A Chick in the Cockpit (24 page)

None of the women had to testify. The case was done just by having them show up. Brad's attorney rested his case, and we let the judge decide our fate. The result of temporary orders was that Brad was going to have to pay dearly. Since he had shut me out of all our joint finances for almost a year, he had to pay back maintenance (formally called alimony) and child support. All that time spent changing passwords and account numbers ended up costing Brad money.

Temporary orders maintenance was double what I'd been trying to negotiate with Brad at mediation. The restraining order against Brad would stay in place, and we were allowed to be in the same room as long as it was for a children's activity. These were just temporary orders, and the most important decision—custody—was put off until the trial. Between now and the trial, a court-appointed family investigator (CFI) was going to crawl through our lives with a microscope and determine what would be best for our children. It is a strange society that we live in.

The FAA can reexamine an airman at any time if the FAA has reasonable grounds—usually an accident or regulation violation can trigger a pilot to be grounded. It can take months and even years to go through the case and an appeal. In the meantime, the pilot is unable to earn money as a pilot, and even if innocent, the process will cost the pilot a lifetime of effort.

For my marital accident, it took six months just to get a court date for a permanent divorce orders trial. It was scheduled for two days. I think the philosophy behind that is after all that time, most people start moving forward with their new lives so that by the time the court hearing arrives, most couples have reached a point where they can divvy up the assets and call it quits. Then again, I said
most
people.

During those dreary months of purgatory, a new person entered our lives by force: our Court Appointed Family Investigator—or CFI for short. Craig could have passed for Santa Claus's brother, complete with a round belly and full white beard. But his less-than-jovial outlook on life was influenced by having seen it all and heard every lie imaginable. He'd been doing this for thirty years and after being around the worst of humanity, he was now a curmudgeon who had forgotten why he'd entered this profession. However, every once in a while, he would let down his guard and you could see that he'd been passionate about his job, and that at one time it hadn't been about the money.

I often wondered what sent him down this path of having more power than God. He held my children's fate in his hands, and whatever he decided, the court would usually order accordingly. Sure, the judge had final authority, but the reality is that they all listen to the CFI, because if it goes badly, the judge can go back and blame the CFI. The CFI was the captain of my airplane, and the court sat in the control tower.

By court order, Craig was allowed full access to our innermost personal lives. It was Craig's due diligence to call teachers, pediatricians, doctors, psychologists, marriage counselors, friends, and family. He interviewed all of us individually as well as together. He even came to our homes to watch us and to make sure our home environment was up to par. I felt like I was part of the cast of a bizarre sitcom called, “This is Your Life, Now Defend It!” Every parenting mistake or raised voice was under question. In an email, I had once said that the most physical contact I had doled out for punishment was a swat on the butt. Now, even that had to be defended. “So, you stated that you once struck your daughter...”

I had to dig back into my parenting past and track down every teacher, parent, or activity director I'd ever dealt with, or had interaction with my children. It was humiliating to have to explain that I was in a custody battle and I needed them to send in a report on my parenting ability, good or bad, for a court trial. The embarrassment was well worth the effort. In the end, I had twenty-eight people take the time to fill out an affidavit, have it notarized and sent to Craig. It was this overwhelming outside proof that made the difference, because Brad was all too happy to tell anyone and everyone that I was the worst mother ever to roam the planet. It wasn't a trickle of Karma coming back to me; it was a tsunami—the perfect parenting storm with a blinding rainbow at the end.

Legalities bind me to keep the contents of the CFI report confidential, but I can summarize the outcome as this: The pattern of abuse and Brad's long history of lies and deceit were clinically itemized and condensed into a forty page report. He only had two people give an affidavit, besides his relatives. This report was the bible that the judge was going to use to determine the structure of child custody. The two-day trial was set, so all I could do was sit back, put my tray table up, and leave my seatbelt unbuckled.

With four hours of sleep, I walked into the courtroom to debate and hear my fate. It began with four hours of volleying back and forth in court over terms. Brad stated he'd never pay alimony or child support. He wanted the business, the rental house, the kids, and for me to take all of his debts. In return, he generously allowed that I could stay in my home (valued less than what was owed on the mortgage, due to the real estate market), and I could keep my six year old car. We managed to haggle out most of the terms, but we came back to the judge still deadlocked on the business.

The judge went off the record, sat us all down again, and took a deep breath. Pulling his glasses down the bridge of his nose, he turned his attention to me.

“Erika, this probably isn't going to feel like it right now, but I am going to give you the highest compliment that you can find in this courtroom. I am just letting you know that if you were to ask me to decide right now, I would probably rule to have Brad take the business. You have a strong resume and education, and you have a better chance of going out into this world and making something for yourself than he does. Brad can hardly take care of himself, let alone support a family. I believe the only way he will be able to carry his load is if you leave him with something he's already doing.

“Erika, you once made a lot of money, and I'm confident you can do it again. Your attorney said you would approve to receive this as maintenance, which means Brad gets a tax deduction and you pay tax on the income, but at least the state will monitor the payments. You won't get any maintenance (alimony), but you'll get back a portion of what you put into the business. Does that make sense?”

Actually, it made no sense, but God was asking me a question, and I didn't want to appear flustered at his absurd conclusion. I could see on my radar scope that he was flying me into the center of an F5 tornado and yet, I calmly said, “Yes, I suppose it makes sense.”

My inner flight crew was having a conniption fit: “What?!! Holy shit. Does he have any idea that I can't get back into aviation after an eight year absence? It's currently the worst economy in the United States' history, and unemployment is over 9%. He's got to be joking. I found and started this business with my money! Brad would still be a wrench monkey at the airport at two in the morning in the snow if it wasn't for me. Are you fucking nuts?
I'm
a mom who needs a flexible schedule and to set my own hours so
I
can be there for the girls. That's why I started my business. Now I have to get an office job down in Denver? Three hours of every day will be spent commuting while my kids are in daycare...how is giving Brad my business fair to me or my girls?”

Even after this agreement, Brad reiterated to the court that he would not pay maintenance. While on the stand, his attorney asked why he felt he shouldn't have to pay maintenance. He sneered at me and the courtroom, and said, “Because she should get off her ass and get a job...”

Our business had brought in about $2.5 million dollars in the last four years, but he was trying to prove it was worth about $30k (the franchise fee alone was $40k). Since my attorney agreed to have Brad pay me back my half of the business in “maintenance” payments (he should have been required to buy out my partnership as a business transaction, not a divorce proceeding), Brad would only agree to pay a total of just $40,000 with payments spread out over two and a half years. He also agreed to pay $50 per week, per child, if I took over his home equity line of credit debt for $50,000. Fine. Sure, even though that would take nineteen years to make it equal. Whatever, I'll take it. To summarize, this left me with no alimony and $50/week per child in child support while he was earning about $85,000 from
my
business.

Post flight inspection complete. Yes, major damage found, but can't do anything about it now except to get in for repairs. Check. Now, get him the hell out of my life.

Worth every penny lost.

The most important question was left until the end, custody. Craig's CFI report summarized the dysfunction of the marriage and Brad's neurosis, but it was what was listed below the sum line that counted. In the end, there was no doubt Brad loved his girls, but it was determined that I should remain primary caregiver. That also meant that for the rest of my children's lives, I had to break my connection with them and hand them over to Brad every Wednesday and every other weekend. Holidays, vacations, and special occasions had an assigned caveat for each year, which we still fight over on a regular basis because it's as murky as mud. I wanted my children to have their dad in their lives. After everything I'd been through, I still thought it was important, and it wasn't my place to take that from them. He was the other half of my daughters, and I completely understood the bond should remain, no matter how dysfunctional. But I still had a primordial fear based on fact: Brad could be dangerous.

After cowering through the financial division in court, I was loud and outspoken during the custody negotiations. I said the only way I would agree to this custody arrangement was if Brad agreed to attend consistent and regular psychological counseling. I didn't want Brad out of their lives, I wanted him in their lives in a healthy, positive way, but I knew he needed help getting there. At a minimum, I wanted him to be monitored, even if counseling wasn't helping. I didn't put a lot of hope into psychological counseling, but a counselor is required to call the authorities if they feel something bad might happen. Monitoring him was the best I could do in this era of equal parenting rights.

This simple request that Brad receive counseling was the biggest point of contention during the proceedings. Brad absolutely refused to go. I explained to the court my reasons, and the judge agreed. However, he said he couldn't make Brad go to counseling, but if he didn't go, he would make visitation more restrictive. It was Brad's choice. Brad then said he'd go if I was required to go, too. I said sure, I'd go. I'd do anything I had to do to keep my girls safe and happy.

I did go to counseling, again, as agreed to in court. I even started a support group called the Divorce Club Warriors. Predictably, Brad didn't. He said he considered the
one time
he went the following year as “consistent” counseling. Sadly, the judge never said what his definition of “consistent” was. However, I still managed to regain some power, thanks to the divorce decree which said, “If parents are unable to reach agreement, Mother will have final decision authority.” When I had signed on the dotted line in the courtroom that day, I turned to my attorney and asked, “Okay, am I divorced? Is it all over?” The judge had overheard the question and with a firm, loud, and congratulatory voice laughed, “Yes, young lady. You are now divorced. Best of luck to you...”

Since I had just been disemboweled and left for dead, I envisioned myself as Mel Gibson in
Braveheart.
I wanted to open the courtroom doors and yell “FREEDOM!”

22
Closing the Flight Plan

1.
As you drive away from the airport, that nagging feeling you forgot something is closing your flight plan

2.
If you are on an IFR flight plan, it is closed for you

3.
If you haven't filed a flight plan and you have an accident off airport, it could be years before they find you...if ever

It can't be stressed enough that having others know where you are along your flight route is crucial, especially if you should be required to make an off-airport emergency landing. For flights with paying customers, there will always be a flight plan filed with air traffic control, but the pilots who need monitoring the most, novice fair-weather pilots, often don't take advantage of this key tracking system.

Filing a VFR (visual flight rules) flight plan with a local Flight Service Station tracks your aircraft on the radar screen, and if you don't close your flight plan after you land, emergency services will assume you need help and will begin tracing your flight to the point you disappeared. With that said, quite often these same pilots forget to close the flight plan, which triggers a search and rescue.

The FAA realizes that focus is one of the main strengths of pilots—focusing on the task at hand, completing it, and moving on. The FAA recommends that pilots interrupt their focus to remember to close their flight plans. Try putting your wallet or car keys in a different pocket to remind you to close your flight plan. Set the alarm on your cell phone or watch. Put a note on your car's ignition. Whatever you need to do is fine, but find a way to interrupt the start of the next task with a reminder to close the flight plan at 1-800-WX-BRIEF.

So what happens when you don't show up where and when you're supposed to? If you're more than thirty minutes past your estimated time of arrival, a search is initiated via telephone. Someone will call the airport where you were supposed to arrive. More often than not, they'll find you blushing while explaining that you forgot to close the flight plan.

If they still can't find you, air traffic control will start at your destination and track you any way they can. For those pilots and aircraft that are truly in trouble, pilots who filed flight plans are located an average of four hours sooner than those who did not file a flight plan. If you've made an emergency landing in someplace like the backcountry of Colorado, those four hours are the difference between life and death.

The simple act of filing the flight plan requires the pilot to review all aspects of the flight, so it's also a backup preflight checklist. It doesn't matter if there are crystal blue skies and not a whisper of wind when you leave your destination; the world and weather can change faster than a toddler's mood, so it's best to always err on the side of safety and have someone ready to find you if you lose your way.

Wouldn't it be nice if someone came to help you automatically if you lost your way? If your flight plan states that you'll arrive safely in a marriage with two children by forty and you don't arrive at that destination, wouldn't it be lovely if someone looked for you to find out what happened? Sometimes you have to crash land and wait for help. If you know help is on the way, the mere knowledge that someone is looking for you will give you hope. If you forgot or chose to not file a flight plan and you have crash landed, the very knowledge that no one is looking for you will perpetuate your despair.

File a flight plan.

I'd filed a flight plan, but it was so long ago that I forgot it was there.

~~~

During the six months between temporary orders and permanent orders, I had glimpses of the person I used to be. Still without any income except from what I made from horse boarding, dog and babysitting, I told my attorney I had to find someplace to work. Before the sentence was even out of my mouth she said, “Absolutely not! If you show any kind of income, you will be hard pressed to convince the court to give you child support and maintenance, and chances are you wouldn't start out by getting a high paying job. As a matter of fact, in this economy, you'll be lucky to get a job at McDonalds. You'll also forfeit your effort to get your business back. If you're working elsewhere, Brad will simply point out that he should get the business because you're already working somewhere else. Just use this time to get ready for court...”

It was easy for her to say since I was slowly sinking into debt for her. On top of the debt Brad had created, the lawyer bills were rolling in at $4,000 per month. Brad also did creative, fun things like claim I earned money from the business, put my name on the income (while he hid it in secret accounts), and then left me with the IRS tax bill.

For once in my life, I thought
screw it.
I decided to do what I could to earn money during those months and to enjoy my time with my kids and the horses in the barn. If I had to, I'd file bankruptcy just like everyone else. Once I gave myself that permission to fail, my conscience pushed back and said,
damn it, you can do better than that!
Instead, I started doing more daycare and taking in the neighbor dogs when their owners were on vacation. I did odd jobs, and even though I was still sinking, I felt that I was at least slowing myself on the slippery slope. I hustled what I could, but it was the Book Club Warriors that kept me afloat – financially and spiritually—and without them, I'm afraid my flight plan would have slid me right into hell.

My quiet heroes ignited my recovery by organizing meals delivered to my house every other night for an entire month. I actually had a web-based calendar that my friends filled out and sent to me so I knew what I was eating and when. My freezer was bursting at the seams, but that was just the beginning.

They also dropped off chords of firewood, clothes for my girls, and suits for me to use for interviews. My email inbox was full of support, kind words, and offers of free babysitting. My daughter's piano teacher wouldn't let me pay her, and the art teacher at school let my girls take her art class after school for free. I didn't even know her, but she heard we were dealing with a divorce and her motive was purely to help my girls get through it. The tears I had been shedding changed from sorrow to tears of gratitude.

And it didn't stop there.

About two weeks after everyone showed up at the courthouse, I got a call from Candace, a quintessential happy-to-be-a-mom and our jokester at book club. She quipped over the phone, “Hey, it's really weird, but I was handed an envelope with your name on it. Do you mind if I swing by and drop it off for you?” I barraged her with questions because I didn't know what she was talking about. I didn't know why someone had given her an envelope with my name on it. Did I drop something? Shoot, these days an anonymous envelope was bad news.

She came by later that day and handed me a thick, white envelope that was stuffed with cash—over $400 in small denominations. I could hardly speak as the rush of gratitude flooded my emotions, and all I could do was stand there and tremble. It was all anonymous, so I didn't even know whom to thank. She said she didn't want me thanking anyone, that's why no one wrote a check. She also figured I wouldn't cash it if they did.

Candace, who is always smiling and poised, knew I was struggling with my emotions, so she hugged me and told me to just take it and have a great day. I kept my composure as her Mom SUV oscillated out of my dirt driveway. With the dust still rising in the air, I turned and sat down on my front porch steps and cried tears of gratitude. The essence of how I saw the world changed forever. That subtle moment of intense honor, not for the money, but for the thoughts and well wishes behind it—uncovered something within me that has maintained a level of undiminished happiness. I realized I was richer than I could have ever imagined. Since then, I have never wanted for anything more other than to be safe and have just enough to live on, and keep my girls physically and spiritually healthy. Thankfully, all those years of material wishes vanished in an instant by being fulfilled in a different way. I didn't have to be afraid, and I was happy again. I had everything by having nothing, and if I just trusted that everything would be okay, then I would be okay.

I had filed a flight plan with these beautiful women over the years, and during the darkest moment when I thought no one would find my wreckage, they tracked me down and reminded me to pull the hidden phoenix out of the ashes with me.

Look out from your cockpit window and you can see it all around you. You can see the lost flight plans and quiet unhappiness in all those people who literally have everything, yet they are so unhappy and live each day in a void. They are wallowing in the wreckage of the relentless and mindless pursuit of dissolvable “things” and power that I used to chase and thought was part of the formula for happiness. I still work for those “things,” but my happiness is not dependent on it. It's just a bonus if I get it now. I couldn't see it before because I hadn't been pushed to my spiritual limit. I hadn't been pushed over the edge to find that the drop is short and the view is wonderful.

As ironic as it sounds, if it had not been for Brad's neurosis, I would never have found this level of joy and contentment with uncertainty. I would never have known the sheer gratitude for just being here, being me as I am, and thankful for all that I had done with my life, no matter how screwed up it was at the moment—and I can't think of a better revenge as having found this contentment within my core.

This passion still wakes me up every morning, and I want to jump out of bed to feel it and share it with my friends and neighbors. I want to share my flight plan. Because of this, I have learned to fly with my feet planted firmly in the ground.