I Hate Flying

A tale of sickness, shame and accidental overdose

When I was six years old, my parents put me on a plane from Chicago to Daytona Beach to visit my grandmother. On the return flight, I had an aisle seat, probably so the flight attendants could keep an eye on me. There was a large man in a business suit sitting next to me. I remember starting to feel nauseous, even before the “stewardess”—that’s what we called them in 1970 — placed my lunch in front of me. The tray contained some sort of meatloaf, green beans, mashed potatoes and a sweet. I think it was a cookie. I ate the cookie but didn’t dare to touch the rest of the meal.

The man next to me glanced over.

“You’re not eating very much.”

I looked up at him and then looked back down at my plate. I felt ashamed and judged. But he wasn't my parent, and I wasn't going to eat just because he was monitoring my food intake. I just let them take it away. I don't remember if the flight attendant also commented on my lack of appetite. If I could go back in time, I’d tell that man to mind his own business. Nauseous, dizzy, and ashamed, the rest of the two-hour flight felt like an eternity.

Just thinking about flying, writing this piece, my stomach is getting queasy. I’ve never been a good traveler. I hate flying.

When I was 15, our high school Swing Choir class got the opportunity to go to Austria and participate in an international music festival. I was allowed to go — as long as my entire family went with me. I was annoyed that my parents and sister had to go with, but happy to be travelling to another country for the first time.

I got to sit near my friends on the plane, although I was nervous. But I didn't actually start to feel sick until about halfway there. We were warned to try to sleep on the plane, since it would be morning the next day when we got to Europe, but I was too excited. Plus, I just can't sleep on planes without sleeping pills, which were not as available to teens in 1979. Also, I was way too square to know anyone who had them. I mean, come on, I was in the school swing choir.

My inability to fall asleep, coupled with my general nervousness about flying, developed into a full-blown nauseous stomach ache. As we were about to land, I tried as hard as I could to avoid the vomit bag. It wasn't until we got onto the bus that would take us to our hotel that I actually threw up. Luckily, my mom was prepared and not many people knew what was happening. When we finally got to the hotel, looking up at the Alps for the first time, thinking I saw heaven for real, I started to feel better. However, this experience set the tone for the rest of my life. Every time I step onto a plane, the “plane smell” makes my stomach start to cramp. Every time I ascend, I start to feel dizzy. But that doesn’t stop me from flying.

In 2011, Sara, one of my best friends, invited me to go to Paris with her and her teenage daughter.

Paris, the magical place filled with art, fine dining and world-class shopping of which I had only read about. Determined not to be the “ugly American,” I ordered my Rosetta Stone Beginner’s French. I had taken four semesters of French in college, but my cavalier attitude towards memorization prevented me from learning anything more than basic phrases, which were long forgotten. So I studied enough to ask directions, say “please”, “thank you”, “good day”, “where is the bathroom?” and “I’m sorry” which I figured I would be using often.

On this trip, once again, I was anxious and didn’t sleep at all on the overnight flight.

When we arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport, I was feeling nauseous and dizzy, but determined not to let my friends know. I was in France, for God’s sake! I wanted the full experience, I wanted to notice the landscape and architecture, and I didn’t want to be the wimp who couldn’t handle travel.

It was taking all of my concentration to focus on my surroundings instead of my increasing nausea. We located a tiny cab right outside the airport to take us to our boutique hotel, about a 30-minute ride. I asked my companions if I could hog shotgun, knowing it would be much worse in the back. They happily agreed, having become aware by this time that I was not my usual peppy self. However, when we took off at a rapid, jerky pace, I knew I was in trouble, anyway. Concentrate on the scenery. You’re in France! I can’t believe it! It’s beautiful. You’re going to be O.K. But the power of my positive thinking only went so far, and soon my head was sagging against the window.

“Lisa, are you O.K.?” Sara said from the back.

“Yes, I’ll be fine”

“Would Madame like to stop for a coffee?”

“Non, merci.”

Of course, the French cabby would suggest stopping for a coffee. How continental. That must be how the people here remedy illness. Feeling sick? Just stop off at one of the thousands of sidewalk cafes, strike a relaxed pose, sip an espresso, and soon the feeling will pass.

I have no business being here! I’m never going anywhere again! I can’t fly. I’m so sick. I can’t throw up in this cab. Oh my god, how much longer is this ride? I need to get out!

We finally arrived at our quaint little hotel on a side street in the Fifth Arrondissement. The furnishings looked like real antiques. There were fresh flowers in beautiful vases on the tables and the hostess was the epitome of an elegant French woman. Slim, tastefully dressed in an elegant suit and the obligatory chignon.

“Bonjour Mesdames. Welcome. You are a little early and your room will not be ready until 3 P.M. Please leave your luggage with us while you enjoy the city.”

Oh no. I needed a toilet, pronto. I wasn’t going to make it much longer.

“Excuse me, where is the ladies’ room?”

I was too sick and nervous to use my French.

“There is a powder room just off the lounge.”

I hurried back there, not more than ten steps away. The lounge was a tiny room with two beautifully upholstered loveseats and a gleaming coffee table. There was a tiny bathroom just to the right.

I barely got seated before the butt explosion. The relief I felt was immediately undone by my horror at the echoing sounds that were bouncing off the powder room walls. There’s no way people in the lobby would not hear the sound. But there was nothing to be done. I had to just wait it out, all the while feeling more and more like I had absolutely no business being in a cute boutique hotel in Paris if this is how my bowels were going to behave the second I got there. In my mind, I was a jet setting international traveler. But my body knew that I was just a small-town mid-western girl who should probably stay home.

In 2016, my sister and I managed to convince my mom to fly to Florida to see her mother. My aunt was also going to be there and my mom hadn't seen either one of them in years. My mom hates flying even more than I do. I decided I would be smart and savvy and get us some Xanax for the trip. Not wanting to go through the hassle of a prescription, I “scored” some Xanax from a friend of my son’s. They were white and shaped like little bars with tiny lines on them. So cute. Right before we boarded the flight, I gave one to my mom, who is 5 feet tall and weighs 95 pounds, one to my sister, and I took one.

The last thing I remember is the pilot telling us that we were taking off. Everything after that is a dream sequence. I dimly recall walking through an airport that was a long, dark tunnel. Swiveling my head slowly around, I saw my sister behind me, pushing my mom in a wheelchair and trying to drag all of our suitcases. I remember shrugging my shoulders and thinking she's got it covered. I have a vague recollection of signing a piece of paper at the car rental place, although if you told me that never happened, I would believe you.

Somehow, my sister was coherent enough to drive us the 45 minutes from the airport to my grandma’s house. I remember waking up in the car, waving to my aunt on my grandma’s balcony, slogging my body upstairs to the condo and flopping on the couch. Later, I found out that I was supposed to break those Xanax bars into pieces. I had given my tiny mother the equivalent of four Xanaxes. I'm surprised I didn't kill her.

In 2018, my husband Charlie and I, along with our two best friends, went to Italy. It was our 25th wedding anniversary and our friends’ 30th. Although I was nervous about flying, I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to see a beautiful country and celebrate with our friends. The wide-body United aircraft was packed. My seat was in the middle aisle, middle of the row.

It started off OK. I had ordered a vegetarian meal, which was actually pretty good. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I had downloaded Season One of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on my iPad. Stuck in the middle row with my head down, watching TV turned out to be a terrible idea. An hour later, my bowels were churning, and I made Charlie get up, so I could go to the bathroom.

I spent the rest of the flight alternating between going into the bathroom and sitting on the little jump seat right outside, with my head against the wall. Armani, the beautiful, kind flight attendant, kept checking on me every few minutes.

“Signora, are you alright? May I get you come water?”

Charlie never came back to see what was going on. Armani took care of me for the rest of the flight. About a half an hour before we landed, Armani came up to me.

“Signora, we will be starting our descent soon. You need to go back to your seat.”

“Si.”

I didn't move from the jump seat. Armani came back with a second request, and I nodded my head, but still didn't move. Eventually, he directed me to the last row of seats, where he had made a bed for me with pillows on the armrest. He allowed me to lie down without buckling in as we landed. I had never been shown so much kindness on a plane, before or since.

We landed, and I was unable to walk off the plane. I had to be assisted and needed a wheelchair because I was so ill. In a fog of sickness, as I was being wheeled through the airport, I looked over and saw that Charlie was also in a wheelchair.

Oh. He must be sick, too.

I didn’t realize that we had been informed by airport personnel that at least two people in our party of four needed to be in wheelchairs for us to bypass the customs line. Charlie drew the short straw and had the humiliating experience of being wheeled through the airport without a valid reason. By the time we got to Pompeii, I finally started to feel like myself again.

It turned out to be one of the best trips of my life. When I returned home, I emailed United, telling them my flight number, and how wonderful Armani was. I advised them to give him a promotion.

I’ll never be a good traveler. I’ll always hate flying. But once we are fully free to move around again, I’ll be on that plane. Just hope you don’t have to sit next to me.

Thanks for reading!