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67 hearts stopped beating.
Each heartbeat had been a person. Each of those people had been of various ages and work disciplines and athletic prowess and fashion style and parenting style (even a lack of one) and destination or many destinations after the one they were all intending.
They all believed they would land in the same place and then go on to their next.
I live in Wichita, Kansas, where Flight 5342 flew out from before the horrifying crash that ended the lives of all those onboard, as well as those in the helicopter it crashed into in Washington, DC.
Thoughtful friends and coworkers around the country would ask after me once they learned of the crash.
Each time, they’d ask: Did you know anyone onboard?
I didn’t. And isn’t it interesting that somehow familiarity seems to weigh the degree of the tragedy?
While I didn’t know anyone onboard personally, it was achingly felt by my local community. Wichita has long been known as the “Air Capital of the World,” and as a city in Kansas without many other claims, we hold tight to that one. It reminded me of other catastrophes that brought cities together, like New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, New York after 9/11, and Orlando after the Pulse nightclub shooting. (I wish there weren’t so many more to list, but there are.)
I didn’t know anyone onboard, but I wanted to.
I wanted to know why they were in Wichita and what was taking them to DC. Were they heading somewhere else after that? What meant home to them? Were they traveling with family? Was their family waiting for them at the airport? Are their animal friends still wondering where they are?
On a day when my mental wellbeing felt more capable of handling it (because these days it’s been taking quite a few hits with everything else happening in this country), I started reading through small snippets of life from the plane crash victims.
I sobbed through each and every one. Each tidbit, a heartbeat.
Turns out many of them were in some way connected to the world of figure skating! Coaches, competitors, and supportive parents.
There was a local lawyer on board. And a “Kansas City Chiefs superfan.” They were pilots, parents, and children practicing on toe picks. Teachers, plumbers, and soldiers.
Some of them have longer bios about their furbabies, hobbies, jobs, and family members.
It made me start to wonder.
How would my life be described?
If I died today, what bio tidbits — what heartbeats — would my family and friends send to news outlets to share about my life?
… honestly, I thought at this point in the essay, I would have a general idea of what I would want my friends and family to say about me. But my fingers continue to hover over the keys because I’m not sure.
Would they share about my job? Would my coworkers say nice things?
Would my mom share photos of my dog, Penni, and introduce her as the love of my life? Would my sister talk about how my husband and I are the best of friends and adore each other?
Would friends share funny stories about me? What adjectives would they use? Hilarious? Kind? Encouraging? Adventurous? Would they remember being annoyed by me? Buoyed by me? Loved by me?
Would they celebrate my writing? Would they celebrate my reps at the gym? Would they go to a yoga class, drink a glass of wine, or adopt a dog in my honor?
Would I be a single line of copy in a news article?
Jordan Page was a curious fiend, never satisfied with the space she was in — always ready for the next. And now she is.
Life or Legacy?
“The [revelation] that I am very sensitive to is the ‘then I realised that family was all that actually mattered and I should’ve been spending time with my kids and not working’. I don’t have kids, and I don’t want kids, and every time I hear an author or artist say that as they reflect on their success, a tiny voice says: am I missing the point of life? Am I going to get to my fifties and think, ah, they were right all along, I shouldn’t have tried so hard, I shouldn’t have wanted so much.” —
from Is My Ambition Just a Trauma Response?As a childfree woman making my way through life, I’m sensitive to this sentiment as well.
Is my life truly devoid of meaning and fulfillment because I haven’t birthed a child? Am I a cliché who will realize on my deathbed that all I’ve done to live in a way that feels meaningful and true to my present self is going to be an ultimate slap in the face of my future self? Are there expectations I should be striving toward?
What makes up a life?
Today, for example, I’m working at my job as a Creative Manager. I’m working to hire someone for my team. Is that meaningful for the person I hire?
Later, I’ll go to the gym. I’ll lift heavy weights in the hopes it’ll help my future self be better able to walk down stairs and hike up mountains. Is that meaningful?
Even later, I’ll go to my best friend’s birthday party. I’ll shower her with praise while gifting her a bottle of wine I love, just as a small, possibly insignificant way to show I care. Is that meaningful?
Will the heartbeats spent during these moments matter in the end?
If you’re new here…
Hi! I’m Jordan, and Shade Cactus is where being a homebody and always planning your next travel adventure come to meet. It’s a travel blog / poetry newsletter / attempt to understand my inner world a bit better each day.
Subscribers can expect weekly-ish newsletters from me (and my forever undying gratitude!)
Catching up on your Stack this morning in bed. Which feels very Jordan-like. This one hit me in the feels! ♥️♥️♥️♥️
Beautiful essay. The liminal space between hearing about the crash and not knowing yet who was on the plane was so uncomfortable and devastating. And then heartbreaking as we started to see the souls who were no longer in their earthly bodies. Reminds me of the lyrics in Hamilton, “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” Grateful we all have each other to hold the legacy of each other’s stories and the meaning we all have made in this life.