w i n t e r
grounded
Went for my flight physical today and found out a couple things. 1) the FAA thinks I'm crazy and 2) at extreme close distances I have exophoria in my left eye. Put bluntly, I failed.
I didn't fail because I can't fly a plane. I fly very well. I didn't fail because I'm not fit, all my tests fall well within normal margins, better in most cases. I didn't fail because I can't hear, or because I can't see.
I failed because my eyes won't cross. Because anything about 2-3 inches from my face doesn't focus right away. It takes about one second. A lazy eye. I went to an optometrist who said my exophoria is, "unremarkable". Not really worth mentioning, but enough to keep me from flying.
I failed for another reason as well, a bigger reason. According to the FAA I'm crazy. That's right, mental disorder. The one box on the medical history sheet you don't want to check. Sure, I could have lied. Probably should have, but I figured what the hell, it can't really be a mental disorder, I mean, I'm fine, right?
Wrong.
Panic Disorder is a mental illness in the U.S. and that makes me a little crazy. The medication I take is the dead give away. No way around that, Federally regulated stuff. Big paper trail. But what gets me is that I fall under the large category of mental illnesses. Try to explain that one to the FAA.
I can see it now, "I know you think I'm crazy, damn that just rolled off the tongue, but really, I know you think I have a "mental illness" except it's okay. Yeah, that's right, you've got it all wrong. I'm misclassified."
And I can see them rolling over and letting me pass through.
Not that I'm not going to try. If my doctor would ever call me. The man that holds the key is 82 miles away and not calling, a very busy man. I need a letter from him. A letter saying I'm not crazy at all, just curious. Hell I don't know. A letter saying in his mind I'm okay to fly a plane. Stable. A letter saying what I already know to be true...that I'm sane. A letter saying I'm Johnny All-American, a stand-up guy, pays his taxes and works for a living. A letter summing everything up into nice neat paragraphs.
Nevermind that I've been flying for months now anyway. Never mind that tomorrow I was supposed to solo. Nevermind that by Spring I'd have had my Private Pilot. Nevermind ground school and my string of 100's as the rest of the class dropped out around me. Nevermind the CFI who said I was one of the best she'd ever seen. Nevermind my understanding and desire...once more my life comes down to two little fucking blue pills.
With the letter I stand a chance. A slim one, but a chance. Without it, I'll never fly again.
Hope the doctor calls me. Hope he writes that letter. Hope it passes with the FAA.
God, please hope.
And tonight when I close the medicine cabinet I don't think I'm gonna like what I see. Tonight when I stare at that little blue pill in the palm of my hand I'm gonna have to choke it down.
I may or may not have told you how hard it is for me to cry. I may have explained why that is. I can't remember. It doesn't happen often. I can count the times on one hand for all of my life that I remember.
Today, when I left the doctor's office, I couldn't take the elevator. I took the steps from the forth floor, my boots echoing in the stair well. I made it mid-way between the third and second floors and slumped against the wall.
I cried.
I slid down the wall onto the metal lipped stair, looked up and shut my eyes tight. It felt strange to have tears on my face, to have them roll down my cheeks and around my jawbone onto my neck. It felt odd to feel them grow cold and dry up.
And to add to the pain as I walked back to my car, I heard one small engine somewhere in the clouds overhead
goodnight 11.12.98