A PASSENGER IN AN AIRPLANE

Picture courtesy of Frank Bryan

A PASSENGER IN AN AIRPLANE

I am not a road warrior. Even if George Clooney were to be my mentor (as in Up In the Air movie,) I would not have been excited to travel. But I have worked with road warriors. Once on the road, they just can't stay home for a long time. They can live out of a suitcase, work from state to state, without being bothered in the least.

This disconnect between travel in the airplane and the place of my final destination, has a lot to do with my medical condition -- feeling safe and secure only at home.  Once on the way to the airport, the world becomes bigger and unfamiliar. The secondary effects from my medications become primary. To my husband's embarrassment, I want to hold his hand all the time. The panic is overpowering. Everyone in this crowd knows where they are going, what they are doing, they move like robots, armed with suitcases and carry ons; voices, noises - it feels like I am the only one lost. Still, there is one location with relative safety - the bar. I can calm down there. I would have coffee and danish (more than one.) The airport Hell would be sugar coated. 

The next circle of Hell starts once on the plane. I am disabled, thus included in the group for early boarding. Since for us it takes longer to be seated, the plane seats our group first. 

You do not recognize my disability just by looking at me. You have to look at the pills in my purse. I am relatively fast physically. The dilemma is when a little electrical storm in the brain strikes. I have to be prepared for that. That is why I am so antsy, uncomfortable, on pins and needles.

My husband occupies the seat next to the plane's window. He likes to watch the world from above. I have 2 options. None of them works in my favor, though. I can sit in the middle, so that I can hold my husband's hand (in case I have a light seizure during the flight.) No one will notice what happens and I feel safe. 

The disadvantage of this middle position is that I almost always have another person sitting on the other side, who does not understand the concept of personal space. Everyone looks for convenience in the airplane since everyone pays the same price. Only business class people are "special." If you see a 120 lbs woman, you will love to sit next to her. I am the one you want to be next to. I am not chatty and if you do not occupy the full arm rest and sleep on my shoulder, we will enjoy to be neighbors. But if you leave me only tiny space to breathe or stretch my legs, then I will put my grouchy pants. I will be quietly miserable.

I have tried to put my husband in the middle seat, too. He is 6'3'', normal weight man. In the middle of the flight, we switch positions, because, he cannot endure what I can. Afterall, I am half his size. No place for his legs, for his arms, or body. 

This is not all. Some sweet kids are (naturally) pooping in their diapers more often that others. This is normal. Ultimately, we will all go back to the beginning one day. But kicking my seat for an hour, while the parent is watching a movie is enhanced torture. I am afraid to look back and say something to the parents. What if the child starts crying?  I do not want to upset him. I will kick the front seat too, if I am bored flying, or listening how great I am. Moms always brag about their kids. I know from personal experience. There is always "awww of the "awwws" time every passenger owes moms, when describing their kids accomplishments. This was also the time to not allow anyone else to sleep. 

But mommies and daddies, we have to negotiate the bragging and sleeping time. Especially, if it is an overnight international flight.

On one occasion, I was not feeling well, Gary was in his window seat, thinking how good it will be to have his own plane to fly across the ocean. Next to me was an (obviously) business guy, who had closed his iPad (good call) and was taking a nap. The flight assistant asked me if I needed anything. I asked for icy water. She brought me some. Unfortunately, I was so clumsy and uncoordinated, the ice cubes landed on the guy's family jewels. He jumped up. I have heard Americans say, "I am sorry, I am sorry!" He rigorously started wiping the ice from his precious area. The flight attendant came back with more tissue paper. Needless to say, the surrounding rows saw what I did. 

I was still into this American "I am sorry" mode: I was ready to help him wipe himself, too. He did not say a word, just got up and went to the bathroom. During this whole fiasco, what did my husband do? He was still counting the clouds, looking in the opposite direction to where I was. It was not hard to read his mind: "I have not had sex with this woman. I am not related to her either."

We landed soon. My neighbor could not wait to get out of the plane.

I looked at my husband and asked him why he did not come in my defense. He said, "Because it was so funny.... What could I possibly say. Sorry, man, my wife does stuff like this all the time. You'll be fine. You should hear what she did last time to another guy.... She does not mean harm. Sh.... happens and she is always in the middle of it." 

The gist of it was that I found it very funny. I had to hold my breath behind the "I am sorry!" in order not to explode. It was not like a big suitcase fell on his head. Now, that would not have been funny. But some ice on your balls with your shorts on -- that is nothing!

Picture provided by David Contillo Dominici/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Blog Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real situations, real people, living or dead is purely coincidental. All characters appearing in this blog are fictitious.