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I have been afraid of flying ever since my
first flight at the tender age of four, when my grandmother bounced me on
her lap as the plane taxied down the runway. She got through the second
verse of “Jingle Bells” before I threw up.
Not anymore. After 50 years of weenie-like behavior, I’ve
conquered my fears. And like any returning hero, I’d like to tell everyone
how I accomplished this miraculous transformation.
Drugs.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. There’s some other
possible explanations, but drugs are a good start. To be specific, it was
anti-anxiety pills (preferably Xanax, but Valium will do) that did the
trick.
I became a user about a year ago. I had tried everything (like
being brave) and it hadn’t worked. I hated flying, and I was pretty darn
sure I was going to die in a fiery crash. I read books, gobbled statistics,
beat myself up over my weenieness---nothing worked. So I reluctantly asked
my doctor for a prescription.
Not being a big druggie, the results at first were mixed. I was
pretty careful with the dosage, so I was still coherent, which meant still
fearful. So I had to step it up.
Our flight to Dublin last summer was my epiphany. This was a 10
hour flight. There was no way a plane could stay in the air that long. A
half-hour before boarding, I had to double the dose.
Bingo. The plane taxied to the beginning of the runway, and as
we waited for takeoff, I fell asleep. I can’t begin to explain how good
that felt.
It was the best flight I’ve ever had. I realized I didn’t
have to help get the plane in the air and keep it there. I had no control,
and I liked it.
Xanax became my little friend. I’d put a couple in my pocket as we
rode to the airport for the other flights on the trip, and I’d reach in
every so often, just to make sure they were still there and ready for me.
When we got to the airport, my 18 and 19 year old sons would be all
over me. They had seen my transformation on the first flight, and they
wanted a piece of the action. They had inherited my fear of flying (my
daughters had not) and they wanted the cure.
How could I refuse? A half hour before boarding, we would gather
together. I’d make sure no one was looking, and then hand them half of
what I was going to take (why spoil them?) and we’d hold the little pills
up and jointly recite our motto: “The family that takes drugs together
stays together.”
They’d ask for a bigger dosage, but being the responsible father I
am, I’d refuse. I had to make sure there was more than enough for me, in
case there was turbulence.
Remarkably, all three of us became better flyers over the course of
the trip. We’re all having trouble remembering things, but I’m sure that
will improve over time. Especially since I haven’t renewed the
prescription and all of us have taken flights drug-free since our Xanax-fueled
summer.
Obviously, I’m exaggerating a bit. But the anti-anxiety
medication did prove to all of us that we can relax on a plane and it will
still make it to its destination. That’s a big step.
I almost look forward to flights now. I no longer think much about
when I was seven years old and my father pointed to a huge airplane sitting
on the tarmac and asked, “Don’t you wonder how those big heavy things
get up in the air?”
I wondered for 50 years. No longer. I have newfound confidence
in wings and engines and pilots and air traffic controllers and flaps and
rudders and cabin pressure. I’m even pretty darn certain the captain is
going to remember to lower the landing gear before we hit the ground.
Drugs can be a beautiful thing. Got a headache---take an
aspirin. Got an irrational, unsophisticated, ridiculous fear of the safest
mode of transportation known to mankind---take a Xanax.
I’ve still got a couple left, just in case, but I don’t plan on
using them. If you see my sons, though, tell them I’m tapped out.
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