#72 - The Flight, The Descent

The Flight, The Descent

10/30/05 (#72)

Two hours and 19 minutes. That's how long, the airline assured us, we would be in transit from Minneapolis to Boston. Factoring in routines like the beverage carts and the subsequent trash collection, I anticipated being distracted for the most of the flight. Two hours and 19 minutes: No different than sitting in a theatre for the duration of a movie, in this case titled, The View From Row 34.

Of course, 2:19 is an easy duration for a GOOD movie. At the start of what seemed like the third hour of The View from Row 34, Stephanie and I were contemplating how effectively we could fake a medical condition in order to force a landing. Steph generously (or perhaps, selfishly) offered to have a panic attack.

Unfortunately, I didn't have to talk in hypotheticals.

There had been steady and escalating turbulence, yet despite my proclivity to motion sickness, I felt comfortable. My daughter slept beside me, Steph sat next to her, and neither seemed concerned. I did an impromptu mental checklist of my condition: Breathing? Good. Muscles relaxed? Good. Stomach? Goo.....wait a minute, does that feel right? No, that's not right, that feels almost like the inklings of...uh oh.

Caught early, nausea is all in the mind, and I was confident that I had nipped this foul bloom in the bud. I focused on the seat in front of me, refusing all conversation, intent on making it to terra firma without an incident.

The first elevation drop was an uncomfortable surprise---hardly the worst mini-plummet of my flying career, but the momentary weightlessness churned my stomach like castor oil. Checklist updated: Definitely not right.

The second elevation drop was about a second and a half long. On the ground, that's a barely measurable length of time: a one-and-a-half second green light would barely allow one car to get through. But in the air, I felt like a guy who thought he was getting onto Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and suddenly found himself on the introductory descent of Space Mountain. Less than two seconds, and in that time I had enough time for an elaborate entreaty to God, a more elaborate string of epithets for the pilot, and to begin preliminary planning for the dreaded but inevitable moment.

The first stage of my planning was to visually locate the airline-supplied "motion discomfort receptacle" protruding from the seat pocket behind the Skymall magazine. I was momentarily reassured. Of course, by this time, if the plane had hit a leaf or even a bright shaft of light it might have been too much for me, and a distinct thought occurred to me: If locating the bag was a good idea, wouldn't holding the bag in my hand be even a better idea? It was a rhetorical question---the answer was most definitely "yes".

I leaned forward with the agility of one of Madame Tussaud's wax figures, carrying my stomach like I would an over-filled martini through a crowded bar. I was moving too slowly to escape my wife's notice, and her commentary consisted of one word, rich with both disbelief and disgust:

"No?!"

It was rhetorical question----the answer was most definitely "yes".

I then discovered, with concerned disappointment, that airline cost-saving measures had reached as far as the barf bag: I was seeking something ample and spacious to contain the Burger King chicken sandwich I had consumed in the Minneapolis airport; what I found instead was a bag that, had it been the sack at a penny-candy store, would have been the proprietor's choice for customers with no more than a quarter to spend. I am no mathematician, but I was surrounded on the plane by a dozen or more asian students from MIT, and I felt certain they would have confirmed my suspicions: if, during a physics test on velocity, this bag was offered as the solution to my impending digestive issues, the result would have been a big fat F. And even that F wouldn't have fit into this bag.

But I was in no condition to write a letter of complaint to Northwest for their cost-saving measures. I contemplated making a break for the bathroom, but two things kept me in my seat: First, the only item on the plane that was smaller than the barf bag was the bathroom (if Clark Kent was forced to run into this tiny space in order to emerge as Superman and save the plane, investigators would have found in the fiery wreckage a contorted man, clad partly in tweed and partly in what might be mistaken as his pajamas); second, I knew that the rise to my feet and subsequent turn would have resulted in an untimely release of my internal cargo, followed by a crash course in Chinese curse words from the horrified MIT students.

By this time, I was swallowing with the frequency of a pie-eating-contest champion, but I knew the battle was lost---even the swallowing required more movement than my nausea would allow. I opened the bag.

I am happy to report that the bag was surprisingly accommodating. (6/10ths of a penny well-saved, NWA bean-counters!) Perhaps it was the physical logistics of throwing up from a seated position: when driving the porcelain bus (my favorite euphemism for kneeling before the toilet), your entire body can contribute to the expulsion process; tossing lunch within the confines of a coach seat is like trying to throw a baseball in a closed phone booth. Relief came quickly. Even easily.

But alas, temporarily.

The next bit of turbulence roiled me again, so I pointed at the seat pocket by the window and mumbled through clenched teeth, "Steph, I need your bag."

In print, her response would appear to be the same as it had been with the appearance of the first bag. However, this enunciation was longer, even more disgusted, as if this time I was not the victim of a malady but was instead showing off my vomiting skills. Perhaps it could be typed like thise: "NO!?!?!??!" Had this been our first trip together, I would have fully expected that, upon landing, her first words would have been, "Look, we need to talk." But we are legally bound, so not only did Steph have to endure my condition, she had to perform a service above and beyond what should be required of any travel companion.

As I rolfed into the second bag, Steph held the first bag, suspending it as far away from her as she could as it were a bag of...well, someone else's puke. Her gesture was so kind I could have kissed her, though at that moment, I'm certain she'd have been satisfied with a hand gesture of thanks.

The second act now complete, I read the text on my tiny, unexpected luggage: "Please call a stewardess for disposal of this bag." No need to call her---I was now feeling well enough to make the short journey back to where the airline staff loiter when they're not dispensing beverages. The stewardess saw me approaching, ashen faced and sweaty, and it was immediately clear that she had not been the one to approve the verbiage on the sack. I was still 10 feet from her when one eyebrow went up and she started her recoil, pointing with both index fingers (lest I be looking for guidance from her right while she pointed with her left) and said emphatically, "Into the bathroom!"

And if that room isn't big enough to accommodate Superman, you can imagine the delight I had trying to negotiate the spring-loaded accordion door while holding two bags of toxic waste and an uncertainty if two would be sufficient. Fortunately, I got through it without having to consult with any of the MIT students for logistical advice.

When we finally landed and taxied toward the gate, I flashed a half-smile of relief to Steph. She smiled back, an uncertain smile that silently said, "So, you'll be taking the aisle seat for the rest of this vacation, no?"

It was a rhetorical smile---the answer was most definitely "yes".

©2005 wpreagan