The Day My Grandfather Was In A Plane Accident

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It was a typical morning when the phone rang in our motel room, jolting us awake. Back in 1987, the hotel phone only seemed to ring for wake-up calls or noise complaints—this time, it was something far more serious.

Mom answered the call while perched sideways on the bed, her voice low and tense. My siblings and I, bouncing on the beds and glued to the TV, begged her to finish so we could head to the amusement parks. But when she hung up, I expected an apology for the delay. Instead, she crumpled into tears and rushed to my dad, burying her face in his chest.

I had never witnessed my mother cry before, and the words that tumbled from her lips—plane crash, fire, Detroit—were bewildering. Eventually, it clicked: my grandpa had been in a plane crash.

In the days that followed, snippets of information trickled in through the hushed conversations of adults around me. I caught mentions of the pilot’s past infractions and stories about passengers making last-minute decisions to fly, one in particular who missed his son’s Little League game to catch an earlier flight. As a 9-year-old, my mind raced with questions. Did the passengers know the location of the exits? What happened to those who couldn’t escape? Is flying really safe? And why don’t all planes just fall from the sky like this one did?

Fast forward to today, and those questions have only multiplied. Most of what I know about that tragic day is through the lens of my younger self, with bits and pieces gathered from old newspaper clippings. The plane had tilted upon landing, its wing scraping the runway before it flipped and collided with a concessions truck. On March 4, 1987, nine of the 16 passengers aboard Northwest Airlink Flight 2268 lost their lives, but my grandpa—a lifelong smoker seated in the rear smoking section—was among the fortunate.

As a child, I had questions, but I soon learned the answers were too painful for my mom to share. After all, it was her father we were talking about. Some truths were simply too heavy for children. I’ve come to respect that as an adult myself. There are things kids shouldn’t have to grapple with yet, especially when it comes to the complexities of death and the unfairness of life.

Over the years, my inquiries evolved. Did the passengers converse about everyday life? Did they recall the safety instructions? Were they engrossed in their magazines, oblivious to the impending disaster? What was it like to endure those terrifying moments as the plane flipped and erupted into flames? Did they pray in those final seconds?

Eventually, the urgency of those questions faded into the background of family lore. My teenage years absorbed me with typical concerns—sleepovers, makeup, and crushes—while the crash became a distant memory.

But now, those haunting questions have resurfaced. Perhaps it’s natural to ponder mortality as we age. Maybe it’s because my husband travels for work, triggering my worries, or perhaps it’s because my oldest son is nearing the age I was when the crash occurred, placing me in the awkward space of being both a daughter and a mother.

What thoughts raced through my grandpa’s mind during the crash? How did my grandma react to that dreadful phone call? How did this tragedy shape my parents’ marriage? Some answers are known: my grandpa escaped the flaming wreck, living for another 25 years to witness four grandchildren marry and meet six great-grandchildren. He celebrated his sixtieth wedding anniversary. But other questions linger, especially concerning those who were lost.

I often think of the father who took an earlier flight to see his son’s game or the husband whose wife was preparing dinner for a man who would never return. What were their lives like? Did they cherish their last moments together? Why did my grandpa survive, while others did not?

Recently, my mom and I sifted through old newspaper articles, hoping for clarity. Unfortunately, due to the time the crash occurred, our findings merely stirred up more questions.

As I navigate this middle ground of life—watching my parents age, comforting friends who are grieving, and addressing my children’s inquiries about life and death—I’ve begun to understand that some questions may never be answered. It’s okay to not have all the answers and to embrace uncertainty. What truly matters is that we love deeply and passionately because, ultimately, we never know when our time will come.

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In summary, the tragic plane crash that impacted my family has left me with an array of questions about life, death, and the mysteries that remain unanswered. As I continue to navigate these thoughts, I find comfort in the love we share and the uncertainty of life itself.