Sylvia's Journal

Mike Morris talks about guilt. You want to fight about who has most? I am not a catholic but in this round I may win from you.

Thanks Joe for the exercise. I am going to postpone it though. Later. I first have to go to this dark place, no matter all the advice from everyone about not going there. When Axel’s fatigue kicks in and he looks frail and tired I am overwhelmed with guilt and ask myself ‘what did I do to him?’ I can’t see Joan in that situation but the same question pops up, and then the tears start flowing and the regrets burst over the levee and the film starts to rewind with all the possibilities of not making those mistakes, doing the correct landing and going on with life as planned (I would have been on the plane to Dar es Salaam as I write this).

I can’t help myself. It is as if I have to go there to place an offering on the altar of the god of regrets, to appease him (her?) and get this out of my system. I am drawn there even as I am fully aware of the blessings and the goodness that seems to have come from this and which I might not have seen in its full glory if all things had gone as planned. There also would have been blessings and goodness – maybe of a different character – but blessings nevertheless – had I not crashed the plane and life had gone on as before. It’s not as if it had been dull or without friends and joys. Those images also spin through my mind: together harvesting our new potatoes, the tomatoes, the morning omelets with fresh chard, the kayaking, the daily walks, mussel picking, a flight to Maine to see Andrew and Katy Blair, the things we had planned, were planning for the summer.

Yesterday a letter came from the FAA. Sita said it was written by a robot, which is why she insisted on calling the robot later in the day as she wanted to give it a piece of her mind. The letter was rather blunt about my incompetence as a pilot and that, unless I called within 10 days to make an appointment for a practical flight test, my license would be suspended. It was like the small stone in a bowl of soft rice, the piece of eggshell in a fluffy omelet or the cherry stone in a cheesecake. It hurt. The contrast between all the gushing about how great, courageous, brave, strong, etc I am and this assessment was quite stark. I had to swallow a few times, even though I know the assessment was correct and I already knew that I would have to sign up for another check ride. But still.

Cary from MSH was my first visitor. She was one of the MSH crew who stepped in to teach the course at BU that I was supposed to start teaching the 17th. Gratefulness mingled with regrets, I had looked so much forward to this teaching. The course was a success and hopefully will be repreated for a third time next year.

Larry and Amy from DC showed up as well as Annie from West Newbury whose presence allowed the girls a break. We sampled another variety of gazpacho and then drove to Salem where we watched Axel shuffle up and down the hall. Progress again, further, steadier. Then they left me alone with Axel (“get into bed with him!” said Annie) and we started to talk, maybe for the first time, about the crash and my feelings. More tears, and also more admonishments to not go there. But I did and probably need to for some time. How can I not?