Flying the friendly skies on two migs of lorazapam. Sitting on the tarmac of a Southwest flight waiting for my "happy pills" to slowly begin to wield their magic.
Years ago, while on a midwinter flight to Holland, the plane I was on was getting tossed around in turbulence like the proverbial tin can. I knew realistically that planes were designed to handle such tumult. I had even spoke with pilots who said they enjoyed turbulence much like a surfer enjoys bouncing atop the big wave, but my visceral response that day on my way to The Netherlands was grim-faced, white-knuckled terror.
We got tossed around 45 minutes, including some not insignificant sudden plunges in altitude. I sat with my my eyes scrunched closed while I hyper-ventilated and throttled the arm rests. I imagined myself and my two seat mates embracing in a moment of clarity and love right before the plane barrel rolled into the ocean. As I summoned the courage to look around the cabin, I expected to see the other passengers in equal shades of terror. Instead, when I opened my eyes, the couple sitting next to me had moved as far away from me as their seat belts would allow. They were glancing at me sideways with concern, no doubt wondering if I was going to have a heart attack. I was certain they were silently reciting some sort of prayer along the lines of, "Please, G-d, don't let this guy up-chunk into our laps."
Clearly no sympathy there. I closed my eyes again, tried to slow down my breathing, and started to pray. Needless to say, we made it.
Clearly no sympathy there. I closed my eyes again, tried to slow down my breathing, and started to pray. Needless to say, we made it.
And now here I am on yet another flight waiting, hoping to be reunited with my wife who I haven’t seen in 10 days.Today is windy, as are many days during the sand-blown New Mexican springs. It is the only place I’ve ever lived where Spring is more a season to tolerate then celebrate.And just now, the pilot got on the intercom to announce that take-off would be “pretty bumpy” until we reached cruising altitude.
I manfully resist taking another half lorazapam and begin to fervently pray for my own safe arrival in Portland as well as a speedy, mind-calming medication haze to fall over my furrowed brow like a red movie theater curtain. Abject terror is a wonderful source of spiritual inspiration.
I manfully resist taking another half lorazapam and begin to fervently pray for my own safe arrival in Portland as well as a speedy, mind-calming medication haze to fall over my furrowed brow like a red movie theater curtain. Abject terror is a wonderful source of spiritual inspiration.
Here are my thoughts as they arise:
It is my strong desire to see my wife again.
Here are a few others:
Here are a few others:
Planes take off in high winds all the time ...
Planes take off in high winds all the time ...
Planes take off in high winds all the time ...
Always a nervous flyer, after the flight to Holland I decided to raise the white flag and do what I needed to do to make flying a more tolerable experience. Now I take a little white pill that has made much of my flying anxiety fade. I completely understand why people get addicted to these things--and they are highly addictive--which is why I only take them when flying. Lorazapam is my co-pilot, as it were. Antidepressants are a slow climb to normal--the tea cups at Disneyland. Anti-anxiety meds are more a roller coaster doing a slow climb, but with an immediate payoff. And while my happy pills don't entirely mute the nervousness, right now in this moment, during an incredibly choppy take-off, they do make things tolerable.
And now, let us bow our heads in prayer: Dear G-d, Let me and all air travelers arrive safely to their destination ... but especially me. Amen.
I look around, and see nothing but calm, seasoned travelers. What is wrong with these people? Don't they know this ... this flying thing we have squeezed ourselves into is getting tossed around the skies like a skipping stone?
(Two minutes later) And just like that, we burst through the clouds and reach cruising altitude. Life is good again.
Two people sit to my left in the middle and window seats with their five month-old baby. Though there was a dearth of aisle seats throughout the plane, no one wanted to sit in the second row--the second row!--next to two black-wearing, twenty-something slackers, their faces pierced and uncheerful. They also have a baby who--lets face it--will probably be howling the entire flight.
As a future father myself, I resisted the tried--and-true code of single fliers everywhere: Do not sit within two rows of babies. They will cry and disrupt one's harmony, and generally get in the way of people like myself who need to use our super-human concentration to keep the plane afloat.
I spotted the aisle seat next to the couple, and decided to intentionally expose myself to a flying baby.
I ask myself: What is the trick to successful baby flying?
"Is anyone sitting here?" I asked politely.
"No," said the mother with perhaps a tad less enthusiasm than I would prefer.
"Wonderful," I said with a smile and settled in. The burly father in the window seat is holding the baby who, in fact, is not crying as all. By all appearances the infant appears to be a braver traveler than your intrepid author. (Although in all fairness, I would probably be brave too if I had a breast on which to suckle during take-off. I'm just saying.)
Uhp, I spoke too soon, The baby in question has just started to cry. The mother, no doubt the host for a cooking show called, "The Discerning Palate," expertly mixes water and powder into a bottle, shakes it up, and gives it to dad to feed the wailing child. Mom folds her arms on the drop down tray from the seat in front of her, lowers her head and tries to get to sleep.
Many fathers do their parts and do it well, but I'm not sure we men will ever fully understand how much it takes to be a mother.
Jenn thought getting pregnant was taking too long and was still a little gun shy from her miscarriage last year. However, with kudos and inspiration from Maude Lebowski, she got pregnant relatively quick. Jenn has shifted from being hyper-vigilante about every little ache, sensation, and movement inside her belly to a place of quiet faith. She and I both know we "got it right" this time. Her belly is growing, and I have missed witnessing this growth these last ten days.
Last night on the phone, Jenn informed me that even I could feel the baby at move at this point, as if I was some sort of drooling, tactile retard who doesn't quite have the capacity to feel the subtle ballet going on inside her belly. It's like we're watching the super suspenseful movie, "Baby on a Train," and I keep turning my head at every exciting part. To wit: I have never felt the kid move. Sometimes Jenn looks at me like I'm trying not to feel our baby move on purpose. There may be a hint of truth to this, but not much.
As I write this blog in handwritten print, I notice that I press down on the pen with way too much pressure. I often do this, sometimes to the point that my wrist aches. My theory is that unconsciously I want to make damn sure I've made myself understood. If I'm not cracking jokes, I've been told my eyes can take on a rather intense and piercing glare (Jenn calls it "hawkish"), and can lead people to think that I am a quite serious bloke. When angered, my mood either fills the room or fills my head. Everything I do seems to be geared toward getting my point across in a clear, concise way. It's probably a control issue that says, "Understand me."
With our baby, it's different. When little Celia/Zinnia is kicking around, I'll put my hands where Jenn instructs, but and she stops almost immediately. But I don't feel a need to understand or be understood. In my head, what I tell myself is this: "Let's give the kid a break. She's only, what, the size of a ... a --what the hell was the last fruit we were told--a small plantain? I trust that our little daughter will tell me when it's time to for Tom to play Feel Baby Play with Mommies Innards. When Celia/Zinnia moves, Jenn sometimes tells me to push a little deeper into her belly, but it feels like such an invasion of privacy. On the other hand, what do I know? Maybe the kid enjoys the stimulation.
As my plane heads toward Oregon, who knows, maybe I'll feel our baby move in Jenn's belly tonight. Perhaps we'll write each other messages through my wife's uterus. I'll spell mine backwards so she'll be able to read my words of love, and she, our child-to-be, will press a foot or a hand against the wall of Jenn's womb, pooching it out like E.T. reaching a finger toward Elliot.
In the seat next me--now in her mother's arms--the top of the baby's head is 12 inches from mine. I want to lean over and smell it.
And now, let us bow our heads in prayer: Dear G-d, Let me and all air travelers arrive safely to their destination ... but especially me. Amen.
I look around, and see nothing but calm, seasoned travelers. What is wrong with these people? Don't they know this ... this flying thing we have squeezed ourselves into is getting tossed around the skies like a skipping stone?
(Two minutes later) And just like that, we burst through the clouds and reach cruising altitude. Life is good again.
Two people sit to my left in the middle and window seats with their five month-old baby. Though there was a dearth of aisle seats throughout the plane, no one wanted to sit in the second row--the second row!--next to two black-wearing, twenty-something slackers, their faces pierced and uncheerful. They also have a baby who--lets face it--will probably be howling the entire flight.
As a future father myself, I resisted the tried--and-true code of single fliers everywhere: Do not sit within two rows of babies. They will cry and disrupt one's harmony, and generally get in the way of people like myself who need to use our super-human concentration to keep the plane afloat.
I spotted the aisle seat next to the couple, and decided to intentionally expose myself to a flying baby.
I ask myself: What is the trick to successful baby flying?
"Is anyone sitting here?" I asked politely.
"No," said the mother with perhaps a tad less enthusiasm than I would prefer.
"Wonderful," I said with a smile and settled in. The burly father in the window seat is holding the baby who, in fact, is not crying as all. By all appearances the infant appears to be a braver traveler than your intrepid author. (Although in all fairness, I would probably be brave too if I had a breast on which to suckle during take-off. I'm just saying.)
Uhp, I spoke too soon, The baby in question has just started to cry. The mother, no doubt the host for a cooking show called, "The Discerning Palate," expertly mixes water and powder into a bottle, shakes it up, and gives it to dad to feed the wailing child. Mom folds her arms on the drop down tray from the seat in front of her, lowers her head and tries to get to sleep.
Many fathers do their parts and do it well, but I'm not sure we men will ever fully understand how much it takes to be a mother.
Jenn thought getting pregnant was taking too long and was still a little gun shy from her miscarriage last year. However, with kudos and inspiration from Maude Lebowski, she got pregnant relatively quick. Jenn has shifted from being hyper-vigilante about every little ache, sensation, and movement inside her belly to a place of quiet faith. She and I both know we "got it right" this time. Her belly is growing, and I have missed witnessing this growth these last ten days.
Last night on the phone, Jenn informed me that even I could feel the baby at move at this point, as if I was some sort of drooling, tactile retard who doesn't quite have the capacity to feel the subtle ballet going on inside her belly. It's like we're watching the super suspenseful movie, "Baby on a Train," and I keep turning my head at every exciting part. To wit: I have never felt the kid move. Sometimes Jenn looks at me like I'm trying not to feel our baby move on purpose. There may be a hint of truth to this, but not much.
As I write this blog in handwritten print, I notice that I press down on the pen with way too much pressure. I often do this, sometimes to the point that my wrist aches. My theory is that unconsciously I want to make damn sure I've made myself understood. If I'm not cracking jokes, I've been told my eyes can take on a rather intense and piercing glare (Jenn calls it "hawkish"), and can lead people to think that I am a quite serious bloke. When angered, my mood either fills the room or fills my head. Everything I do seems to be geared toward getting my point across in a clear, concise way. It's probably a control issue that says, "Understand me."
With our baby, it's different. When little Celia/Zinnia is kicking around, I'll put my hands where Jenn instructs, but and she stops almost immediately. But I don't feel a need to understand or be understood. In my head, what I tell myself is this: "Let's give the kid a break. She's only, what, the size of a ... a --what the hell was the last fruit we were told--a small plantain? I trust that our little daughter will tell me when it's time to for Tom to play Feel Baby Play with Mommies Innards. When Celia/Zinnia moves, Jenn sometimes tells me to push a little deeper into her belly, but it feels like such an invasion of privacy. On the other hand, what do I know? Maybe the kid enjoys the stimulation.
As my plane heads toward Oregon, who knows, maybe I'll feel our baby move in Jenn's belly tonight. Perhaps we'll write each other messages through my wife's uterus. I'll spell mine backwards so she'll be able to read my words of love, and she, our child-to-be, will press a foot or a hand against the wall of Jenn's womb, pooching it out like E.T. reaching a finger toward Elliot.
In the seat next me--now in her mother's arms--the top of the baby's head is 12 inches from mine. I want to lean over and smell it.
2 comments:
I wish i could see you smell Zelia's head. From Oregon.
I love this post!
I also love that you can feel and sooth Zinnia when she's karate kicking her mother's innards.
You are already a wonderful father.
Post a Comment