And I thought being claustrophobic was the sum of my fears.
They say that a phobia is an irrational fear. Up until my latest (and perhaps last) cross-country flight, I was foolish enough to boast that my only phobia was claustrophobia. Something about being really sick with double pneumonia as an 18-month-old with a high fever having finally been put in a baby-sized oxygen tent after being starved for air.
But pride cometh before a fall, and fall I did-- at 35,000 feet-- somewhere over the Great Lakes. My hubby and I had secured dandy seats on a non-stop United flight from Boston to San Francisco, far forward in the plane. We got settled into our seats with a minimum of hassle. We'd just had a great weeklong vacation with my siblings and a couple of the nieces up at our family's summer home up in the wilds of central New Hampshire. It was our first trip anywhere in over two years. The pandemic and all that.
I said that it was perhaps my "last trip" because, though I'm still feeling great, I've been working against pancreatic cancer for three-and-a-half years now and have arrived at the threshold of full-fledged chemotherapy to begin as soon as we arrive home.
(Please note: I am writing this piece on the jet now.)
Thinking about it now, I realize that the misadventure I endured two hours ago actually isn't phobia-related -- though let's see how I'm feeling about it, say, tomorrow.
So here's the scoop. Settled into the flight with my darling husband --and rescuer-- at my side. Now are you familiar with Apple Airbuds? Nifty accessories when one's musical tastes tend to differ from one's life partner's. (Mine are broad; his are narrow. There, I said it.) And pretty good sound quality.
Nifty, that is, for home use.
For some brilliant reason the ultra-modern 737 aircraft we're on has no little seat-back screens or earphone plugs for watching stuff to while away the time on a six-hour flight, but what did I care? I had my beloved iPad for reading and music listening and, yes, I have a pair of those little white, expensive Airbuds to help pass the time.
Somewhere an hour or so into the trip at my window seat as I was deep into a Beethoven piano sonata, quite suddenly my left said Airbud popped out of my left ear and tumbled next to and deep under my seat.
Oh, darn.
So I scooped my long, chimplike arms and long, agile fingers to retrieve it. Where had it gone? I stretched and ducked down, searching for what felt like everywhere.
No luck.
At one point I asked for advice from our blessedly hunky and friendly flight attendant. He looked around as well as any tall, dark and handsome flight attendant could and concluded that I might have to wait until after we landed to properly get down and find the darned thing.
I sat here thinking, "Oh no. If I have to crawl around on the floor after we've reached the gate, we'll lose all the advantage of being so far forward. Everyone will be deplaning before I can properly search."
So I tried deep-breathing while I told myself that it might be a crying shame, but that that tiny white bud was way too dear to make it matter about deplaning.
After an hour of stewing about this, I turned around, wearing my hip tie-dyed N95 mask, of course, and prevailed upon the gentleman in the seat behind me to look under my seat in front of him. And he did look and looked again. Nuttin' honey.
Oy.
And then I made a big mistake. Fancying myself as lithe and limber as I was when I was a 15-year-old limbo champ (look it up, kids), I got down on my hands and knees to really look everywhere. Oh, I was way down there. In one hand I held my phone with the flashlight on. Where was it?
And then I realized that I was utterly and completely stuck.
My head was so wedged down with the rest of my not-so-lithe 71-year-old body.
I came close to my very first full-blown panic attack. Stuck and with incredible neck pain. Almost in tears. Sweating and breathing heavily.
Stuck.
With all my might and a good dose of adrenaline I stretched my right arm up and called out to Alva to help me. So he tried valiantly to pull me up, somehow succeeding at getting me even more pretzeled into my awful position.
Oh, he was heroic. He huffed and he puffed... and he at last saved me. The old pretzel popped out like I was a champagne cork.
Oh.
Ouch.
Now I sit here another two hours later with a dreadful cramp in my neck and, I hope, a dose of humility.
No Apple product was worth that.
And now, just as I began to write this, there was that left earbud, just barely within my grasp in a weird slot next to my seat. All I had to do was lift up my left armrest. There it lay gleaming at me.
And now it's back, securely in its little holder, deep in my pants pocket.
Phobia? No, utter terror....at 35,000 feet.
Landing. Thanks for listening.