Up, Up, and Away?
A peek into my anxious brain the day I travel to Los Angeles. AKA this is how much I HATE flying!
“Wait? What? Why is my alarm going off? It’s still dark out. Did I set it wrong? ”
Then, I remember. I’ve got to get up NOW because I’m flying to Los Angeles this morning. This isn’t a pleasure trip. I’m visiting my brother, who was in a motorcycle accident in June. He’s in a rehab at the beginning of a long road to recovery. It’s the first time I’m seeing him since the accident and I’m a nervous wreck.
Bargaining with the goddess, Nyx, I just need to sleep for nine more minutes. I hit snooze and swear I’ll only do it once.
I keep my promise, dragging myself out of bed at 4:09am, and needing to pee 2 hours ago, but not getting up to do it, I race down the hall using my best “I’ve gotta go” wiggle-walk while I clench my pelvic floor muscles as tightly as I can. But I scoot to the stove to turn the kettle on before hitting the bathroom, because COFFEE. I start to feel the leak. Clench. Clench more! Of course I should’ve stopped to pee first, but honestly, what’s more important? Coffee always wins. Doing it my way means my coffee is brewing while I mop up the spillage. Nan, you’re such a clever girl
Two birds, one Bounty paper towel.
Note to self: do the damn Kegels, PRONTO! No more excuses. Yes, yes, you say that all the time, but this time you mean it. Right. Uh-huh. We’ll see. The thought of a pessary in my future gives me pause, but my internalized Scarlett O’Hara kicks in, telling me tomorrow is a fine day to begin.
I did most of my packing last night, giving myself mental reminders along the way, even though I’m not so good at those anymore. I should have made a list. That’s what I always say. Do I ever make a list? Hell, no. But had I, these things would have been on it:
1. Make coffee. I wasn’t kidding around.
2. Pee. As if I need to write THAT down. Notice the order of operations.
3. Pack CPAP. Don’t leave lying on the bed. Put with luggage!
4. Drink at least half a cup of coffee and save the rest for the ride to the airport.
5. DON’T DO THE NY Times puzzles!!! It’s tempting, yes. If you break your streak, you’ll live. Will I really? Yes, you will, Nan. Don’t be such a baby!
6. Leave a couple of lights on, but which ones?
7. Feed the cat.
8. Text the cat sitter, tell her you fed the cat.
9. Pack the car, then double and triple check the house.
10. Grab a protein shake from the fridge.
11. Remember to take it with you.
12. Lock the door.
13. Unplug the car from the charger before you try to pull out of the garage.
14. Enter the airport address in Google Maps.
15. Worry that you didn’t lock the kitchen door. Perseverate about it while sitting in the car. Look at the time. Fight with your memory a little more, THEN get out of the car and check. Of course you locked the door. But did you put the keys in the hidey place for the cat sitter? Fight with yourself a little more. Get out of the car again and check. Keys are there.
16. Go, already.
The sky is dark. It should be. It’s 4-fucking-thirty in the morning. The break of the break of dawn. Oooh, the high-beams on the new car are great, and they turn on automatically. I don’t have to do a thing. I guess some AI is good AI? Until it needs to be repaired. But I’ve got a warrantee! Until it runs out.
I jump on the Thruway for the 67-mile ride, knowing I’ll need extra time to park. I set my cruise control and steering assist. I need all the help I can get this morning; I’ll need help on the drive home, too. I get back absurdly late at night. The two times of day when most car accidents happen.
OMG, shut up already, Nan.
Will there be a parking spot for me? Will I know where to go? They’ve been doing construction at the airport. Will going through security be scary because of all the bullshit going on?
I circle and circle and fret and circle some more. I finally find a spot, and guess what?
Yes. It’s as far as it can possibly be from the elevator that will bring me to the terminal. I only discover that by walking and walking, searching for signage, and finding none. I’m a signage freak. There must be signs with helpful arrows. Who do I complain to? It was too early in my trip to start crying, so I said––out loud, my voice echoing in the cavernous space––“Buck up, girl. You’ll get there.”
I have a pathological fear of getting lost. I momentarily entertain the thought of trying to go back to the car and park it closer, worrying about coming back late at night. I’ll be so tired! What about the thieves and rapists hiding behind the cars? I jot down the number of the parking area in my Notes app, because yes, I will forget it. Column 32, Level P3.
I need to avoid depending on my memory as I wander the garage upon my return, yelling, “here, Kona here little Hyundai, mama wants to head home.” I worry that cars look so much alike these days, that I’ll get confused and try to get into the wrong one and trigger an alarm.
I trudge to the elevators, panting through my mouth, drying it out. I think of wet things, even though conjuring saliva hasn’t been one of my superpowers for all the years I’ve been on anti-depressants. It’s a desert in there, and I don’t have any water.
I see the long line of people waiting to go through security and my anxiety kicks in again. Why are there so many people traveling today, SO early in the morning?
What’s wrong with them?
2nd note to self: Make sure you’re super-friendly, self-deprecating, humble, grateful, and patient when it’s your turn. You don’t want to get in trouble with the TSA. I hear there’s a lot of that going around these days. Have you heard the same thing?
I say an embarrassing prayer of gratitude, “Thank god, I’m white.” Then I really want to cry. Because that’s part of the anxiety, too. Is my ID enough? When will they start deporting queers and Jews? It’s only a matter of time. I brought photos of my passport and Social Security card at the advice of a lawyer friend in case there’s trouble.
The TSA agent is an older woman with fabulous eyeglasses; she asks for my license. Of course, I’m not prepared. She’s warm and patient as I thumb through my wallet to find my ID. What if I can’t find it? Will they re-route me to Alligator Alcatraz? I’m a citizen, I swear! Flying is nerve-wracking enough without needing to be concerned about deportation, too.
She points to the next line and wishes me a safe trip. I wait to hoist my luggage onto the conveyer belt. I place each piece in its own gray plastic bin. I pray they don’t open my purse. It holds a lone pot gummy in a baggie, just in case I want to doze on the plane––or giggle.
I prepared my story ahead of time, my scenario scripted, “I swear, it’s a Vitamin C gummy. Me? Use federally illegal narcotics? Why, no sir, not me, never, ever, ever. I swear on my father’s life.” Yes, yes, he died 14 years ago. But they don’t know that. I reflect on what an ass I can be sometimes. I have deportation fantasies and I’m smuggling sleep gummies as my way to say fuck you to the piece of crap “government” running this country.
I don’t want to be a total wimp, there’s a rebel in me, she needs to express herself and break some rules. I make it through the line, unscathed, and shlep to the gate.
I approach the gate guy; and tell him I need help with pre-boarding and he asks if I require a wheelchair in Denver to get to the next gate. I’m tempted to take him up on it and ashamed of myself, because do I really NEED it? I think of my mother, who started gaming that system years and years before she needed it, and grudgingly, I opt in. I decide to make it easier for myself, something I rarely do. Asking for help is uncomfortable for me, but I learn something simple today. The help helps. It was the very beginning of the trip, and I was already exhausted, and my feet hurt.
As I board the first plane, I worry that I won’t be comfortable in the seat, because I am an ample woman. Would the seat belt fit? Or would I have to discreetly ask for an extender? It’s very hard to be discreet about being too fat to fit when people are sitting right on top of you. Huzzah. All is well. My seat is comfortable and the belt has room to spare.
I guess the shots are working!
I make it to Denver, and a man named Mateo is waiting to take me to the next gate which feels MILES away. I board his unadorned golf cart (no gold leaf for this guy, he’s got taste), there’s a yellow bicycle bell with a smiley face on it attached to the windscreen. Off we go! Ding, ding, cart on your left, he sings to the people walking in his path. When we get to the gate, I give him a grateful tip and find a seat close to the jetway door, settle into a cozy chair to wait for pre-boarding.
Those of us needing extra time and assistance walk slowly down the jetway; a very old woman with a cane leading our procession. I feel self-conscious, a little ashamed, because again, do I really need to be up front? My internal wrestling is loud, so I stop listening to the yammering in my head, breathe, and take care of my needs. I grab the aisle seat in the second row. This is the same seat I sat in for the first leg. Now I’m superstitious about which seat I occupy and that becomes the most important thing. I have to sit here on each flight, or the plane will crash. On the way home, too.
All the travelers aboard, the flight attendants ready the cabin for take-off. Just before the door closes, the gate agent jumps aboard and in a loud voice, asks “is there a Nan Tepper here?” Oh shit. They caught me. Damn pot gummy. I could chew it up now.
I raise my hand, and wave, “I’m Nan Tepper.” He hands me my small black shoulder bag. It contains ALL my ID, my cash, my plastic, my keys, AND the gummy!
I had no idea I’d left it on Mateo’s cart. Everything was there. All of it.
In that moment, my stress begins to fade. I feel almost happy. Hopeful. This small miracle lifts my worries, for the moment.
But not all the way, because I still have to get through this flight, hail another golf cart in LA and get to the shuttle bus for my car rental. I still needed to be harassed by the rental agent’s scare tactics to pre-pay for gas and buy car insurance that I don’t need. He’ll try to get me to spend a fortune on a pre-paid transponder for tolls I won’t encounter. Then he’ll give me the keys to an American car, after listening to me say that under no circumstances did I want an American car. Customer service at its best!
Endnote:
Besides the wonderful Mateo saving my skin, here’s the part of the story that to me is the most important. There are some lovely people who helped me get to LA, because 1. recovery has to taught me ask for help and 2. recovery has taught me to accept help. It’s taught me that I don’t have to do life alone. I couldn’t do it alone. So I turned to my village.
My beautiful Substacklandia village.
My pal,
, writer by day––and flight attendant currently on sabbatical for miraculous health transformations, the rest of the time. Eileen made all my travel arrangements because I was too stressed to figure it out (the last time I flew was 7 years ago). She even gifted me her miles to get me there and back. Talk about a mitzvah.In Los Angeles, I was welcomed by
, writer by day and asleep by night. She goes to bed very, very early. She wakes up early, too, to write. Susan is the consummate host and her husband Tom makes the best damn cup of coffee ever. I find a fresh pot waiting for me every morning. Because COFFEE! But I do stop in the bathroom first, because I feel the very least I can do is be a good houseguest. And Susan doesn’t buy Bounty paper towels.And, finally, grateful thanks to
, who’s a writer-to-be on Substack and one of my Style Your Stack clients. She offered me a place to stay for as long as I need. I didn’t stay in her apartment on this trip, but maybe I will next time.I’m letting others give to me, as I would naturally give to them. Receiving is always harder than giving, but I’m learning how, one trip at a time!
I’m so grateful when readers decide to support my writing financially by becoming paid subscribers, so if you want to do that, thank you, thank you!
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One more thing. I’m offering my Substack 101 workshop again, in October, because the one I offered in May was a huge success. If you’ve been thinking about writing a newsletter on Substack, but don’t know where to start, Substack 101 is perfect for you!
A wonderfully ordinary story in which you reveal the extraordinary. It unfolded as Mateo and patient TSA women, writers helping other writers, and wonderful coffee makers -- because yes, COFFEE.
You help a lot of people a lot of the time -- how lovely to let others help and support you during this time with your brother. Keeping you close in my heart.
Wonderful! What a journey - inside and outside. I think we all have these ongoing conversations with ourselves, though some are centered in other emotions than anxiety. For many of us, anxiety is the ruler. How brave you are to take the anxiety on directly, knowing it would turn up the volume the whole time. You are a marvel, and I'm so glad I was the one to welcome you and take you into what I hope was a safe haven. And all of that was just getting here! I know how difficult it is to visit a loved one who has been so badly hurt. And you are a wonderful houseguest. It's the first thing Tom said about you as you were making your way back to LAX to go home. You are welcome anytime. I'm in awe of your willingness to be in the discomfort and, in your writing, to show us with wit and humor, just what we all live with all the time, only in our individual variations. All of us have an interior voice yammering away. Now, you have the distance to see yours and even write jokes about it. Healing, yes, and hearing the voice without bowing to it by staying home is freedom. Indeed.