by Evelyn Krieger
Once upon a time, I wanted to be an astronaut. As a little girl, I gazed at the moon through my telescope imagining myself up there someday. Apollo 11’s first moon landing on my Dad’s birthday seemed a good omen, setting the stage for my fascination with space travel. Next to my Dad, Neil Armstrong was my number one hero. I loved the movie comedy, The Reluctant Astronaut, about a young man with a fear of heights whose air force father signs him up for NASA space training. There was no reluctance on my part the first time I flew. I was ten years old and marveled at the idea of flying 30,000 feet in the air. The pilot gave me a peek into the cockpit and plastic wings to pin on my shirt. The thrill of that plane trip is buried somewhere within me; now, I would have to reach far back to feel it. You do not want to sit next to me on an airplane. I must seem strange wearing sunglasses during the flight, chanting prayers, gasping for breath, hanging my head between my knees. Sometimes I stomp my foot, or even cry. I ring for the flight attendant a lot. Actually, I am a very normal person…on the ground. I trace the birth of my phobia to two key events. The first was the 1982 crash of an Air Florida jet into the Potomac River on January 13 (note the date!) after taking off in a snowstorm. I had recently returned to New York University after winter break, also flying in snowy weather, and for the first time, I imagined myself on such an ill-fated plane. What made me different from the passengers on Flight 90 who dozed, read, and snacked while buckled into a Boeing 737? Nothing. The answer lodged in my chest, while the photograph of the green and blue tail jutting from the river lodged in my brain. Several days later, in Time Magazine, I read Roger Rosenblatt’s essay, “The Man in the Water”, about the unidentified hero on Flight 90 who selflessly passed the lifeline on to the other passengers clinging to the wreckage; he then slipped under the freezing water. Mr. Rosenblatt’s essay touched me deeply, echoing my initial thoughts. “Only minutes before his character was tested, he was sitting in the ordinary plane among the ordinary passengers, dutifully listening to the stewardess telling him to fasten his seatbelt….” By the end of the piece, I was in tears. A few months later, while I was flying home, the plane encountered severe turbulence during its descent. The passengers grew quiet as the plane shook and rattled. I felt the air fill with anxiety. Across the aisle, a man held a paper bag to his mouth. The flight attendants were no longer walking about and the pilot did not offer reassuring words. Instead, he warned us to expect a rough landing. I remember feeling uneasy, yet I remained calm. As the plane touched down, it bounced along the runway until finally coming to a screeching stop. The passengers let out a collective sigh of relief. Then the pilot spoke the words that may have ignited my future phobia. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Detroit. If anyone ever tells you that pilots have an easy job, please remember this flight!” A week later, on my return trip to New York, I felt an odd sensation creep up my legs as I stepped into the plane. The width of the aircraft seemed to have shrunk. The location of my seat assignment suddenly took on great significance. Did I really want to sit so far back? I began to notice every noise—overhead compartments slamming shut, the bumping of luggage underneath the plane, seatbelts clicking, the engine whirring. The flight attendant began her pre-flight routine, one I had heard dozens of times before, but this time, a particular phrase caught my attention. “In the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device….” What? I wanted to ask her if she knew of any passenger who had ever floated around on a seat cushion after “landing” in the ocean. As the plane sped down the runway, my heart pounded. A sense of doom filled my chest. When the plane lifted off, I felt the blood drain from my head. I doubled over, sure I would faint. After a few minutes, I glanced out the window. The plane was still climbing. “Are you okay?” the man next to me asked. I politely nodded. “Just a little dizzy.” We’re all going to die. Months later, I had a repeat performance. As the plane rode the air waves, my chest tightened. Fear entered every cell in my body. I trembled. I had always felt myself to be a lucky person--winning contests, finding money, being in the right place at the right time--now, I wondered, why did I think my flight would be the one to go down? My phobia expanded. I was plagued with anticipatory anxiety beginning a week before my flight. I developed comfort tactics—earplugs to soften the engine noise and a Walkman playing new age music. I also donned sunglasses, which oddly brought me some comfort, perhaps as a way of hiding my fearful expression (and sometimes tears). My choice seat was the front section of the plane. I became very distressed if I got a seat assignment in the back of the plane and would try to convince the flight attendant to change it. I also could not sit next to an emergency exit, as I knew I would be unable to assist other passengers in any type of “unlikely event.” Once, on a full flight, I got stuck with a last row seat. The cabin was stuffy and hot. The smell of engine fuel made me nauseous. From my vantage point, I could see the front of the plane rising above me as we took off. I felt as if I were falling backwards on a giant slide in the sky. Panic set in. Next to me, an older woman with a buttery southern accent asked if I needed help. “Not a good flyer,” I managed to say. The squeaking noise of the wheels folding made me gasp. I leaned forward, trying to get the blood back to my head. Since almost all plane crashes occur at take off and landing, these times are my most fearful; throw in some turbulence, and I am a wreck. “You poor thing,” she said. I attempted deep breathing. “I fly all the time,” the woman said. “So, I’ve seen my share of fearful flyers.” I smiled weakly. “I hope I never sit next to one.” “Have you ever tried knitting?” I shook my head. “It’s very relaxing.” She tried to make conversation, telling me about her job as a sales rep, but I couldn’t focus on her words. I was breathing hard. Tears slipped from my closed eyes. The woman reached over and gently took my hand. “Everything is going to be just fine. God is with us.” So there I was, twenty-two-years old, holding hands with a stranger, as the plane roared through the sky. I have always felt grateful to this woman. The last thing I need is to sit next to someone else who hates flying. In my phobic world, misery does not love company. It comforts me to see passengers asleep during a flight, something I have never been able to do. See, they aren’t afraid. Watching the flight attendants is another way I seek reassurance. I like to see them rolling their snack cart down the aisle, smiling at the passengers, and I especially like when the pilot speaks to us, his smooth deep voice exuding confidence. As much as flying distressed me, I was determined to get on the plane no matter what, as this mode of transportation allowed me to visit my distant family members. My parents urged me to get help. In search of a cure, I tried hypnosis, which worked temporarily, medication, which worked rather well, if I didn’t mind the side effects, and desensitization therapy, which involved spending a few hours at the airport watching planes take off and land dozens of times. This time-consuming therapy did not have much of a lasting effect.
In 1983, I saw the movie The Right Stuff, the historical drama of the development of the U.S. space program. From Chuck Yaeger breaking the sound barrier, to John Glenn orbiting the earth, I loved every thrilling moment of the movie. My childhood dreams of space travel resurfaced. It was sobering to think that even if I had the opportunity, I would never have the right stuff. Then, a year later, I heard the most unbelievable and spectacular news: a teacher would be chosen as the first private U.S. citizen to fly on the Space Shuttle. I had a master’s degree in education from Harvard, and had just finished my first year of classroom teaching. My competitive spirit fired. I want this! Somehow, in my warped thinking, perhaps tinged with hubris, I convinced myself that I could overcome my phobia for the chance of a lifetime. After all, I feared commercial jets, not space shuttles. In a state of temporary insanity, I sent for an application. Well, we all know how that mission ended. I had vicariously followed Christa McAuliffe’s four month training, sharing the details with my first graders who marked the launch day on their calendars. I became obsessed with the accident, watching the shuttle explode again and again, imagining the last moments of that flight. The sadness I felt lingered for a long time afterward, and my faith in the space program died.
By the late 1990’s, my fear of flying seemed to be more under control. I now had three children, and though I much preferred car travel, we sometimes flew together to visit their grandparents. I was determined not to pass on my fear, and so, as if acting in a play, I took on the role of the fearless mom I wished to be. Flying with my precious cargo took me outside myself. I was too busy attending to their needs to have time for a full-fledged panic attack. I silently suffered through take-off and landing, but for most of the flight, I was usually okay.
Then came September 11. Now everyone had a fear of flying. No more waiting for your loved ones at the gate. No more wing pins and cockpit visits for the kids. The airplane may be safe, but a terrorist-passenger may kill you. Only minutes before his character was tested, he was sitting in the ordinary plane among the ordinary passengers, dutifully listening to the stewardess telling him to fasten his seatbelt… Would anyone hold my hand again and tell me, “Everything is going to be just fine.”?
I did not fly for another three years. Now I have come to accept that I will never feel comfortable flying. When the plane zooms down the runway, I feel close to death’s door. Time never passes so slowly as when I am traveling 500 miles an hour. Yet, after all this, when I gaze at the glorious full moon, I sometimes feel the tug of my childhood longing. Recently, on a flight to Florida, my teenagers watched a movie in the next row. I sat with my nine-year-old daughter who looked at me closely while the plane bobbed up and down. “Why are you wearing sunglasses, Mommy?” I shrugged, and took them off. “Hey…” she said, peering into my eyes. “You’re scared!” “Just a little sick to my stomach,” I lied. Audrey put her arm around me. She held my hand, then kissed it. “Everything is going to be alright,” she said tenderly. I rested my head on her shoulder and took a deep breath. Evelyn Krieger is a writer, learning specialist, and homeschooling mom in Massachusetts. Her essays, articles, and short stories have appeared in Writer's Digest, Teacher Magazine, Learning, Family Fun, Reading Today, Baby Talk, and Lilith Magazine. In lieu of space travel, Evelyn channels her energy into entering writing competitions and getting her novel ready for take off. HOME |