I’m not a great flyer. The night before a flight, I barely get a wink of sleep, and I’m usually up a good hour before my alarm. I’m always at the airport at least an hour before departure and, when I board, I grow increasingly anxious until, by the time plane is heading down the runway, my mind is racing, my palms are sweating, and my heart is jackhammering. When we’re eventually airborne, however, I calm down considerably and remain relatively cool until we make our approach for a landing at which point its mind racing, palms sweating, heart hammering all over again.
Part of it stems from my notorious fear of heights (I even get nervous if someone I know steps out onto our balcony). But a part of it stems from some weird family history.
Back in the days when he was courting my mom, my father would take the roughly one hour flight from Montreal to Toronto. The same time, the same flight – week after week after week. It was an unbroken routine – until the day my father, for whatever reason, missed that familiar flight. And it’s a good thing he did because the one day he broke routine and arrived to the airport late was the day that flight when down, killing everyone on board.
My mother has never forgotten the incident and, every time my sister or I fly, she is always as anxious as we are (because my sister isn’t a particularly good flyer either. Call it genetic.) . And although I’m not one to put much stock on coincidences and strange synchronicities, I have to admit the prospect of a Final Destination-type scenario does find purchase in the back of my mind every single time I fly.
All this to say, I’m heading to Montreal for mom’s birthday tomorrow.
Wish me luck!
— Joseph Mallozzi 🏴☠️ (@BaronDestructo) February 6, 2023