Rest In Peace, Mike

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” That’s one of the stupid things I said yesterday. The kind of thing you say when you don’t know what to say. We’d come to bury another controller. And just like the others, we couldn’t bear to talk about what killed him.

Everybody has to watch their friends get older. Controllers are no different. There are other professions that break people too. Other professions ask the impossible of people. Controllers aren’t that unique.

I was shocked by what I saw yesterday. I know what has been happening. I’ve predicted it and even told you about it. Talking about it is one thing. Seeing it is quite another. Almost every single person was retired, within a year of retiring or was out a a medical. I didn’t see any of their replacements. But why would I ? Most weren’t around when Mike was working and besides, nobody wants to think too hard about the reason we were there. Especially not the young.

I don’t know where I’m going with all this. I don’t even know if I should try. I’m the last person on Earth that should try to explain people. They’re a mystery to me.

Some people try. Another controller friend sent me an email that has been floating around the controller community for a while now. Just bad timing on his part. He didn’t know Mike. He didn’t know we buried him yesterday.

”Put down your copy of Pushing Tin.

The truth is, the job sucks, even for those of us who LOVE it.

We are not appreciated by those that we protect, even though we save and protect more lives on a daily basis than any other profession.“

I don’t know how to say it without sounding self-serving either. Controllers don’t run into burning buildings. Nobody shoots at them. But there aren’t any flag-draped coffins in the end either. No official will make a speech acknowledging your service, no honor guard, no fly-bys, no anything. You’re lucky if you even have any friends left.

”You will never have a regular social life.

Your friends won't understand that you can't leave work or get off work.

They won't even be able to figure out your rotating schedule.

They'll stop calling because you're never home, or you're just leaving
for work. “

In the end, you’re just left with the ones you worked with -- the few that can understand the pressure and silently acknowledge that not everyone survives it.

”There is something "not right" about ALL of us.“

We won’t be able to explain it to the family. There is no official phraseology to bring them comfort. There isn’t even the blessed anonymity of being the faceless voice on the radio -- the one that can bring order to the chaos, help to those in trouble or the last bit of human contact to those that are about to die.

There’s just us, Mike. Standing around without anything profound to say -- without any answers. That’s all we’ve got. I wish it was different. I know you did too.

Rest in peace, brother.

Don Brown
August 19, 2008