Back in the saddle again

Has it really been over 2 months since my last blog entry? Time flies when you're .... um... flying.

When I broke my foot, I had just gotten comfortable being captain. By the time I was ready to come back, I had been gone longer than I had been in the left seat. Needless to say, as one who is admittedly afraid of everything, I was full of anxiety about my return. What if I don't remember to sign something? What if I don't catch an error from dispatch? What if we're on fire, lose pressurization, or some other unthinkable emergency, and I draw a total blank on the memory items? What if I suck at being captain?? What if the months of sitting on the couch all day, playing x-box, eating pizza, and killing a bottle of wine a night made me blow up like the Goodyear Blimp, and my boobs, butt, and belly overcome the futile resistance of the cheap fabric that composes our M&H uniforms and I have no choice but to show up naked and jiggly to an airport full of terrified passengers?!?!?

Plus, the longer I stayed home, the more I got used to being around Don and the cat (in my mind, my husband and child, lol), the more I dreaded the thought of being gone. And though I hate to admit it to my work friends who read this, and especially my parents...... despite the obscene amount of money I and the ones I love sank into my career, as hard as I've worked to get here, as proud of me as everyone who ever believed in me is of how far I've come...... I almost didn't come back. The thought of quitting my job and going into nursing school was really tempting. I could even get in for the Fall semester! I just. Didn't. Want. to be away from home any more.

But the thought of putting a needle or a catheter in someone is nauseating...... so, off to work I went.

Luckily, the first flight they had me do was a repo flight from Raleigh to Cleveland. No passengers, and they paired me with the most awesome, patient, super-sweet FO I could have hoped for. It was a great way to ease myself back into the swing of things. She was on reserve, like me, and hooked me up with a great crash pad in Cleveland.  After that flight, I felt a lot more confident that I was not a walking tragedy, and that yes.... I do belong in the air. Don't let our CEO know this, but I didn't realize how much I missed work until that flight. Dammit, flying is FUN!

I spent the rest of September and all of October on reserve. For those of you not in the airline industry, when you're on reserve, crew scheduling owns you for at least 12 hours a day. It begins from 0300 - 1500, and then is usually adjusted to suit their needs - most often so that your last day of being on reserve puts you dangerously close to missing the last flight home, or insures that you miss it altogether. Luckily, they used me almost every day, and more often than not, I knew what my schedule would hold at least a day ahead of time. Having a crash pad (a house shared by me and about 11 other airline folk, with a bed of my very own for a flat rate a month) is essential!! Val... I can't thank you enough!!!

As for the feet? Well..... the broken one doesn't hurt. Every now and then, it's a little achy, but most days I don't notice it at all (thanks, ice cream!!). The Neuroma foot still hurts quite a bit. The surgery site is still discolored and feels bruisy. The incision itches like mad sometimes. But the most pain comes from walking in shoes. The good news is, I no longer have electric shooting pain up the 3rd and 4th toes that make me shriek a blood-curdling scream when I set the parking break and scare the hell out of the FO, FA, and first 3 rows of passengers (which was common before my surgery). The bad news is, it feels like I'm stepping on a big rock with each step. Well, not even each step. Sometimes, inexplicably, it doesn't hurt when I walk. My podiatrist says this is due to scar tissue and it will go away eventually. He hasn't steered me wrong yet, so I have faith in him. When people ask how the foot is, I answer honestly - "good steps and bad steps."

In the meantime.... it doesn't hurt when I drink! I'm trying not to fall into the trap of drinking every night to kill the pain, like I did before. I long to return to my healthy lifestyle I had when I was running 4 - 5 days a week. But it just takes time. I truly believe I will get there again, I just don't know when. People tell me that it takes a great deal of time to overcome the trauma of what my foot went through - and looking at the picture of the hunk of meat my doc took out, I'll admit my foot was probably pretty traumatized.

So, luckily there is plenty of money in my uniform account to order bigger uniforms!! The Holiday Season is upon us, and there is plenty of Holiday Cheer to be had.

First round's on me!!

A Cut Above

It's been approximately one week since I had surgery to remove my Morton's neuroma. In the event that any of my handful of readers (or anyone who happens to stumble upon this writing) is blessed with Morton's (or any other neuroma, for that matter), I hope they consider my experience in their quest to find the way of dealing with it that suits them. There are many options. After several months of the conservative approach, I chose to cut the sucker out. Know what? I'm glad I did, and I wish I'd done it sooner. The following is my experience.

2 days prior to the surgery:

I go to the outpatient surgery center, which is the first floor in a building full of doctors and physical therapists. Check in, sign some forms. Head upstairs to my podiatrist's office (we'll call him Dr. K) to sign a consent form and receive a prescription. I read the consent form that lists all the horrible things that could happen to me, which I already know because of all the internet research I've done and wish I hadn't. Dr. K sees me in the lobby from behind the glass doors, and because he is so awesome, I am pleasantly surprised that he comes out to talk to me. I express my doubts that this is the right decision. "I would just feel a lot better if we could see the thing, before we cut my foot open and go spelunking," I say. Unfortunately, you can't see a neuroma with an x-ray or an MRI. However, Dr. K looks at me exactly the same way I look at passengers who tell me they are terrified of flying - that mixture of empathy and reassurance - and tells me it'll be obvious once he gets in there. He says, "don't worry about anything." Despite my confidence in this man's obvious competence and years of experience, the fact that it has been diagnosed by 3 different doctors, and the knowledge that I've tried everything else I could possibly try to no avail, I remain dubious.

The next day, it dawns on me that I am scared for the same reasons some people are afraid to fly: knowing that something could go terribly, horribly wrong, combined with not knowing enough about what is about to happen, and most importantly - not having control of my fate. I relax. A little.

The day of the surgery:

I report to the surgery center and am escorted into a little room where I exchange my civilian clothes in exchange for a sexy robe that opens in the back, a single bootie for the special foot (I'm still wearing the boot on my broken right foot), and a hair thingy. I look like one of the lunch ladies from my high school days. We make sure I'm not pregnant (skimped by another month, yay!), the nurse starts an IV in my hand, and Sweet Cheeks is allowed to come in and see me before the surgery. Dr. K comes by and asks which foot (at this point, the boot on the right foot is off, but I am still wearing my sock. It's a festive sock, with wine glasses and grapes all over it. I thought about writing "no cutting" on that foot, but decided the sock would suffice). He signs his initials on my left foot and says, "This is me. And this..." he makes a vertical slash on the top of my foot in between the 3rd and 4th toes, "is where it is." He again reassures me and disappears.

It's showtime!!

The anesthesiologist comes to get me on my little bed, and suddenly my hand and arm burn as we make our way down the hallway. "Owwwwww," I say. She apologizes and turns to Dr. K who has magically appeared and says, "tell him what you told me." I feel myself slipping away and I feel it's only a matter of time before I'm gone. In a voice I recognize as the one I use after about 4 glasses of wine at the bar, I say, "HEY!! If I wake up and discover that not only have you taken out the neuroma, but you've given me liposuction and a boob job too... I promise not to be mad!"
He laughs and says, "Well.... that might be the end of my career."
And I retort, "but it just might be the beginning of mine!! HAHAHA!!"

Thanks to the propofol they gave me for anesthesia, I don't remember anything after that. Evidently, Dr. K came by my recovery room after it was all said and done and we had a normal conversation, during which, he showed me a picture of the monster he took out of me and assured me there should be no more neuromas (It was 3 cm x 1.5 cm x 1.5 cm). I do remember looking at the bandage on my foot and seeing a wine glass - it totally made my day! I went home, Donnie made lunch, and we both took a 4 hour nap.


It didn't hurt very much the next few days, and they gave me a little walking bootie so at least I wasn't on crutches. I was mildly peeved that it didn't match the giant boot that I wear on the right foot (Don has nicknamed me "Bigfoot).

By day 3, I really missed the taste of wine and felt brave enough to ditch the pain pills so I could drink. I wasn't sure if I should be proud of my dedication to alcohol or ashamed of it. BIG MISTAKE!!! After the small buzz wore off, I tried to use my heel to assist with getting myself out of the bathtub and felt an explosion of pain. I panicked. I thought, Oh Jesus, WTF have I done? I'm going to be one of those horror stories! I'll never walk, much less run or FLY ever again! PLEASE HELP ME!! I know you're not supposed to use the F word when talking to our Lord, but I was scared. The rest of the week, I remained in a pain-pill-induced fog, on the couch with my feet up, and read books on my e-reader until Don was ready to fire up the x-box.

9 days after the surgery, I was scheduled to go back to Dr. K's office and have the bandage removed. I hadn't slept the night before. I was worried he was going to take the stitches out and I didn't want to scream. So I took another pain pill. Plus, Mother Nature was really super pissed at me for going yet another month without fulfilling my obligation to my species by procreating.  Needless to say, I felt like hell and probably looked even worse. However, the staff at Dr. K's office is always so friendly. They even gave me a souvenir coffee mug! They removed my bandage. Dr K came in, had me move my feet in ways that to my surprise didn't hurt at all, we shot the shit, and he said, "We'll see you next week to remove those stitches!"

So... to sum it up so far..... It has been 12 days since the surgery. I am completely off the pain meds (unless you count recreational purposes.. hahah, just kidding, kinda). I am walking around the house barefoot without much pain. There is some numbness between the 3rd and 4th toes. I will get stitches out in 2 days, and I am no longer terrified. There are a few weird sensations in there that I want to ask him about when I see him, but otherwise - WHY the hell did I wait so long???

Disclaimer - this is only one person's experience. If you are considering having this done, it is EXTREMELY important that you find a good doctor. Originally, Dr. K was a second opinion. I trusted my original doctor, but was blown away by Dr. K's professionalism, cool personality, competence, confidence without cockiness, experience, and dammit - I just got a general good vibe from the guy. If you happen to be in the mid-Missouri area and need a good foot doc, I can refer you to him. Email me at deliawilles@hotmail.com and I will send you his info. If you're still with me after reading this lengthy account, thanks for sticking around. I'll post an update in a few weeks.

Going for broke.

This post is not going to be about flying.

That's because I haven't flown since before my last post. Actually, I haven't flown since July 15, because I am a klutz. If you put me in a straightjacket and a padded room, I will figure out a way to accidentally knock myself out.

A few weeks ago, while I was recovering from some kind of black plague I inherited from one of my first officers, I was walking down my hallway to the bathroom to get another tissue and maybe some OTC drugs that NEVER seem to work. Does that shit work for anybody? Anyway, ever since I broke my right ankle, tibia, and fibia 10 years ago, that ankle has been weak. Any uneven ground at all, and it gives. I tumble, usually in uniform at the airport, and usually in front of a crowd of people. Anyway, the rug in the hallway had a small wrinkle in it, unnoticeable to a normal person, but lethal to my ankle. As I tried to regain my balance, I heard and felt a "POP!" somewhere in my foot. Oh GOD the pain....... I shouted the F word about 10 times, then shouted the S word until Donnie peeked his head around the corner. I said, "I'm ok. I'm ok."

But I wasn't ok. I waited a few hours just to be sure it wouldn't start feeling better on its own, then called my podiatrist's office. As luck would have it, they had room for me the next day. I still managed to carry the laundry up and down our stairs, because in my denial I thought I was still commuting to work the next day after my appointment. I drank a bottle of wine and toughed out the pain.

The x-ray clearly showed a break in the 5th metatarsal head of my right foot. I looked at my doctor, and had just enough time to think, "how long?" when he answered my unspoken question - "4 - 6 weeks. You probably can't drive with a giant boot on, can you?" I said, "Well.... when I broke my leg 10 years ago, I waited until my boyfriend was out of the house, jumped in my car, threw the leg into the passenger's seat, and drove away like a thief. But that was an automatic;  I'm driving a standard now." He said, "no.... I meant, 'drive the plane.'"

Oh.

"Well, I could use a vacation," I said. He said, "you know.... since you're not going to be working anyway.... you might consider having surgery on your left foot to remove that Neuroma." I took some time to think.... and he's right.

In fact, I've been thinking a lot. At first, I was so pissed at myself for breaking my foot. And in such a stupid way, too! What a LAME way to become lame. I've been trying to come up with a badass story of how I broke it when people ask. I twisted it putting it up the ass of someone who really deserved it! I am on the Jefferson City curling team, and one of my teammates accidentally dropped one of those stones on my foot during practice. I was rescuing a crippled dog from a burning building, when the ceiling caved in. We both barely got out with our lives.

Nope.... I tripped in my own hallway. Weak. At least when I broke my leg 10 years ago, I was doing something awesome. You know what they say.... if at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you! Although, I couldn't tell my parents that I was skydiving. They'd freak. My boyfriend at the time and I cooked up a story that I broke it falling off a ladder while hanging Christmas lights on the house. My folks never really bought it, and kept asking questions. Only after I had healed up well enough to run away, did I come out with the truth. I haven't seen them laugh so hard in a long time!

So, the surgery to remove my neuroma is tomorrow. What is a neuroma? It is a non-cancerous tumor that grows on a nerve. It's painful. It's the thing that's kept me from running after my race in March. I thought that giving it time off from running would help it. It's only gotten worse. Now, each step is an explosion of pain. Not all the time... it's always a surprise. But, since I broke the right foot, the left one is doing double-duty and it's complaining. I tried physical therapy, 3 cortisone injections, chiropractic care, different shoes, and a second opinion, but nothing worked. It's like it's laughing at me! I'll show it.... I'll remove the little bastard.

You know what the worst thing you can do is? NEVER google "Morton's neuroma surgery." I am haunted by bloody, terrifying images and horror stories of how people are worse off after the surgery than before it. So.... this is a gamble. But I don't know what else to do. The timing is perfect.... time to shit or get off the pot!

I hope I'm doing the right thing. I hope breaking my foot was a blessing in disguise. I know if I hadn't been forced to take time off, then I never would have scheduled the surgery. I am comforted that I tried the conservative approach before resorting to this. I feel so lucky to have Don here to take care of me! He's been so sweet and helpful with my one-legged, gimpified state. And... to tell you the truth.... I am thankful for this extra time at home with him and our cat.

I told Don to take a picture of me with both feet wrapped up in their respective boots so I can refer to it on cold mornings when I'd rather sleep than go for my morning run. I am not looking forward to these next few weeks. I have already gained back 20 lbs since I stopped running. I so desperately miss being fit, and the endorphins that swam around my head after a 10 mile run. I am essentially at square one again. I hate the feel of the fat that has returned to my legs hips, face, and belly! Already, my right calf has atrophied into a floppy version of its old self. I am really regretting giving all of my fat clothes to Goodwill. The skinny girl inside me is screaming to go for a run!!

Will this be the rock bottom for me? Is it all uphill from here? Please God, let it be so.

High mins? Heigh ho!

I am finally off of "high mins!" "High mins" refers to a recently upgraded captain, or a captain recently upgraded into new equipment. Every airline has rules for new captains, but I think ours is the only one that is retarded about it. I think it's an FAA regulation - for the first 100 hours of Captain experience, you must add 100 feet to the lowest published decision altitude or MDA and 1/2 mile to the lowest visibility requirement to be legal to shoot an approach and make a landing at an airport. In no case may I, as a high mins captain, descend below 300' with a visibility less than 1 statute mile. For the pilot-speak impaired, it means that in order for me to legally land at an airport with shitty weather, it has to be slightly less shitty than what I've been trained to do. Okay, nothing wrong with that. Every airline does that. However, the retarded part of it is that I have to fly EVERY LEG, execute every take off and every landing, for the first 100 hours of flight time. UGH. It wasn't so bad until I started getting 4-day trips with the same crew. I felt so bad for the first officers stuck with me who looked bored to tears. For the record, I never minded flying with a high mins guy, because no one loves the sound of her own voice - especially on the radio with a chance to flirt with ATC and maybe get shortcuts - more than I do, and it was like a 4-day vacation. But that's me. They were all understanding about not getting to fly, and thankfully patient with my excruciatingly slow pace at doing everything. When the opportunity presented itself, I bought the crew a round on the overnights or coffee the next morning as a thank you. I wish I could have done more, but so it goes.

Legend has it that when you are on High mins for the first time, weird crap that you've never seen before suddenly happens to you. After over 5 years in the right seat, I am pleased to say that I'd seen enough that only one thing happened to me that I'd never seen before outside of the simulator. That doesn't mean that the rest of my first 100 hours was event-free, however. Anyway, the weird thing that I've never seen before was the failure of the landing gear to come up normally when requested. I initially heard normal gear-up sounds followed by abnormal gear-up sounds - the a wob-wob-wob of the wheels continuing to turn after liftoff (which is not normal), and the noise of the gear being down in the wind. I had just enough time to say, "what the F***?" before I heard the triple-chime of the aural warning unit accompanied by a red message telling us there was a difference between the position of the landing gear switch and the position of the gear itself.

Crap. "I'll keep it below 200 knots, you run the checklist. Autopilot on, my radios," I barked, feeling like Capt Sully. The ho-hum ending to a would-be thrilling, heart-stopping, news-flashing, hero-making saga is that the problem went away after running the checklist. I wrote it up when we got to our destination and got a roll of the eyes from the maintenance man awaiting our arrival.

While on high-mins, I also got to experience an extended maintenance delay. I was flying with a first officer who was FRESH out of training. The ink had not yet dried on his temporary airman's certificate (issued to him after passing the checkride in our training program), and his epaulettes were still shiny and unblemished from the tears of disappointment and abuse so characteristic of regional airlines. The Flight Attendant had been putting up with jealousy crap from her boyfriend and passenger abuse, and at her wit's end stated to me, "ANYTHING else goes wrong, and I'm calling off!!" This combination in itself was a little tough, but manageable. On his walk-around, the FO noticed a screw needed tightening. So, I call up maintenance, and have them send a guy who could tighten a screw on the aircraft. Should be a non-issue, right?

WRONG. I get back to the plane after getting some coffee, and the gate agent is upset, saying it's a no-go item. I look at her like she's crazy, and say, "It's a screw. There are only 122 other screws in that fairing. I see maintenance out there now. How can it be a no-go item? We'll be ready to board in 5 minutes." Turns out, the screw was loose because there was nothing to tighten it against on the back end. It was, unfortunately, in a portion of the aircraft that Embraer considered crucial. What was troubling, is that our maintenance knew this, and during its last airworthiness inspection, they GLUED it down so it would look like it was tightened upon visual inspection - rather than take the aircraft out of service to fix it properly. After a few flights, of course the glue wore off and the screw was loose again. We waited an hour and a half for a call from the engineering department at Embraer to call our Maintenance personnel with their blessing to put some "speed tape" (AKA "Duct tape") over the errant screw. As luck would have it, they could. The blessing was, this delay allowed us some time as a crew to relax and joke around a bit. We boarded, and off we went to a better day.

Things happen in 3's, so the last adventure of my high mins tenure happened on a flight from Richmond, VA to Detroit, MI. It was a hot summer day, and a line of thunderstorms had developed around Detroit, blocking off the arrivals from the south. We were given a holding pattern, to expect further clearance in thirty minutes. I slow down to save gas. More often than not, when you're given a holding pattern, you barely even get into the hold when they're clearing you out of it. I look in the direction ahead and the weather honestly didn't look THAT BAD, so I told the FO to wait until we're in the pattern to contact our dispatch via the 2nd radio. We enter the pattern. FO is on the phone with dispatch. I ask if that EFC time is going to hold. They answer, "as a matter of fact, we were just about to extend it." I look at the fuel load - about 2,900 lbs remaining, and sigh. We're diverting, all right. Now, where do I want to go? We're over Ohio. I know Cleveland and Columbus can handle the Delta codeshare...... in the meantime, my FO has contacted dispatch - Fort Wayne (we call it, "Fort Fun" in much the same way you'd call a bouncer "Tiny") it is!!

We tell air traffic control that we're diverting to Fort Wayne, IN, and comply with their instructions. We're #3 of about 6 divertees. I notify the flight attendant we're diverting. She asks, "will you make the announcement?" I don't want to, but I think, "as a passenger, I want to hear it from the horse's ass.... I mean mouth." I sigh again and say, "yes." I click the PA button, tell the FO I'll be out of the loop, and pause. What the hell am I going to say? I decide on the truth. Without humor. I feel so stupid on the damned PA anyway. I make what I hope is a commanding, yet compassionate (after all, they have connections) announcement, and return to the business at hand. We land at Fort Wayne and are at the mercy of the ground crew. All we need is gas and new paperwork to get going. It takes an hour and 45 minutes. Their ground crew, while completely competent, is stressed to the max with not only people like us, but normal service as well. To my surprise, they have water for the passengers. Thank GOD, because we were out.

I had to laugh at the captain of the ExpressJet plane next to us. Every so often, he would leap out of the cockpit, stand expectantly on his air stair door, and walk to the terminal. A few minutes, later, he would walk back. Sometimes, he'd look at me and we'd both smile and wave. I was reminded of the days I spent in jazz band in high school and college. When we'd play off-campus gigs, the whole band was called upon to help build and tear down the set. Trouble is, after the music stands and microphone stands were packed, there wasn't much that I could help with, but I didn't want to be seen doing nothing! So, what I did was walk "with a purpose" quickly in one direction.... hide for a bit..... then walk in the same manner the other direction. That way it looked like I was still helping, when in fact, I was not. I don't know if that was what this other captain was doing or not.... but it sure as hell looked that way. It made me smile.

Anyway.

We get fueled finally, and still have to wait another 30 minutes at the end of the departure runway for spacing into Detroit. We also had to fly the scenic route - over GRAND RAPIDS before we could turn south for DTW. It was an adventure, and I had a headache by the end of the day. However, I was blessed with a stellar crew throughout the ordeal. The flight attendant kept the passengers entertained, the first officer kept after ops to get our fuel and paperwork, and I hounded dispatch and kept the passengers informed. We enjoyed a round at the hotel bar before crashing into our respective beds.

After 100 hours as Pilot in Command, I am feeling a lot more confident and capable. It is much less awkward when people (passengers, TSA, my friends) address me as "Captain," though at heart I really don't feel like I deserve it. I wonder if that will change. It's funny, as an FO, I had all kinds of confidence, bordering on arrogance. Why should moving a few inches to the left make a difference? I find that the left seat has made a difference in my attitude. Suddenly, "they don't pay me enough to deal with that shit" is not true anymore. I find that I care a lot more about the people in the back, which shames me a little. I find that even though I thought I was good at talking to people in the first place, I am more choosy with my words. There is a right and a wrong way to talk to people, and every person is different. I try to react to things with patience instead of anger. All I ask is that my crews and dispatchers have patience with me. It's going to take a while for me to get good at this. By then, I'll probably get a call from United!

Most importantly, every day I think about the advice I garnered out of every captain I flew with. I try to remember what I liked and didn't like about their style. So that it sticks, I silently recite what that instructor said to me on my last day of sim training, "Take care of your passengers. Take care of your crew. Take care of yourself - your medical. Take care of your airplane - don't bend any metal. If you do those 4 things, in that order, you'll have no problem.

Sounds like sound advice to me.

Sidelined

A 24-hour layover in the Big Apple!!! I should be out with the crew, running around Manhattan, trying new foods and drinks, watching people, seeing the sights, and trying not to get raped, mugged, or murdered after mistakenly taking a wrong turn.

What I am doing instead is working on my online resume, gathering references, and breaking down my flight time into excruciatingly precise categories between now and the first time I stepped into an airplane over 13 years ago.

I'd like to blame my discontent with my current employer. However, while it is true that the majority of our pilot group is angrier than a midget with a yo-yo, my motivation to work on airlineapps.com stems from the fact that I feel the need to do something productive and I can't do what I desperately want to do any more - Run.

Last year when I was building my mileage, I encountered shin splints. In fact, over the course of my love affair with running, I've dealt with injuries - plantar fasciitis, illiotibial band syndrome, shin splints, runner's knee..... I've had them all. A running store analyzed my gait and said, "you're a heel striker. Change your stride to more of a forefoot stride, and those problems will go away." I started with drills and eventually changed my stride. They were right - my problems went away! However, a new problem arose. I noticed that the balls of my feet felt like they were on fire after a few miles. "No problem," I thought. "My feet will get used to this new stride in time. After all, all the running forums and literature say this is a natural stride and those Kenyans who are natural athletes run BAREFOOT, for hundreds of miles, for Christ's sake!"

When I was training for the half marathon, I developed a problem in my left foot that had symptoms similar to Morton's Neuroma. It started off as an annoying numbness in the 3rd and 4th toes after about 3 miles, progressing to an electric, shooting pain with every step. When this showed up, I'd walk a few minutes, and I was able to resume running for about another 3 miles. My normal problem-solving strategy of "Ignore the problem and it will go away," didn't work in this case.

I went to a podiatrist. He did an MRI. Couldn't find a neuroma. He said, "that doesn't mean there's NOT one, it just means that if there is a neuroma, it's too small. Try ibuprofen."

Well, it feels pretty big to me. Incidentally, ibuprofen doesn't work. Lots and lots of alcohol is what works! I digress.

After the race, I took some time off. I dedicated myself into studying for captain upgrade. I didn't run a step. Know what? The problem only got worse! It got to where I couldn't walk without an explosion of shooting pain up my toes with every step. My podiatrist gave me a Cortisone shot, which made my foot "Comfortably numb" for a day. The next day? Pain was back, and it was PISSED! Now, he's recommending surgery to remove the nerve. AAAACK!!! No WAY do I want to do that! I'm afraid it might be my only option.

Mom suggested a chiropractor.

I was skeptical, but hopeful. I walked in, and Dr. Chiropractor Lady adjusted my back and made me pop in ways that hurt SO GOOD! She then took a percussive pen-shaped thingy and "adjusted" my foot. For the rest of that day..... no pain!

Such is the success of each visit, yet it always comes back. I'm told that because my foot was out of whack for so long, it will take multiple treatments. Before leaving for my 6 days of work, I went back to the Chiropractor (she was unavailable, I instead was treated by her husband, Dr. Chiropractor Man). He used his hands to adjust my foot and it "popped" in some way. It felt good at the time, but started screaming at me the moment I walked away. Why didn't I go back in and have him undo what he just did? I was running late for my commute to work, and hoped that if I ignored the problem, it would go away <wrong again>. By the time I got to the airport, every step was excruciating. I wondered if he broke something. I almost called in sick.

I will finish the recommended 10 visits with the greatest of hopes and insist on Dr. Lady as my sole foot adjuster. I will also begin the physical therapy recommended by my podiatrist. However, if the pain gets any worse, I might just take a hacksaw to the whole damned foot and instead get one of those springy prosthetic things you see amputees using to complete the Ironman.

I've put on most of the weight I lost this time last year. I can't run, I can't walk, I can't use the elliptical - and it makes me sad. I suppose I could get into biking - but I'm home about 2 nights a week if I'm lucky. I could try swimming, but I must first have the confidence to wear a swimsuit!  Honestly, I just lack motivation to do any cross training when I can't run and these are convenient, even if they are petty, excuses to not work out.

I'm hoping this is just a lesson that life needs me to learn. I'm hoping that this is just an experience I will remember when I'm finally able to run again, or even walk without pain, to use as motivation on those mornings when I am physically capable of, yet too lazy to run. I see my friends' postings on Facebook, using their fitness software, proudly announcing to the world how far or how long they've run. I feel the bittersweet emotions of simultaneously applauding and envying them, and I miss the days when I used to post the same things on my Facebook.. I miss the way people looked at me when I was drenched with sweat, wearing my dripping clothes like a badge of honor. I miss the endorphins and the feeling of accomplishment after a 10 mile run. I miss the scenery and peace of the long runs, and the achy exhaustion after tackling hills and speed drills. I miss having a butt you could bounce a quarter off of. Mostly, I miss the confidence running gave me.

I will get it back, somehow. Keep those quarters handy.

Back to finding those references for airlineapps.com.

Cleveland Rocks!

I haven't been at our company sanctioned Cleveland hotel in YEARS.

As an FO, I was based here in CLE after our company saw fit to close our sacred STL base. I made a fine home at the Crowne Plaza, and have many wonderful  memories there. I found a family there. I am currently in the process of being transferred there, because while a two hour drive to STL only to commute on Trans States to CLE to reserve is dismal, it is still a fabulous improvement over the 20 minute drive to Columbia, MO to 2 leg it through Memphis to Columbus, OH to sit reserve that I'm currently doing.

Anyway, as I've stated, I haven't been here at our CLE hotel in years. I do remember, however fuzzy, one of the most fun times of my life at this very hotel.

It was the Tuesday before the Thanksgiving Holiday, 2007. I was on a four-day trip with a fantastic crew. We fly to CLE, fly to JAX (Jacksonville, FL), and return to CLE. We were supposed to fly to Providence, RI, but never made it due to the extreme weather. I remember telling the passengers on the taxi out of the JAX airport, "wave bye-bye to Mr. Sunshine, folks.... not much of THAT where you're headed this evening." Sure enough, we get to Cleveland, and there is a blizzard!! We taxi up to the gate, there is a message from crew scheduling - we are canceled until further notice. We are to proceed to our Cleveland hotel and wait for further assignment - who knows when?

As we stroll through the airport on our way to the ground transportation area, we come upon our passengers - gathered around a gate agent as if it was a revival in southern Mississippi. Our flight attendant notices a 16 year old girl traveling alone - face all torn up in tears. "What's wrong?" she asks. The girl responds with, "I'm trying to get to Providence, RI. My flight's been canceled. I don't have any money. I don't know what to do!! I can't get a voucher because I'm a minor!" My flight attendant and I exchange glances, and she says, "We can't just leave her. Should I call my manager of inflight?" I say, "NO!!! Better to ask forgiveness than permission." We take the poor stranded passenger with us. We buy her dinner, she stays in the flight attendant's hotel room for the night. We buy her breakfast. She ends up making a flight home in time for Thanksgiving! It was a holiday miracle! We are still stuck at our Cleveland hotel for another night - with a hotel full of stranded Southwest crews and distressed passengers. A friendly smile and a wink is all it takes to earn a drink courtesy of Southwest Airlines. And the wine flowed like..... well..... wine.

It was a party I barely remember, but will never forget!!

I remember a packed bar full of our crews, Southwest crews, stranded passengers, and hotel staff. I remember having a BLAST, but little else.

God, I love this career.

I am reminded of that special week every time I come here to this special hotel. I can't wait for the stories to come, and the adventures that await!

Milwaukee hotel brews... I mean blues.

This bleeping hotel.

I just somehow magically found my way back to my Milwaukee hotel room, after roaming the halls for more than 20 minutes. I swear, the hotel we stay at here in MKE was designed by none other than David Bowie's character in Labyrinth. It's as if he tired of tormenting young adolescent girls in movies and moved on to tormenting innocent flight crews ambling back from the hotel's pub like the star of an early Tom Waits song. I must have wandered these halls in a circle at least 3 times, looking for the building that holds my humble room. My tried and true technique of hanging the "do not disturb" sign on my door to at least narrow my choices during an alcohol-induced state of confusion was of little use this time. It's a puzzle, and the 3 beers I had should have earned me some kind of handicap, like in bowling or golf.

Nope...... they just made me more handicapped.

Seriously. When I look outside my hotel room window, I see an adjacent building roughly 15 feet away that looks like a group of engineers got high together and thought, "DUUUUUUDE.......... let's put another F-ing building RIGHT THERE, MAN!! HAHA!! That would be totally GROOOOVY!!!! People could like, peep into each other's windows and stuff!" Kind of like when you're really schnockered and think you're the Dos Equis guy - the MOST interesting man in the world..... then when you sober up the next day you find out that you in fact were a total JACKASS. This hotel is a gumbo of afterthoughts, a village with its own zip code thrown together into one steaming pile of multicolored moldy fermentation and creaky floors. Every time I stay here, I see a different kind of mold on the ceiling or a different mystery stain creatively placed somewhere in the room. To be fair, I'm sure the rest of the hotel is excellent. Each one of the 5 buildings connected together via hallway is named - The Presidential, the Executive, The International..... I kept thinking...."Where's the GHETTO?!?" That's where the airline crews stay!

Please don't think I'm complaining. I am, in truth, having a freaking BLAST on this 4-day. AND.... my moldy hotel room at least has a fridge so I can store the rest of my grilled chicken. It's gonna be a total of 10 days on the road for me this time. Poor Sweet Cheeks and Clara the Cat won't remember me when I get home.

My FO comes from a background of corporate. He just made 2nd year pay, which is about a third of what he made at his corporate job. I felt guilty that my in-flight meal today was home-cooked chicken breast (grilled under a brick by yours truly) and spinach drizzled with garlic-infused olive oil and half an avocado. His in-flight meal was a few pieces of bread and some peanut butter with a tortilla chip chaser.

Day 1 of our 4-day had us arriving in Omaha, NE at around 10am, with nothing to do but entertain ourselves until 1600 the NEXT DAY. Oh.... AND there was another crew with the same layover. Needless to say, we went out. We had a Tex-Mex lunch (during happy hour!), went to a casino, and then went back to the hotel for dinner and a nightcap.

It was reminiscent of the "good ole days" in St. Louis. It wasn't like I was at work. It was like a few friends and I took a plane up to the Midwest to hang out and have fun.

THAT'S what this career is all about!!

Today, we spent the day fighting the gusty winds and building storms in Wisconsin. Our last flight of the day (leg 5) from Rhinelander to Milwaukee had us deviating a great deal East, hugging the coast line of Lake Michigan before we were clear of the storms. It made me long for my freight hauling days - instead of flying around the storm, I'd just pick the best spot and fly THROUGH the storm and hit the bar early!! I really miss those days sometimes. Who am I kidding, I miss those days ALL the time.

Oh.... this "high mins" crap is getting old. I don't know if every airline does this, or just mine, but for the first 100 hours of Captain Time for me, I have to fly EVERY leg, and execute EVERY takeoff and landing. I feel so sorry for my poor FO's who are reduced to radio jocks and gear swingers - BORED out of their MINDS. Although, I never minded when I flew with a high mins Capt when I was an FO, because it was like I didn't have to work at all - PLUS, I could flirt with ATC!!! Totaling up my time.... I only have about 75 more hours before I'm off high mins!

Anyway. Time to find some baseball on the tube (Preferably the Cardinals, but I'll watch any team). I've run into a couple of people lately who've asked me how I like being captain. I always answer truthfully, "I love it!" It's like a whole new job. At last, I get to make the calls I want without worrying about carefully watching my words. I don't have to remember how every captain likes certain little things. I get to control the mood of the plane - which is jovial, or at least sarcastic and witty. I finally get to control the things I hated about flying with guys I didn't like, as well as do and say the things that the guys I loved flying with did. Does that make sense? Even though the commute, the schedule, the same complaints that come with working for a regional airline - they are all legitimate and ever-present, I have a renewed sense of gratitude that I am in this profession. I wouldn't trade it for anything!