Airborne

A girl faces her phobia of flying.

Everyone dies. Whether it’s from old age, or murder, or accident, or simply from forgetting to breathe. Hopefully, you’re lucky enough to have lived. Hopefully, it will take you by surprise. But maybe it won’t. Maybe you’re old, or sick, and your doctor has given you weeks at the most. Maybe it happens in a drive-by. Maybe you’re sitting in your cell in death row, waiting for midnight.

As for me, I know I’m going to die today. Every bone in my body is warning me. Every cell is tingling with anxiety.

I haven’t flown in an airplane for ten years. And I never intended on flying since the age of seven. But here I am, sitting on this plane, taking deep breaths, trying to calm my pounding heart. It won’t slow down. I can hear the engine starting up, the captain preparing for take off. A loud beep pierces the air. Is something wrong? Oh no. Something’s wrong. I know it in my gut. Still we continue to taxi, and I find my breathing quickening to hyperventilating. My head turns sharply at a woman’s laugh, and then the other way. I must look like a scared animal, searching its surroundings for the predator. The man next to me is sleeping. I want to wake him up, let him know that something is wrong. Maybe together, we could save the plane. Maybe someone has hijacked it. Maybe�"

“Flight attendants prepare for take-off.”

Take-off?! Oh no. I try and remind myself that it’s going to be okay. That there are less plane crashes than car crashes. That I ride in cars all the time. But statistics is math. And I hate math. I hate this plane. For a second I consider running off. This is my last chance to escape. But then I think of my grandma. Lying in her hospital bed. She told me not to come. She knows how scared I am of flying. But I’m willing to take this risk for two reasons: I know in my head that my fears are irrational, and I love my grandma. Without her, I wouldn’t have been able to function at all. She soothed me over the phone during my panic attacks, and read me stories on bad days. She knew what it was like to have anxiety. She was scared of fans as a kid. She thought they would cut her up into pieces. But she overcame it, and now strongly believes that anxiety is a disease to overcome instead of a voice to listen to.

The plane is speeding up. I brace for impact. My back presses into the seat. I bite down on my tongue to stop me from screaming. I can taste blood. I am dying. I’m sure of it.

We’re in the air, flying, a task we were never meant to perform. Our bones, dense, not hollow, do not embrace the air. In a world without gravity, we’d be stuck, swimming in an unmoving current. Yet we’d also be freed from any weight on our shoulders. It’s a scary thought, not being able to return to Earth. It’s a scary thought that we leave it at all. It’s unnatural�"a human flying. It’s like neon green: animals shy away from it because it does not exist in nature. And neither do airplanes.

To me, airplanes are neon-green in personality. They are masked by white, a devious trick to make us feel calm. Safe. Airports are our slaughter houses, and the walk to the plane is our green mile.

I haven’t flown since I was seven. Eleven years ago there wasn’t so much hype about terrorism. But then a year later September 11^th happened. The seed of my anxiety had always been there, and the terrorist attacks nurtured and watered it. My anxiety grew into a thorny phobia. I started to have nightmares, and some days I was so scared that I didn’t even go to school. My teachers recommended therapy. The psychiatrist recommended meds. My parents didn’t want to admit that I had a problem, so I never got on the meds. They thought desensitization was the best technique.

My mom, after many failed attempts to at least get me in an airport, eventually gave up on curing my anxiety. Instead she let it live inside of me, like a monster ready to pounce at any second. The monster’s voice weakened over the next few years. Experience taught me that loud noises did not equate bombs, and that big auditoriums were not necessarily destined to explode. There was no need for me to go on a plane. I didn’t care that I was stuck in California. I could drive down south, or to the city. My world was small, but not cramped. It didn’t bother me, really. I never had any desire to travel.

The man next to me sneezes. He’s a large man. If we need to make an emergency exit I’m scared he won’t make it through the door.

It’s been one hour. I’ve been watching the time closely, waiting and praying for this nightmare to end. I am counting every breath, sure that this one will be my last. But then another second comes and goes. I almost want the plane to crash or blow-up already to get my death over with. But life seems bent on teasing me with false hopes.

It’s as if time is slowing down just to lengthen my stress. God is out to get me. I’m sure of it. I always thought I would live out my last days at an old age, in comfort, and with my family. Here I am, alone, on the most hellish place I could possibly imagine. I asked my mom to come with me, but she and my dad went early. Fears are almost impossible to overcome alone.

I try to think positive thoughts. It’s going to be okay is all I can come up with. I say it over and over again, muttering it to myself until it sounds like isgobekay. I can feel the weight of the monster within me, feeding on my thoughts, and growing stronger with each minute.

There’s a ding. I look up and down, side to side, like a nervous bird. The seatbelt sign is on. The plane starts to shake. I shake with it. The man next to me gives me a weird look.

“I’m fine,” I say. Though I’m not sure that this is true.

I feel sick to my stomach. I take out the paper bag in front of me and gag until I barf. The man wrinkles his nose. I feel awful. I start heaving again. The paper bag feels damp and heavy in my hands.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I say to no one. I get up, trembling. I open the door to the cramped bathroom and start to cry. I throw my bag of barf away. I really should ask for another one. But I don’t want to. It would be embarrassing.

I get back to my seat and try pretending that nothing’s wrong. The man stares at me, giving me the stink eye. I give him a week smile. He roles his eyes, and then closes them, going back to sleep. I watch him for a second until something catches my eye. I look out the window to see the sunlight bouncing off the clouds. Everything pauses: my fears, my nausea, the snoring of the man next to me. I have never been so close to clouds before. If only I could take the glass off the window and touch them. Feel their soft, fluffy cushion, and step into their comforting embrace. I could paint these. I try and commit their beauty to memory: the white so pure that it turns gold at the edges. And I realize I want to be freed from this airplane. I want to be in they sky without any barriers keeping me from the clouds. And then I remember that clouds are deceiving in appearance, just like planes. I try and hold onto the childhood fantasy, the one where clouds are mattresses of the finest quality. But it’s fading quickly and the plane does a dip, and my stomach follows after, leaving the air in my throat, and my fantasy world behind me.

The captain says something about starting our descent. We’re going to crash once we hit the ground. I have never been so sure of anything in my life. The turbulence increases and so does my anxiety. And then there’s a thud. I cover my ears. I can feel the ground beneath the plane. It slows to a halt.

“Welcome to John F. Kennedy Airport. The time is approximately 4:00 PM. It is about 69 degrees outside. Please remain seated until the seatbelt sign is turned off. Thanks again for flying with us today.”

Did we just land? I don’t want to anticipate my safe arrival too soon. I stay composed. I close my eyes. The plane stops, and I can hear numerous clicks as people unbuckle their seatbelts. I unbuckle mine. I’m in the back of the plane. It takes forever for the people in front of me to get moving. But eventually the isle is clear, and I grab my bag and start to walk. I walk down the ramp, and into the airport. A wide smile stretches across my face. I’m here. I actually made it.

Then I remember my grandma and hurry to baggage claim. Everything seems so clear. The signs make the airport easy to navigate, and it’s clean and sparkly. Maybe the airport is not hell on earth after all.

I think of my mom. She will be so proud of me. I can see her laugh with joy when I run to hug her, safe and alive. She will drive me to the hospital where I will see my grandma. Everything’s okay, and best of all, I think I can fly back home. It’ll be hard, but I’ve done it once since September 11^th, I can do it again. I have a newfound confidence I never expected to have. Then again, I thought I would be dead by now.

I see my mom holding a sign and talking on her cell phone. I break out into a run. I want to hug her, but she holds up her finger to tell me to hang on. I sigh, and sit down on a bench. She comes up to me, her smile wide and proud.

“Beth! You made it!”

“I know!”

She wraps her arms around me in a warm embrace. I feel my feet on the ground, and the comfort of her hug.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m proud of me too. How’s grandma?”

Her face falls for a second, but then lights back up.

“Let’s take a walk.”

I don’t say anything. I know something’s wrong, but I don’t want to know about it. We walk to her rental car, all shiny and new. When we get in, I look up to see my mom’s face wet with tears.

“Your grandma…she died.”

S**t.

Sometimes when we fly, we never come back. Birds die on the ground, but we�"we die and go to heaven. Our souls are meant to be free, not trapped. To bind a soul to the Earth, would be worse than torture. Flying on an airplane is freedom in its purest form. It is doing the impossible, solidifying our Achilles heal. If we die in the air, we are at least close to heaven. If we die on the ground, we at least died in comfort. And if we live after having flown, then we have helped to free the soul, trapped in our bodies. Thank you Grandma for helping me conquer my fear. I will visit you often.