Flying to Funerals

Lana boards a plane alongside hundreds of mourners. Everyone but her will attend a funeral upon arriving at their destination. They shuffle down the aisle, comparing their tickets to the seat numbers listed over each row. One man inspects the 2A on his phone and the 2A printed over his seat five times before sitting down.

Lana is patient. Grief wreaks havoc on one’s attention span.

A woman in 10F wears a purple scarf around her neck and oversized sunglasses on her head. She glances up from her book, connects with Lana’s eyes, and returns her gaze to the words on the page. Lana detects tears welling in the woman’s lower eyelids. The woman brings the glasses down to the bridge of her nose as thought to hide from the other passengers.

Lana presses her hand upon her heart and inhales deeply, closing her own eyes and conveying warmth to those around her.

Another passenger fights his luggage into the overhead compartment. He swears under his breath, cursing another person’s massive duffle. He pushes, shoves, and grunts, displacing his anger at the injustice of his loss onto the polycarbonate shell that contains his belongings.

Lana helps by applying pressure to the offending bag and making enough room for the man’s luggage. He softens and mumbles an expression of gratitude. She smiles and moves forward to her row.

Lana takes her seat in 29B. A middle seat toward the back of the plane. How can she complain? She suffers no loss today. She simply travels for work.

The woman in 29A asks, “Was this home? Or are you heading home?”

“I live here. I’m flying for work. You?”

“I was here on vacation. It was a great time, but I’m happy get home and sleep in my own bed.”

Lana nods. They exchange a few more words and mutually agree to watch their respective movies as the plane takes to the sky.

Their exchange takes Lana out of the narrative she imagines for her fellow travelers. This woman, like most others on the flight, has no intention of attending a funeral upon landing. Lana does not actually share this space with hundreds of bereaved passengers.

She pretends. She assumes. She plays sad music and funeral dirges in her mind as she gazes around the plane, lamenting the recent loss she imagines every passenger suffering. Lana approaches everyone as though they are on their way to a funeral. Just in case someone needs that level of kindness today.

Lana remembers when she flew across the country for her own sister’s funeral several years prior.

Her father called one evening to share the news.

Shay died.

Lana said, “No.”

Her dad said, “It was sudden.”

Lana asked, “Why?”

He answered, “I don’t know.”

Lana had never purchased a flight to attend a funeral. Did they offer discounts?

How selfish of me to worry about that, she thought.

Also, how practical.

She didn’t have much money and traveling across the country at a moment’s notice was an unexpected expense for which she had no funds set aside.

Still, she shamed her mind for thinking such a selfish thought so soon after Shay’s death.

Lana called in the morning to book the flight. A 5% discount. They called it a bereavement fare. The customer service representative expressed condolences and kept Lana on the phone for another 20 minutes as though they moonlighted as a (bad) grief counselor.

“How did she die?”

“How do you feel?”

“You can’t worry about money at a time like this.”

Lana cringed. She considered ending the call without warning. No one would blame her for simply hanging up the phone. She also understood. People make odd comments and ask even odder questions when trying to empower folks in helpless situations.

The flight left two days later. An early morning flight. Lana drank too much coffee. She felt lost. People were impatient. She struggled to put her bag in the overhead compartment.

A man waiting in the aisle rolled his eyes and said, “Ma’am.”

He repeated, “Ma’am.”

Was he talking to her? Grief wreaks havoc on one’s attention span.

Lana’s head took 50 years to turn toward the sound of the speaker’s voice. She could not read minds, but she was certain that the passenger who called her “ma’am” out loud named her “idiot” in his mind.

“It clearly won’t fit. You gotta put it somewhere else.”

Oh.

She rolled her luggage down the aisle several more rows, hoisted the bag to balance it on her head, and gained a bit of strength so she could launch it into the overhead bin.

Her stomach was in knots. She had to pee. She drank too much coffee.

Believing she had the space to return to her seat, she tip-toed and shimmied back to her row. Lana apologized as her shoulder grazed someone’s arm.

They sighed, “Some people are so rude.”

Lana did not respond. She found her spot by the window, placed her personal item under the seat in front of her, and buckled her seatbelt.

She started the countdown until this plane landed on the other side of the country: 5 hours, 12 minutes.

In just over 5 hours, she could cry. She could retrieve her luggage and stroll straight to the curb, foregoing baggage claim. Her dad would hug her. The tears welling in her lower eyelids could finally escape into the sob she so desperately needed.

She’d say, “Dad, I hate this.”

He’d say, “I know. Let’s get home.”

But that wouldn’t happen for another 5 hours,10 minutes.

Lana’s bladder demanded attention. Once the plane reached cruising altitude, she leaned forward and gently moved her hand in the visual field of the man sitting in the middle seat. She vocalized a small noise that signaled a need to leave her spot. The man stared straight ahead.

Lana said, “Um, excuse me?”

The man glared at the welcome screen that adorned the backrest of the seat in front of him. His eyes widened as to say, “I will not look at you.”

Lana said, “I really need to go to the bathroom. I’m so sorry.”

The man in the middle seat said nothing. He rolled his eyes like a 14-year-old kid burdened with chores like taking out the trash or washing a dish. Without words, he dragged his body into the aisle and motioned toward the bathroom. His gesture dripped with sarcasm and drama.

Lana said, “Thank you so much.”

She peed.

She returned to her seat.

3 hours, 48 minutes left.

She had to pee again. She cursed herself for drinking so much coffee before this flight.

“Excuse me. Sir?”

He punctuated each word of his response: “You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He granted Lana yet another favor, gifting her the space to leave their row and walk toward the bathroom. She wished she could teleport home rather than endure this flight.

Lana vomited from the stress.

She peed.

She returned to her seat.

2 hours, 27 minutes to go. Her bladder nagged at her again. Perhaps it could wait.

1 hour, 59 minutes left.

It could not wait. She dreaded bothering the man in the middle seat again. Maybe she should have worn a diaper. He likely would have complained about the stench of urine emanating from the morose woman in 16A.

She cleared her throat and turned to the man. He knew what was coming.

He said, “Unbelievable.”

She said, “I know. I’m so sorry.”

Lana went to the bathroom, peed, and splashed water on her face to brace herself for the remainder of the flight. Surely, she would not need to pee in the next hour and 51 minutes. She returned to her seat.

Disgust molded the man’s face. His nostrils flared. His upper lip snarled slightly.

He said, “You know…you should’ve booked an aisle seat.”

She could not apologize again. Blood pulsing and rushing through her ears cancelled all sound in the plane. Before she could stop herself, she weaponized her grief and displaced the injustice of her loss onto this man.

Lana raised her voice, “This is the worst flight of my life. My sister died two days ago and I’m flying to her funeral. You have turned what I knew would be an awful day into something even worse.”

She internally reprimanded her selfishness. This man could not know about her situation. Now that he did, he returned his gaze to the welcome screen on the backrest of the seat in front of him. He and Lana exchanged zero words for the remainder of the flight.

Lana trembled and cried for a while. When the plane ultimately landed, the man created distance between himself and Lana by pushing through all the other passengers. She knew he’d share this “Karen Story” with the person who retrieved him from the airport, just as she’d tell her dad about the man who shamed her for needing to pee three times on the flight.

She might say, “To be fair, I drank too much coffee.”

Her dad might say, “That’s no excuse for his behavior.”

For the years that followed, Lana assumed everyone who flew alongside her was on their way to a funeral.

And here she sits, removing her headphones as she watches the credits of the movie she just finished. The woman seated next to her in 15C dons a brave face as she consoles a crying baby and attempts to retrieve something from her bag. Flying along with a child is difficult, especially when you’re grieving.

Lana asks, “Do you need help? I can hold him.”

Relief washes over the young mother’s body and face. She hands the children to Lana, who cradles the infant, making faces that lead to coos and giggles. Minutes later the woman thanks Lana for her kindness, reclaims her child, and brings a bottle to his mouth.

When the plane touches down at their destination, all the passengers stand. Lana is patient. She helps others with their luggage. She tells them not to worry if their shoulders accidentally graze her arm. She validates their frustration and stress.

As she disembarks the plane, Lana notices the oversized sunglasses belonging to the woman in 10F. She takes them between her thumb and forefinger. Closing the temples, Lana hustles down the gangway, through the halls of the airport, searching for the woman with purple scarf tied around her neck. Lana catches sight of her standing on the curb awaiting ground transportation, rummaging through her bag. The woman looks frazzled.

Lana hurries outside and says, “Excuse me? Ma’am?”

Their eyes connect. Lana smiles gently and holds up the sunglasses. An exhale escapes the woman’s lungs as she looks visibly relieved. She shocks Lana with a hug, then apologizes.

“I’m so sorry, I’m just… I couldn’t handle one more thing going wrong this week.”

She explains that her daughter died suddenly in an accident earlier in the week. A cab waits to take her to the funeral home where she will view the body and plan a memorial service. These sunglasses provide respite from the crowds and hide the tears welling in her eyes when she yearns for solitude.

“It’s a silly thing, but I needed a minute before facing what waits on the other side of this flight. The world is so cruel. I needed this bit of kindness today.”