My Journal

By Harriman Nelson

2

It was going to be a long flight, but at least we hadn’t been hounded by the press at LAX. I could only wonder about our reception at IAD.

Our fellow passengers were interested in us as we boarded, yes, but a few phone and digital camera photos later, we were pretty much left alone, aside from the interested glances toward us, that is, as we waited for the stragglers.

Finally, the stewards began to close the hatches.

Suddenly Emmie grabbed my hand.

“I can’t…I can’t go through with this. Let me off!” she panicked, “let me out now!”

“Easy, dear…flying is very safe.”

“It may be, but…I….I can’t….”she gasped, hyperventilating, “Harry, I…get me off of this damn plane!” She started to climb over me to the aisle, and then, grabbing the edges of the seats, crying, hurrying down to the hatch.

“Steward, please, a little help here,” I called out  to the startled attendants who’d quickly arrived at the hatchway to keep Emmie from pulling the latch. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying valiantly to get down the aisle with my blasted cast and crutch. “We need to get off. You can charge us a penalty. Emmie, take deep breaths. That’s it.”

The captain, alerted to the situation, left the cockpit and unlocked the hatch himself.

“I’m sorry,” I told him as a steward retrieved our carry-on baggage.

“You…should go on to see Lee…without…me…”Emmie was crying.

“Later, perhaps,” I replied “not now…”

“Should we call the desk for a doctor?” one of the stewards asked the captain, as Emmie ran through the open hatchway and down the ‘tunnel’ to the gate.

“No, I’ll see to it,” I said and turned toward my fellow passengers, “I’m sorry for your delay.”

“No need to apologize, Admiral,” one of the passengers called out, “they never get away from the gate on time anyway.”

“Oh, Harry,” Emmie sobbed from her seat in the  normally ‘closed’ waiting area as I half walked, half hobbled toward her, an airline gate attendant pulling our carry-on luggage behind me.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped as she sipped a little water from the paper cup that another attendant handed her. Apparently the pilot had notified the desk to have a little help available.

 “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I don’t know what happened…I…I just couldn’t stand it…being so…closed in…trapped...like that…”she barely managed to say between gasps for air.

“Damn it, I know how to breathe.”

“Is there anything we can do?” an airport security guard asked, having been briefed by the desk attendants.

“Just let us sit here for a little while, if you don’t mind?” I asked.

“Of course…we’ll see to it you’re not disturbed,” he replied and pulled the rope to close of the area. The next flight wasn’t due to leave a few hours so I didn’t feel too badly about it.

The feeling didn’t last. Behind the ropes people were beginning to snap picture after picture of us and I could only cringe, knowing the press was going to have a field day with Emmie’s meltdown.

I arranged for our suitcases to be returned via another plane, (for a fee of course), and called the institute motor pool to have our driver return for us. Even though it wasn’t a long wait, it felt like hours until the driver appeared and began to collect our carry-on luggage. The airport provided a wheelchair for Emmie. They insisted. Something about possible lawsuits if she went ballistic again and fell or bumped into someone or some such thing.

Aghast, she merely wilted into the chair, embarrassed, and ashamed.

 More pictures were snapped as I hobbled along beside her as she was being pushed by an airport security guard through the terminal to the exit.

Emmie had settled down enough for the drive home, though she still exhibited some lingering claustrophobic symptoms being ‘enclosed’ in the car. But, I ordered the windows opened, in spite of the AC, so she could feel the air blowing her hair, and give her a sense of openness.

Finally, on a less congested part of the freeway, and close to our exit, I asked if she might like a bite at one of the nearby eateries.

“Yes, actually, need to use the ladies room anyway. Harry…I really am sorry. I know how much you wanted to see Lee.”

“He’s a big boy. Doesn’t need me to hold his hand.”

“You weren’t going there to hold his hand….”

“No, but I’m not about to leave you alone when you’ve been so upset.”

“I’m okay now. You can get another flight this afternoon…Harry, I want you to go.”

“We’ll see. Driver, let’s pull into the Waffle House at the next exit.”

Fortunately, there was no TV in the roadside franchise. It was more like a diner than a restaurant, the grill in full view, with rotating stools at the counter, (our driver took one of those) and booths for more comfortable dining. Emmie and I chose a booth. More for privacy than comfort.

Emmie ordered Belgian Waffles, dripping in freshly cut strawberries, powdered sugar, butter (the real thing, from a cow, none of that olive oil stuff), and pure Vermont Maple Syrup.  I had the same, to keep her dish company. At least that’s what I told myself.

I also told myself that we both needed the ‘comfort food’ after our ordeal, despite such an artery clogging selection.

Sated, it wasn’t long before we drove through the institute gate, the staff alerted to our change of plans.

Drew Ames called almost as soon as I set foot in the bungalow to see if we needed any help.

“No thank you,” I told him. “Oh, and don’t bother Lee. I’ll call him myself.”

And so it stands. Emmie’s in the semi repaired shower, removing any vestige of ‘airport’ from her person. And me, trying to figure out what to say to Lee about our aborted plans. He’d seemed so relieved when we’d told him of our plans to visit. Perhaps I’ve been mistaken about Lee not needing me to hold his hand, but Emmie needs me more right now. She feels so guilty.

I’m certain it was claustrophobia, not just an anxiety attack.

Perhaps we should speak with Mrs. Crane. She’s a victim of the phobia herself, but has managed to cope. But I know it’s been debilitating at times.

I’ll check at the Med Center for any list of local specialists treating claustrophobia and anxiety attacks. If Emmie will even agree to it. I won’t force her.

I’m not too hopeful at all.