The Flight from Hell

Having grandchildren who live on the other side of the country involves, of course, traveling to see them and that usually means travel by airplane. Up until about a year ago when I nearly died in a plane crash on a flight from Portland to Boise, I had never had a problem with flying. I was in the Army for 23 years and did my share of flying on C-130s, hanging out of helicopters to get a good photo and, overall, just spent a lot of time in the air.

Obviously I didn’t die and the plane didn’t crash on that ill-fated Portland flight, but it certainly seemed like we were headed in that direction as the overhead luggage racks flew open while people screamed like they were auditioning for a disaster movie. Ever since that flight, I’ve had a real problem with flying.

I’ve tried all kinds of things to cure, or at least lessen, my fear of flying. Meditation, deep breathing exercises, Dramamine – nothing seemed to work. The minute the plane made the smallest of dips or bumps, my heart was in my mouth and I was resurrecting what I remembered of the “Hail Mary.”

Today, prior to my flight to Georgia, I headed to the health food store to try to find some kind of herbal remedy that would allow me to relax a little without turning me into a total zombie. One of the clerks recommended something called “Rescue Remedy” and I thought, with a name like that, how could I go wrong. It came in a number of forms; cream, drops, spray and pills. I opted for the spray. When I started to feel anxious all I had to do was discreetly spray it two times onto my tongue and I would feel my stress and anxiety just melt away. I was sold.

I headed to my son Jason’s house in Boise where I’d be parking my car for the 10 days that I’d be gone (much cheaper than airport parking). In a funny coincidence, my daughter-in-law Sarah and my granddaughter Whitney were flying out that afternoon as well, headed to New York to spend time with Sarah’s family. Since our flights were departing within a half hour of each other, Jason dropped us both off at the airport. I had a nice diversion while I chased Whitney around the airport but then they boarded their plane and I was on my own.

By the time I actually boarded after the cattle call at the gate, I ended up seated next to a woman and her young daughter. At that point, I was feeling okay. I’d had a little “hit” of Rescue Remedy, which smelled and tasted like bourbon. Great, I thought, now I’m going to smell like I’m three sheets to the wind by the time I land. You know what though? I was actually relaxed (or as much as I can possibly be on an airplane) so I didn’t really care about the smell.

Everything was good until I glanced over at my seatmates and I noticed the little girl, who was probably 5-years-old, clutching a white plastic trash bag in her lap. She was looking decidedly green. Her mom was trying to distract her with games on the iPad and books and crayons but it wasn’t working.  I crossed my fingers that she’d make it through the flight without using her jumbo-sized airsickness trash bag. There’s nothing that makes me want to puke more than seeing, hearing or smelling someone else throwing up.

We had some moments of turbulence but nothing that made me clutch my armrests in fright until it came time to land in Denver. The wheels came down in preparation for landing, the plane started to descend and then the next moment we were climbing back up into the sky so quickly that the force pressed me back into my seat. What the hell? To my left I heard the mom telling her daughter “okay, just close your eyes, take a big breath through your nose and let it go out of your mouth” and I did the same. The pilot made a loop and made another attempt at landing, but was unsuccessful (why, at that point, we had no idea) and took us back up into the sky like we were in a G-force simulator. I braced my hands on the seat in front of me, preparing for the worst.

And then, it happened. I heard the little girl moan, “Mom, I’m gonna throw up” and she did so, neatly and relatively quietly, into her big air sickness bag. She caught my eye and gave me a small apologetic smile. I wanted nothing more than to pull out my own small airsickness bag and join her and upchuck that horrible Taco Bell bean and cheese burrito I had eaten while driving to Boise, but somehow I managed to keep everything down.

The pilot came on the intercom to inform us he was unable to land because of a storm cell that was hovering over the airfield and the subsequent “wind shears,” whatever those were. I just pictured a large, deadly pair of scissors slicing through the clouds. He said we were forced to divert to Colorado Springs because we needed to refuel. Yay! Not only could we not land in Denver, we were going to run out of gas!

Colorado Springs seemed like a hop, skip and a jump from Denver, but our landing there wasn’t much better and we hit the tarmac like a load of bricks. Passengers were clapping for joy that we had made it to the ground in one piece but the joy was short-lived when our friendly pilot came back on to inform us that we couldn’t stay in Colorado Springs because the airfield wasn’t big enough. We were simply going to be there long enough to refuel and head back to Denver to try again.

At that point, my connecting flight to Jacksonville was long gone and I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do if and when we made it back to Denver. After 30 minutes of sitting on the ground, the pilot urged us all to return to our seats so we could make another go at landing in Denver.

I reached into my backpack and grabbed my little spray bottle of Rescue Remedy and gave myself another hit, not caring if I smelled like I’d just rolled off a barstool. My heart was pounding like I’d been doing an hour of Cross Fit (not that I know what that’s like. I’m just guessing) and I couldn’t keep my hands from shaking.

As we approached the Denver airport (again) I forced myself to take a look out the window. Imagine my surprise to see the sun shining through the clouds like the heavens were opening up. Surely, this time we’d be able to land. The familiar sound of the landing gears coming down reverberated through the plane and we all braced ourselves for landing. But no. Again we did another rapid ascent and my poor little seatmate made another deposit into what was surely a nearly-full bag of vomit.

Please, I thought to myself, I can’t take any more of this. I said another “Hail Mary,” hoping that God would remember that once upon a time I was a nice Catholic girl who went to Communion and Catechism and did my Confirmation in eighth grade and wouldn’t hold it against me now that I was a Buddhist, and would help our pilot land the plane in one piece.  

By then, all the small children were screaming (although there may have been some adult screams in there too, it was hard to tell) and I felt as if we had entered some other layer of Hell that I’d never heard of that involved circling endlessly around Denver airport unable to land.

Our pilot circled back and gave it one last try and miraculously, we were on the ground. There was much cheering and clapping. Yay. We lived to fly (or die) another day.

After checking in at a Southwest gate I wasn’t surprised to discover that not only had I missed my flight but I wouldn’t be able to get on another one until the next day at 6 a.m. As much as the idea of camping out in the airport didn’t appeal to me, the thought of having to get back onto another plane just made me want strangle myself with my iPhone cord.

Perhaps things will look better in the morning and I’ll be ready to make my last leg of this journey from Hell. Or maybe I’ll just go find the Greyhound bus station.