Updated: March 5, 2021
Originally Published: April 28, 2015
The morning began with the unexpected jangle of the motel room phone, a sound that jolted our family from a leisurely slumber. It was 1987, a time when such calls were typically reserved for wake-up alerts or noise complaints—neither of which was the case that day.
My mother answered the call, perched sideways on the bed beside the nightstand, her voice low and drawn out. As my siblings and I bounced on the beds and watched television, we begged her to wrap up the conversation so we could head to the amusement park. But when she finally hung up, instead of an apology or a quick exit, she broke down in tears, collapsing into my father’s embrace.
I had never witnessed my mother cry before. Words like “plane crash,” “fire,” and “Detroit” tumbled from her lips in a confusing jumble. Eventually, it became clear: my grandfather had been involved in a plane crash in Detroit. A plane crash.
In the days that followed, snippets of information trickled in, overheard as the adults whispered amongst themselves. I caught phrases like “the pilot had previous citations” and “he shouldn’t have been flying.” I learned that one passenger had taken an earlier flight home to surprise his son at a Little League game. Naturally, at the age of nine, I was filled with questions. Did the passengers know where the exits were? What about those who couldn’t escape? Was flying really safe? Why don’t all planes fall from the sky?
Fast forward to my current age of 37, and the questions have only multiplied. Most of what I know about that tragic day comes from the perspective of my nine-year-old self, supplemented by faded newspaper articles. The plane had tilted during landing, its wing grazing the ground, leading to a catastrophic flip before crashing into a concessions truck. On March 4, 1987, nine of the sixteen passengers aboard Northwest Airlink Flight 2268, which was en route from Cleveland to Detroit, lost their lives. My grandfather, a lifelong smoker seated in the rear smoking section, remarkably survived.
Back then, I asked a few questions but quickly learned that some topics were too painful for my mother to discuss, especially since this involved her father. Other details were simply not meant for a child’s ears. The information was often incomplete, filtered through a mother’s instinct to shield her children from harsh realities while grappling with her own pain.
As an adult now navigating similar complexities, I can appreciate the need to protect children from certain truths. There are traumatic events that leave even adults grappling with confusion. How does one explain death, faith, and the randomness of suffering when they themselves are uncertain?
Over the years, my inquiries evolved. Did the passengers converse, perhaps sharing stories about work or families? Did they remember the pre-flight safety instructions? Were they engrossed in magazines or cocktails, blissfully unaware of the impending doom? What sensations coursed through them as the plane flipped and ignited? Did anyone experience that cliché moment of life flashing before their eyes? Did they pray in those final moments? And if so, whose God did they beseech, and why did divine intervention not come?
Eventually, my curiosity waned, overshadowed by the distractions of teenage life filled with sleepovers, makeup, and relationships. The crash faded into the background of our family narrative, along with my questions.
Recently, however, those inquiries have resurfaced. Perhaps this is a natural progression of life, where age brings contemplation of mortality. Or maybe it’s linked to the fact that my husband travels for work, and I find myself consumed by worry. It could also be that my eldest son is nearing the age I was when the crash occurred, placing me in a poignant position as both daughter and mother.
Whatever the cause, old questions have returned, along with new ones. What thoughts occupied my grandfather during the moments of impact? How did my grandmother react upon receiving the shocking news? What toll did this tragedy take on my parents’ marriage? Were the survivors ever able to find peace, or were they eternally haunted by that day?
Some answers are available. My grandfather escaped the wreckage with burns and injuries, yet he went on to live for another twenty-five years. He witnessed the marriages of four of his grandchildren and met six great-grandchildren. He celebrated his sixtieth wedding anniversary, a testament to resilience. While I can no longer pose my questions to him directly, I can approach my mother and grandmother, confident they will share the details they shielded me from during my childhood.
However, as I navigate this middle ground—watching my parents age, comforting friends grieving their losses, and addressing my children’s inquiries about life and death—I realize that many of my questions about the crash remain unanswered.
I am particularly intrigued by the father who took an earlier flight to see his son’s baseball game, the man whose plans for the evening included playing racquetball, and the husband with a wife and two toddlers awaiting his return. Who were they? What were their lives like? Did they express love to one another before boarding? Or were their last words entangled in the mundanity of daily life? Why were their lives cut short while my grandfather survived?
Then there are those left behind—the little boy preparing for his game as his father’s flight met disaster, the friend waiting at the athletic club for a partner who would never arrive, the wife managing two small children while preparing for a husband who would never come home. How did they endure? How did they face each new day, knowing their lives had been irrevocably altered?
My mother and I recently sifted through old newspaper clippings, hoping to piece together more about that fateful day and its aftermath. Unfortunately, the limited information available from that pre-Internet era left us with more questions than answers.
Yet, as I grapple with the complexities of life—feeling both frightened and secure, uncertain yet confident, confused yet wise—I am learning that it’s acceptable to leave some questions unanswered. It’s okay to admit “I don’t know” and embrace a little mystery. Taking risks and planning for the future can coexist. What ultimately matters is that we love fiercely and deeply, as if every moment could be our last, because it very well could be.
Summary:
In reflecting on the traumatic day of her grandfather’s plane crash, the author navigates her childhood questions and adult realizations about life, death, and the complexities of parental protection. Through personal experiences and a deeper understanding of emotional resilience, she learns that some questions may never have definitive answers, yet the importance of love remains paramount.
Keyphrase: plane crash
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