Terror at 30,000 Feet. (OK, maybe not “terror,” but extreme discomfort)

Disclaimer: This is not a typical MMM Sunday post. There are no doctrinal discussions, no quotes from prophets, no scriptures or anything nice or touch feely.  In fact, this post is a bit gross. Not really. It is a lot gross. If you choose to proceed, remember: You were warned!

Thursday, 9/1/16, 11:30PM, Sky Harbor Airport, Phoenix, Arizona

We had already been waiting for an hour at our gate, waiting to board our JetBlue redeye flight from Phoenix to Boston. Now I’m not a big fan of redeye flights, but sometimes that’s just what works out best.

My EC and I were getting ready to take off on a little adventure to belatedly celebrate our 30th anniversary. As any of you know, preparing life, work and family for a week off is no small task. I was worn out before we even boarded the plane. While we waited, I commented to my EC that I was feeling a little queasy. A few hours before, I had downed an order of Pad Thai from our local Pei Wei restaurant, and it was sitting a little heavy.

We boarded and found out seats. I had employed the age-old trick of booking the aisle and window seats, with the hope that the middle would remain unoccupied. Unfortunately, they announced that it was a full flight, so it became a guessing game of wondering which person walking down the aisle would be my neighbor for the next 5+hours. Turns out it was a nice enough lady who pointed at the seat between us and said, “That’s mine.”

I offered her the aisle seat and slid over next to my EC and took the middle seat – that way my EC can have the window, because that’s how I roll.

At this time I should point out to those of you who don’t know me personally, that I am over 6 feet tall and am a bit larger than I ought to be, so airline seats and I already have a hate/hate relationship. We got settled in and the crew went throughout the litany of announcements and off we went. We taxied so long I thought maybe the pilot decided to drive to Boston, but eventually we took off.

And my stomach started doing backflips.

As soon as I was permitted, I reclined and put the cool air on my face. I was feeling nauseous. I never get carsick or airsick. This was bad. All I could do was focus on the burning, gurgling brew that wanted out of me. I needed a ginger ale, or a Coke to try and settle things, but I knew that “beverage service” would be a while.

My EC was concerned and doing the best she could to comfort me. Not only was I feeling queasy, it felt like I had a fever coming on, gangbusters, but I was afraid to pop any Advil for fear of unleashing, well, you know. Meanwhile, everyone else was settling in for the overnight flight. Some put on their sleep masks and zonked out, others popped in their earbuds and started skipping through the channels on their seatback screens. The lady next to me had her screen on, but she was sound asleep.My sweetie fell asleep, too. Me? I sat there willing myself not to vomit.

About an hour into the flight, I started to lose the battle. I sat up, grabbed the little paper airsick bag, technically termed the “barf bag,” out of the pocket in front of me. I held it, paused, and was able to suppress it. I thought about going into the bathroom, but figured if there were a way to 100% guarantee that I would throw up, it would be to climb over a sleeping person and make my way into an airplane lavatory. Definitely the last resort.

Then, the inevitable. My six-hour-old Pad Thai would not be denied. I grabbed the bag and began to puke.

This would probably be the time to interject that I am a seasoned traveler. I have been all around the world, visited five of the seven continents, and flown on many a plane, but this, THIS was the absolute first time I had ever needed to use a barf bag on a plane. Ever. I am one of those people who would rather lose an arm than to vomit. (My apologies for the hyperbole to anyone who has actually lost an arm.) I will fight it at all costs, because I know that when I do eventually vomit, it won’t be dainty. By the time I reach that point, I am fully invested.

Usually.

This time I was miraculously able to contain the event without it becoming a public display of disgusting. Somehow the thai noodles stayed put, and I only filled a third of the bag. Nothing out of my nose, no freakish sounds. I didn’t even wake my sleeping neighbor. My sweet wife did wake up, and  held my arm, and tried to console me.

After it passed, I rolled up the little bag and folded in the tabs to seal it shut. Clever, that. Then I pushed the call button for the attendant. (Another thing which I am loathe to do – especially on redeyes.)

The attendant came my way and all I had to do was hold up the bag with two fingers and she went into Code Red mode. She went straight to the telephone at the head of the cabin and began speaking in hushed tones to someone. The pilot? The CDC?

Then she began the preparations to handle toxic material. She put on blue plastic gloves, and got a matching trash bag out of the galley and began to approach me. Now, I will concede that at that point in time, I could very well have had Captain Tripps, the Chimera Virus, or the Red Flu. (The Stand, Mission Impossible II, and The Last Ship respectively, for those keeping score.)

She took my paper bag and dropped it into the big bag, and returned to the galley to dispose of it – wisely protecting herself and the rest of the passengers from me. Smart move. She didn’t come back. I eventually caught her eye and motioned for her.

“I need another bag.”

“What?”

“I need another bag.”

“Still can’t hear you.”

“I need another bag to throw up in.”

Great I have the only flight attendant on board who is a candidate for a cochlear implant.

She finally understood, and reached into the seat pocket of the woman next to me. She didn’t find a bag, but she did wake her up. She then proceeded to check the seat back pockets of all of the passengers in the surrounding rows. About twenty. No bags. So much for keeping this on the down-low.

Eventually, she came up from the back of the plane with three new barf bags in stylish JetBlue colors. She handed them to me, along with a new trash bag. I was set, but hoping they wouldn’t be needed.

Four hours to go.

Eventually the drink service go to me, and I was able to order a ginger ale, hoping it would calm the flip-flops in my belly. That exchange went like this.

“What can I get you?”

“A ginger ale.”

“What?”

“A ginger ale.”

“Still can’t hear you.”

“A GINGER ALE!”

Now everyone in rows 3-10 know I want a ginger ale.

I slowly sipped the drink and it did help to calm me – for about ten minutes – then the battle began anew. For four hours, as the fever intensified, I successfully fought off the urge to vomit. My EC was a constant source of pity and loving support, when she was awake.

About midway through the flight, the lady next to me opened her bag and took out some sort of crackers that smelled like they had been baked in Hell. Seriously. Then the guy one row ahead of me turned his screen onto some Animal Planet program about hunting. I guess the theme of the show was how to gut a deer. It was graphic. You know how impossible it is to avert your eyes from a video screen at night, on a airplane? The passenger in front of me to the other side was watching a news program about Hillary Clinton. It was graphic. Talk about being caught between the Scylla and Charybdis. I couldn’t believe that the people around me weren’t more sensitive to my personal situation!

And then there is the pilot, referred to by the attendant as “Captain Nancy.” I think Captain Nancy took it upon herself to find every pocket of turbulence across North America that night. So inconsiderate.

Eventually we landed, barf bags still on empty. Me, sweating profusely and feeling like a bad person for having brought my contagion cross-county. I was sick enough that we scrapped our plans and went straight to the nearest Hampton Inn and checked in at 8:00am. I proceeded to sleep for 8 hours. Drank a Coke, took some Advil and then went to bed for the night.

Two days later, I am doing fine. A little fatigued and a little wary, but glad that one of the longest flight and nights of my life is behind me.

Now, in retrospect, I must admit that while I was in the midst of my despair, I found blame where none existed:

• The pilot did her job and delivered us safely to Boston, as she was expected to do.

• The flight attendant took care of me and provided me with what I needed, at the same time trying her best to protect the others around me.

• The other passengers can’t be blamed for what they were watching or eating or doing while I was suffering. Many were probably oblivious to it, specifically because I tried so hard to keep it quiet.

The only reason I was suffering on that flight is because of something that was in me. Not somebody else. Something I had not been able to resolve yet. Hopefully I didn’t pass it on to anyone else while I struggled with it.

Now I comfortably sit on a deck, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, wondering if Hurricane Hermine is going to come this far north.

It was worth it the trip.

(Ick. Not ready for bacon yet.)

Wait!  One last irony:

Yesterday I posted this on Facebook without any explanation:

The reason the kid looked at me with disdain is that the only thing I got at the buffet was two pieces of dry toast.  And you all thought that I loaded up on pork products.

 

 

 

 

Here

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