I have a fear of flying. Here is what my mind does - meet my flying mind.
No one wants to sit next to me on a plane and I don’t blame them. For years my kids drew straws to decide who that poor sod will be. Somehow hubby always lost out and now that they’ve flown the coop, he loses out every time!
It starts when I have to force two weeks’ of winter clothing into a single suitcase. I’ve tried all the methods – rolling, folding and vacuum packing; nothing works. In addition, packing that bag is like gambling – You don’t know if the bag will arrive, plundered or intact, on the other side; so anything of value needs to be strapped onto your person.
During the drive to the airport, some kind of shadow-animal grabs my intestines and twists, hard. It’s not the kind of creature that pounces, it creeps in over weeks and weeks, but the moment I step into the terminal, it means business and that business sends me to the germ-infested airport bathrooms, several times.
The check-in counter is designed to escalate worry to panic, – ‘sorry, you can’t sit next to your spouse’ or ‘your bags cannot be booked through’, are the kinds of things the animal loves; it hikes up its business, right into my airway.
A bored assistant chats away with her colleague and (hopefully) labels my overweight baggage correctly. They are surprised when I check and re-check my labels and boarding pass, eyeing me with trepidation because this is the moment when my speech becomes slurred and my movements slow down – tranquillisers are now flooding my system and “calculating what’s onboard” has nothing to do with the plane whatsoever.
At this stage, if I’m flying alone, hubby has to assess whether I am able to make it through to the boarding gate by myself. Both of us are considering the “unaccompanied minor” desk. After a fleeting kiss and a worried backward glance (and I’m sure much relief that he is not accompanying me), I’m left to my own devices.
I have a special gift. I am able, without fail, to pack carry-on luggage that is identified as suspicious. Perhaps it is the angst on my face or the sway in my step, but they make me “show and tell”, every time. Apparently, this is the point in the process where my mind confuses fear with danger, or so my ‘flying therapist’ says.
Every laptop that is switched on around me becomes a “bomb” and anyone dressed in some or other traditional garb, hippy-, punk- or bohemian-outfit, is a potential terrorist. I know this is not the time to utter “bomb” or “hi-jacker”, but I have to actively restrain myself from joking about it – it’s the kind of “comic relief” that will get you thrown off the flight in no time. At this stage I’m assuming everyone around me is flying with false papers and have luggage filled with TNT.
After gulping down a litre of water, which these days is considered a “lethal weapon”, and hence was to be consumed or dumped, I snake my way to another queue. My documentation is always in order; I prepare for trips months in advance. Yet, this is where I suffer a severe lapse in memory and have to flip around my passport as if I’ve just remembered to check. If they have cameras here, it explains why the officer at passport control flips around that passport way more than I just did and refuses to stamp it where I tell him. He doesn’t know that “Blank pages” are commodities!
Finally, I am released into “duty-free”, where prices are 60% higher than in any other shop, but I am so down for the retail therapy, that I fall into the first tourist trap. I think this is the only spot in the airport where they really really like me.
By the time I reach the boarding gate, I have crammed five more unnecessary items into the carry-on luggage and wasted the time I could have spent in the quiet ambiance of a lounge. Yes, I’ve upgraded with miles and should count my blessings and all that, but it doesn’t make a difference on an ’emotional’ level. The only thing that gets me to the gate, is my OCD, because there are rituals and things to do once I board; I need time before the take-off.
At the door of the craft, I stop to inspect the cigar-shaped, carbon fiber body, stapled together with little round rusted buttons. These ‘pop rivets’ may or may not secure the integrity of the aerodynamical hull and they deserve a quick once-over. Other passengers don’t think so and rams each other like livestock to be plunge-dipped. But they stop dead in their tracks when I wonder out loud if the plane can fly with only one engine; no one likes the question much. I’m more unpopular when I mention that this plane cannot fly if the tail falls off or the hydraulics leak. I’ve just plunge-dipped all the “cattle” irrespective of class, in the juice that’s flowing in my veins; pure unadulterated fear.
Strangled by a hot scarf, the hostess points to my seat, 4A, and correctly labels me when she mentions to her colleague, that she had “an awful time on the fourth in America.” I get it; that’s code for ‘4A is awful and a potential problem’.
In the pocket, in front of my seat, I find the well-studied, ‘designer’ pamphlet, that depicts horror scenarios. Instructions on how to strap on a life vest, (even if it assures you that the light on the vest will blink at night and that the tube at the bottom will inflate it), does not make for relaxing reading material. Indicating the exits, where a yellow slide can pop out of the door, or stating that the route to those slides will be marked clearly with lights on the floor, does not calm me down, even if they say ‘in the unlikely event‘. I accept the glass of champagne offered by the stewardess called Delilah, even though I don’t drink it; holding it is just a ritualistic part of the steps I take to quiet down the carnival of fear that surges around me.
I strap in. Ironically, the buckle is made to withstand incredible force, way more than the human body can tolerate. I stare at the Rolls Royce engines that runs on highly flammable jet fuel, hanging below the demarcated sections called flaps.
They don’t flap at all. The ‘lifeblood of control’ runs from the pilot’s foot to those flaps via thin vulnerable pipes; the difference between fear and danger is still not clear in my head.
Delilah retrieves the hot towel she had given me with a pincher; reminding me of all the unseen threats like viruses and germs. She winks at her colleague and indicates in my direction. The river of sweat running from my forehead over my lips may be a dead giveaway as to my state of mind. She tells me to take off my headphones and stow them away. Really? The heavy metal, at top volume, is the only thing drowning out the harrowing images I watched yesterday on “Aircrash Investigation”. I don’t want to hear the door closing, the engines turn or the metal creaking (with metal fatigue or something else), as the brakes release, but of course, I have hearing superpowers now; I hear everything.
“Cabin crew cross check and arm the doors.”
I don’t know what that instruction means but it is the single most important pivotal point in my undoing; a true game changer. It flips a switch in my head that signals all my nerves that we are about to be entombed. My buttocks inhale my underwear and claustrophobia claws its way up my air pipe. The passenger next to me swears under her breath. She slams her food tray back and mumbles, “I had to get the seat next to the crazy one.”
Now, I know we are not allowed sharp objects on the flight but the daggers in my eyes, shut her up. Not much “convo” expected around seats 4A and 4C through the flight, I suppose?
A guy comes on the intercom and he sounds either drugged, tired or perhaps depressed. I’ve seen a few episodes where pilots commit suicide “by plane”, taking everyone with him. He’s talking about a delay for ‘technical reasons’, mentions casually the extreme height we will be cruising at and that ‘some turbulence’ is expected over the equator. I’m mentally calculating the flying time before we reach the equator; my meds have to be in “full tilt” by then. He says he will make ‘every effort’ to fly around the storm and that when the seatbelt sign is turned on, we are to buckle up.
I assume the shift in the level of my sanity is visible; Delilah heads over and asks if I’m alright. I ask her what possible ‘technical problem’ there could be at this late stage and she says it’s ‘something to do with the air conditioner’ but that ‘it’s routine’. I remind her vehemently that the air conditioning regulates cabin pressure. 4C is clutching her arm-rests. Delilah pats her arm, “It’s all under control.” I manage sarcasm when I ask what the clanging sound below is envisioning that they are fixing things with blue wire and pliers, because you know, it’s all about cost and time. Delilah is taught not to roll her eyes so it makes her lips twitch.
“You’ll be ok.” She says, as only a ‘Delilah’ can.
But I’m not ok. We’re moving. It just got real. My behind is in a spasm as I hold my breath.
I assume they switch off the lights so that the other passengers can’t see the expressions of people like me. I am always surprised that no one else is wondering whether the pilot calculated the “fuel vs load” correctly. Everyone shaking their heads at me; I know they are not pondering the maintenance record of the struggling airline we are trusting to carry us into the sky.
I hope that the tower is watching traffic landing and taking off as we taxi onto the runway, painted with confusing numbers. Is there someone that checks that there is no wayward luggage truck or shard of rubber in our path? ( I saw the one where debris ripped the entire leading edge from the wing; you can’t fly without that thing.)
We’re lining up, getting into position and I wonder where along the path ahead, the co-pilot will call out “V1”, because that’s the point of no return. It’s the point where all cockpit control is in the hands of the contractor that won the cheapest tender to supply every nut and bolt that will carry this monster into the air.
We move forward and I close my eyes when I see a bird. I hope it is small enough to pass through the turbines in the engine.
We move. I grip the armrests. I start counting down the three minutes that is statistically the most dangerous moments of any flight.
It still amazes me how the g-force pushes you into the chair; when the shaking missile puts all its belief in a phenomenon called ‘lift’. 4C switches on her light to study the inflight entertainment guide. Clearly she hasn’t seen the one where the entertainment system caused a fire? (They were entertained on that flight alright!)
Thankfully, we achieve “lift” and the roller coaster sways in a crosswind and “Tokyo drifts” on the empty air. I’m dreading a sudden drop; like a bowling ball that drops onto your bladder. The litre of water now wants out. I eye the seatbelt sign; it’s a no-go.
Massive turbines send the metal tube into the sky and we rocket up to 10 000 feet where snow or hail can cause a flame out and drop this bird out of the sky.
A distracted voice say: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Aah, Sit back, relax and aah, enjoy the flight.”
Gravity hands us over to pockets of air. We are dodging the storm that brews outside my window. I know the plane can take a direct strike; therefor the carbon fibre. Delilah leans over and whispers, “Just imagine you are on a dirt road, you won’t be scared then, will you?” I shake my head but not to tell her that “no, I won’t be scared then”, I’m shaking my head because this feels nothing like any event on terra firma; that this is more like a trampoline and a king swing all in one. The pilot negotiates the turbulence with a calculated angles; plane’s belly to invisible air bubbles. I never stop anticipating a sudden drop.
Terminal velocity, followed by a sudden stop is what’s foremost in my mind. That, and episodes where the NTSB described the aftermath saying “there was nothing but a hole in the ground and small bits of flesh and debris“.
“Aah, ladies and gentleman, we ahh, are experiencing, aah, a small technical aah, problem but will soon be re-booting the entertainment system.”
Naturally, everything past “technical problem” scrambles in my head. I elbow the dozing passenger next to me, who had been acting as if the ‘vomit comet’ is her personal rocking cradle. I ask her what the ‘technical problem’ is. She doesn’t respond fast enough and I turn to Delilah, who is hovering right behind me, “What? What’s wrong? What fell off?” She walks up to me with effort; clutching the seats to steady herself as we shake, rattle and roll through something the pilot is describing as ‘some low cloud’.
“Madam please sit down, you are upsetting the other passengers.” Says Delilah.
I cast a quick look at the passengers seated at the emergency exits. I evaluate their stature and decide that four seats forward, on the right, is a woman much smaller than me…in case of evacuation, she’s going to feel me coming.
“Cabin crew secure the gulley and take your seats”, actually translates to “Stop serving drinks, it’s going to get rough.”
Defcon 4 hits the centres of my mind as I slam into my seat. My bladder is leaking a bit. I pull that buckle so tight my extra large waist, it will henceforth fit into a petite bustier. The long tunnel, filled with too many bobbing heads, bounces and swerves as if we are “dirt-track” racing. I grip the arm of the miserable woman in 4C, and bury my face in her armpit. I start to sing. I can carry a tune but no one wants to hear this one, it seems…
“Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so…“
4C jerks her arm away and the air hostess offers her another seat. My math abilities and reasoning is taking a small break from reality. How far is the equator? What pill can I take? To my horror, the air hostess slaps a menu in my lap, her access to me eased by the empty seat next to me. “What would you like to eat? Chicken or fish?” Her eyes are saying. “No steak for you.”
I know once we transverse the equator, we will be over northern Africa, where some sort of ‘struggle’ is always brewing and someone will have ‘ground-to-air’ missiles. Later, we will also be flying over the freezing waters of the Atlantic, where the Titanic sank, and people froze to death floating on a door or not…
“What would you like to drink M’am?” My laughing and saying, “Vodka with a dash of Valium please”, is obviously her hard limit; she rolls her eyes.
For dessert, I say, I would like to mainline my sleeping pill and suck on an oxygen tank. She brings me camomile tea and the tank. I brought my own supply of “benzo” and “Ambien” and mixed it up with some “codeine”. The concoction does nothing and I am wide awake for the entire sixteen-hour flight even though Delilah said she thinks “They’ll be sleeping in America for 4 nights”;4A never slept.
Nothing stops the nausea that is inevitable on most flights. The arsenal of apples, ginger, Coca-Cola, peppermints nor the tiny bangle (with a button that presses into my wrist like a sonofabitch), can prevent me from spray-painting the mirror in the lavatory as the equator passes below us.
To top it all the “lie-flat” seats are a flat lie. They are hard and narrow; it’s wasted on me anyway, I’m sitting upright, tracking a small plane across a world map.
I’m wishing that “Scottie” can beam us to New York but that’s just my “Trekkie” obsession speaking because my personal screen says it’s only been five hours since take-off, there’s eleven more hours to go.
In a world where the f-word can mean so many things, flying is a necessary abominable means of travel.
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