panic

The first one was on September 22, 2006.

I was headed to Chicago for the first time.  It was a trip I'd been looking forward to for months.  Not only was it to be my first time in Chicago, but I'd be visiting one of my best friends, who had moved there a few months before. 

Eric and I met at work when I was interning my senior year of college.  We didn't actually become close friends until after we'd both moved on to other jobs, but we instantly bonded over the eclectic and varied taste in music we shared.  The idea of a weekend visit seemed to be a consolation prize for his absence.

My dad had dropped me off at the airport in the early evening, and I'd been through security and was at the gate before the first delay was announced.  It was less than an hour, so I settled into a chair at the gate and read several chapters of a novel I'd brought with me.  As the end of the hour delay neared, I began to gather my things in preparation for boarding.  

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for your patience, at this time we are still grounded due to weather.  We expect the flight to depart somewhere around 7:45 p.m."

A series and groans and sighs, including my own, filled the area.  I settled back into my seat and noticed the weather reports showing on TV.  Thunderstorms.  Fantastic.  Storms are typically one of my favorite things, but they are quickly edged off the list when I, as a result of their existence, must sit in an airport, alone, for hours on end.  It wasn't but a few minutes when I first started seeing flashes of lightning outside the floor-to-ceiling windows at the gate.  

I pulled my laptop out of its bag and decided to log into work.  Since I'd taken a half day that day, I wanted to check my emails. I opened messages, not really reading the words on the screen.  I was so tired of waiting to board the flight. This stupid storm had cut into my already brief trip.  We are pretty much going to have to go straight to sleep by the time I get there, so much for any time out on the town tonight.  I closed the remote connection to work, realizing I was no longer paying attention. 

"We shouldn't be delayed much longer, folks.  The aircraft staff members need to get home tonight, so we will board this plane no matter what." 

"No matter what, are you kidding me?"  I muttered this out loud, as if anyone was listening.  Not only was I irritated at the delay, but this latest information didn't exactly calm my stress or make me feel safe about getting on this plane.

Finally, around 9:00, maybe 9:30, the words we'd been waiting to hear "Thank you for your patience, we will now begin boarding the flight to Chicago Midway.  Passengers with an A boarding pass, please step forward."

I turned off my laptop and slipped it back into its padded bag.  I stepped up to the counter and handed over my boarding pass.  I walked down the jet way, muscles stiff from sitting for hours.  I found a window seat a few rows back.  I loved window seats, especially at night.  City lights look amazing from the air. 

It was a full Friday evening flight, and the plane filled with businessmen wearing ties, teenagers shouting to each other, and a group of middle aged men and women who clearly spent their delay in the airport bar.  It was going to be a long hour to Chicago.

The middle and aisle seats in my row were soon occupied by two women, not too much older than me.  I looked around me, seeing every seat filled.  I had only my small seat and the square foot of leg room in front of me.  I buckled the seat belt, tightening it across my hips, and sat back, ready for takeoff.

That's when it happened.  Out of nowhere.

I first felt the knot under my ribcage.  It traveled up my esophagus, blocking the back of my throat.  It became difficult to breathe.  A flush heat spread across my face, down my chest and the length of my arms.  I placed my head in my hands and take a few breaths, so deep I feel the oxygen reach my stomach.  I begin to sweat.  Oh shit.  Seriously?  I'm gonna be sick, this cannot be happening now.  

I wasn't particularly excited about the prospect of vomiting in the airplane bathroom.  The last time I'd felt like this, I'd had food poisoning and spent several hours violently ill, incapacitated for days afterward.  I looked around the plane, my eyes rapidly darting back and forth across the rows of passengers.  I was unsure what I was searching for, until I heard myself whisper "no empty seats" to myself.  I felt as though my mind was completely disconnected from my body.  The women next to me had, at this point, noticed something is going on with me.

"Hey, are you okay?" the one on the aisle seat asked.

"Oh, I'm fine… just a little nauseous that's all."  I can't stop thinking about the last time I was sick a few years before.   What did I eat today? The woman on the aisle seat hands me one of those god-awful white paper bags from the pouch on the back of the seat.

"Thank you," I managed to squeak out as I take it from her.

"Do you want to sit on the aisle seat" she offers.

No empty seats. 

"Um, yeah, actually that might help.  Are you sure you don't mind?"

We switch seats.  I still couldn't  seem get any air, even sitting on the aisle.  What in the hell is wrong with me? At this point, I was just waiting for it.  I was sure it was going to happen.  Any minute.  I'm going to puke.  I know it.  God, what if I fly to Chicago and this is going on all weekend? What the hell am I going to do?  I need to be able to get home.  I need to be taken care of.  What am I going to do? What?!

The flight attendant walked past, checking overhead bins as they prepared the cabin for take-off.  Suddenly, I knew I needed to escape.  I didn't know why, but I needed to know if it was an option.  I was taking shallow breaths.  I was barely able to speak enough to get the attention of the flight attendant. 

I grabbed her arm and blurted out, "What happens if I need to get off the plane?"

She looked at me briefly in what seemed like disbelief before informing me that my bag had already been checked, so it was going to Chicago whether I did or not. 

"If you need to exit the plane, you have about two minutes to decide." 

Two minutes.  My mind raced with the choice, and what could  happen. If I get off the plane, I'm not going to Chicago.  The weekend I've been looking forward to will not happen.    If I stay on the plane, I risk spending a weekend sick, away from home.  Eric can't see me like that, all sick and pathetic.  I shoot up out of my seat and yank the laptop bag from under the seat in front of me. 

My face is burning hotter that I would have thought possible. Everyone is looking at me.  I fixed my eyes on the carpeted walkway that ran down the center of the plane, trying to pretend they aren't there.  I traveled the jet way, this time in the opposite direction, running.  My bag was causing my weight to shift as it was swinging back and forth and slamming against my hip.

At the gate, I slowed my steps.  I called my parents at home.  It was after 10:00 p.m. now.  As soon as I heard my Dad's voice, I fell apart.  I was hysterical, tears streaming down my face, nearly hyperventilating.

"Can you come pick me up?  I think I'm sick, I had to get off the plane," and he promises he'll be there soon, and that he'll pick me up in the same spot where he dropped me off.  I realized how frantic I sounded on the phone, so I assure him I'm okay.

"Really, Dad, you don't need to rush I'll be okay, I can wait here.  It's pouring down rain out there, be careful."  I hung up the phone, slip it into my jeans pocket, and start walking away from the gate, toward the end of the terminal.

I realized then that the knot was dissolving, or at least getting smaller.  I could breathe more deeply.  My face was soaked with tears, but I didn't care anymore.  I walked briskly to the exit as people in the terminal stare at me, just like the people on the plane did.  I know I look ridiculous.  God, stop staring, don't you have anything better to look at?  Jesus!  I just need to get outside, and everything will be okay.  Fresh air.  That's all I need.  I’m feeling better; maybe I won't be sick after all.

Over the PA system, I hear "Will the passenger who just got off the Southwest flight to Chicago Midway please return to the ticket counter?" Oh, God.  They are going to search me or something to make sure I'm not a terrorist.   I so can't deal with this right now. They are totally going to harass me for getting off the plane. I just need to go home.  I returned to the gate, positive I'm about to receive some sort of lecture.

"I... I just got off that flight?" I was nervous as hell as I answered.

"We need your name, please, so we can account for the fact that you didn't make the flight.  And you'll be issued a voucher for the cost of the flight, to be used within a year."  I breathed a sigh of relief, and thanked the attendant.  I turned and headed, again, toward the exit.

I called Eric, feeling terribly guilty as I told him, "I'm not coming; I think I'm sick, I felt nauseous, and had to get off the plane."  I expected him to be angry at me for bailing at the last minute.

"I'm sorry you're sick.  We'll do it another time, take care of yourself."  And that was it. More understanding than I could ever imagine.

I was just approaching the exit doors when My father called, "I'm here." Standing on the curb I looked around. His car wasn't there. 

"I don't see you, where are you?"  My eyes darted from left to right, my breathing quickened again.  It took only a moment for me to realize, he was waiting at Departures, but I was upstairs, at Arrivals, because I left the plane and walked toward the most logical exit, where most passengers go when they leave the terminal.

"I'll be up there in just a minute, I'm an idiot, I wasn't even thinking."  I find an escalator, and make my way back outside.  I got into his car, no luggage this time, because it was on the plane.  We drove the 20 minutes or so to the house where I grew up, where my mom anxiously awaited our return.

It hadn't occurred to me at this point that I never did get sick.  And that I had gotten progressively better, at least physically, since I exited the plane.  My head, however, was a swirling mess of emotions: confused about what just happened, depressed about the ruined weekend, stressed about getting my suitcase and my things back.  Once I'm finally finished explaining the situation to my mom, she has this look of recognition and knowing on her face. 

"Honey, you know what that was?" she asks.

"I don't know, I guess I thought I was going to get sick, I really have no idea what happened."

"You had a panic attack."

Oh please, I think.  Just because you have had panic attacks doesn't automatically mean I had one too.  I was just feeling sick. I can't explain why I went on the defensive, but I did.

Eventually, I asked to be taken home, to my apartment just a few miles away.  My mother tried desperately to get me to stay so I wouldn't be alone, but I promised her I was fine, that I just wanted to sleep in my own bed.  So, my dad grabbed his keys and we walked back out to the garage where his car was parked.

And he took me home.