The Poetist

March began with a bang. Or a crash, really, as that’s the last sound I heard before I woke up on the floor of the airplane. But a few hours before…

I wasn’t paying attention – or I was, but not to the right thing. My mind was consumed by an email I just received from a friend doling out relationship advice and observations. She was right, and I was… holding onto something that was really only holding me back. In a short time I would fly to Palo Alto to look at apartments and I didn’t have my mind on packing because even I can handle packing for such a utilitarian trip. And then I forgot to go to the airport – until it was way past time to leave. Under normal circumstances I would spend the car ride silently berating myself for whatever series of choices led to this mistake. This time, however, I was thinking about my friend’s email, thinking back to a different set of choices made by a person no longer in my life, and fighting to hold back tears. As soon as the departure lobby doors closed behind me I started to cry. It was silent, nothing major, I just couldn’t hold it in as I swiped my card to check in for the flight. And then I couldn’t check in. The kiosk computer screen directed me to the nearest check-in attendant who told me that their system closed check-in 30 minutes before the flight. My flight was at 4:20, my watch said 3:50. I started to cry, really cry this time. The attendant seemed to genuinely feel bad for me, which I appreciated. She directed me to a phone where I was able to re-book a later flight, for a $100 fee. After finishing on the phone I still needed help from someone behind the counter but the nice lady had been replaced by an über-dragon lady who refused to help me.

I kept crying. On the way to my gate I went into the bathroom to have some privacy and just sobbed to myself in the metal stall. When I felt like I had finished I continued to my gate, looking quite a mess with three bright red spots where my eyes and nose used to be. I chose a seat away from most of the other passengers and called my friend to discuss my relationship woes. It didn’t take long for the seats around me to become occupied but I kept talking about my sadness, confusion and disappointment… all the while crying. After getting off the phone with her I walked down the corridor back to the bathroom, cried some more, returned to the gate, boarded the plane, and cried while the other passengers found their seats.

And then I couldn’t cry any more. After two hours of nearly continuous crying I was simply out of tears. My tear ducts were empty. My eyes felt dry and swollen. Even my mouth was dry, and my whole body was tired. It was as if I had drawn all but the most essential liquid from every possible organ within me and channeled it through my body to pour out from my eyes. I just had nothing left. Nothing but a mild dehydration headache to remind me of the tears.  The rest of the flight passed uneventfully; I had a cup of tea, which provided a little comfort, and I decided that a glass of red wine with dinner during my layover would be nice as well.

The red wine was indeed a good idea as I quickly fell into a deep sleep for the 2nd half of my journey. It was a good idea until I woke up. I felt sick, so sick. Sicker than I had ever felt before. My head was light but my stomach was heavy. I felt a serious urge to vomit but it seemed like I might faint first. And I was hot, sweating. My body was going in six different painful directions and the only apparent cause was being awake. I pressed the call button for the flight attendant but I couldn’t hear the tone. I wondered if the button was broken. When he came by I could barely hear him or see him – even though lights were on in the cabin. My vision had become dark and clouded, and it scared me. I managed to ask for water and he offered me aspirin, which I took. But it soon became clear to me that neither water nor aspirin was going to shake any of my symptoms. I got up to go to the bathroom but I couldn’t find it – I couldn’t see it. I could hear a female flight attendant nearby and the voice said I was in front of the bathroom but I couldn’t find the handle… it was just so dark! And then I heard a crash.

I opened my eyes and realized I was lying on the floor of the plane.

The female flight attendant sent a call over the intercom asking for any doctors on the plane to come to the front and I saw faces peering at me and asking questions. Another attendant came and brought blankets to put under my head. Even after I woke I continued to sweat and shake and apparently my skin had gone gray; I’m not sure how long I was out, or what the crash I heard was. One woman (a med student?) took my blood pressure and another woman (a nurse) asked me a series of questions. I was given orange juice to drink, and later some water. It was surmised that the red wine probably did me in and I was told that one glass on the ground equals three in the air. I didn’t think to mention the crying and how I had already felt dehydrated after that. I had felt deeply nauseous and intensely light-headed before – at the top of Mt. Fuji – but never on an airplane.  So it seemed that my body was overcome by the potency of dehydration-induced altitude sickness. In addition to liquids I was given… oxygen! I looked at the little yellow oxygen mask thinking, I should have paid more attention to all those safety demonstrations. I had no idea how to tighten the straps so I alternated holding the mask up to my face with drinking water and answering questions about my health and how to spell my name. The flight attendant offered to have a wheelchair or paramedics meet the plane when it landed but I felt that would be completely unnecessary.

I also felt it might have been unnecessary to forgo my rental car and ask a local friend to pick me up but I was strongly cautioned against driving (especially given my temporary loss of vision), so I called. And she came. to the wrong airport. At that point I was like, whatever, I can drive. I’m no longer dehydrated or tens of thousands of miles in the air so I should be good to go. I made it to the rental car counter and I couldn’t wait to just get in the car and go but there was one small discrepancy on my contract that I wanted to clear up. The website I used for my flight and rental car booked my flight into San Francisco and out of San Jose but they booked my car going through the San Francisco airport both coming and going. Surely it would be no problem to just drop my car off at the San Jose airport? This is a national rental company, after all. Dropping off the car at San Jose wouldn’t be a problem – provided I pay a $100 fee (of course). That was the last thing I wanted to hear, but being too tired to vocalize the thundercloud that must have passed over my face I just went to the car. Sitting in the driver’s seat I just felt that long and arduous journey wash over me. Relieved and ready to finish the day I turned on the GPS system… and it was in French.

At that point I had to laugh – for one more thing gone wrong, but also because that was one thing that didn’t faze me.