss, addressing my children’s questions about death and God, and feeling the days slip by amid homework and deadlines—I realize that many of my inquiries about the crash remain unanswered.
I often think about the father who, I learned, took an earlier flight to attend his son’s baseball game. What was he like? Did he get to say “I love you” one final time, or were his last words consumed by the chaos of daily life? Why was his life taken while my grandfather survived?
And what about those left behind? The little boy preparing for his game while his father’s plane met its fate. The friend at the athletic club waiting for a partner who would never arrive. The wife with two toddlers, clinging to her as she prepared a meal for a husband who would never walk through that door again. How did they cope? How did they find the strength to wake up day after day, knowing that their lives had been irrevocably changed?
Recently, my mom and I sifted through old newspaper clippings, hoping to uncover more about that day and its impact on others. Yet, given the time that has passed and the limited resources available before the internet, we ended our search with more questions than we began with. Questions that may never have answers.
What I’m learning as I navigate this stage of life—feeling a mix of fear and safety, uncertainty and confidence—is that it’s perfectly alright for some questions to remain unanswered. It’s okay to not have all the answers. It’s okay to embrace uncertainty while also planning for the future.
Ultimately, what truly matters is that we love deeply and passionately, as if every moment could be our last. Because, in truth, it very well could be. That much is certain.
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Summary:
This piece reflects on the author’s childhood experience of her grandfather’s survival in a plane crash, exploring themes of family, loss, and the unanswered questions that linger into adulthood. It highlights the complexities of understanding traumatic events and the importance of love and connection amidst uncertainty.
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