I hate to bring this up: Suffering from a "terminal illness" on my last flight

 I admit to being both annoyed and embarrassed as my family "subtly" makes adjustment and accommodations to alleviate my anxiety in known problematic areas. Case-in-point:  Sydney Lynn flying all the way from San Diego so that she could fly back with me. 

Ridiculous.

Unnecessary.

Infuriating.

"It was amazing!" Doug exclaimed, having monitored the entire flight on his computer, "Your pilot managed to find the one small break in the storm pattern and slid right through."

Storm pattern? More like a crazy quilt.

So...to explain:

The first leg of the trip was, admittedly, a bit bumpy but manageable. "In terms of over-all flights," Sydney told me as we exited the plane in Chicago, "That was probably the third worst in terms of turbulence." She expertly guided me past all my secret little-hidey-holes where I curl up to wait out my next flight and planted me at a bar in hopes that a little drinky-drink would help me relax. I decided to throw an order of fried ravioli on top of that.

Bad idea.

One of my many secrets to success (that flies in the face of popular opinion) for airplane travel includes a strict regimen of dehydration as I refuse to leave my seat unless it's to proceed to the nearest exit to leap onto the safety slide. So, my little drinky-drink threw me for a little loop-de-loop as I wobbled to the restroom before heading to my gate. 

Strapped into my seat, brain a-buzzin', I settled in, content to watch as many episodes of And Just Like That that it takes to rocket across the United States to get to San Diego. Turns out...it just took 20 minutes, a storm system, a cargo bay filled with airport ravioli and booze, and a girl with a long and lurid history of motion sickness to get me THERE. 

THERE.

A condition now known in our family as FOF:  Face-on-fan.

My mid-50s have been accompanied by a fun wave of hot flashes so I am usually armed with a small, discrete ("Discrete?" snorts Brad Mosiman.) fan. As the plane pounced like a puma on its cumulonimbus prey, my head spun, my stomach rolled, and my skin steamed. I resorted to my lamaze breathing as I tried, in vain, to control the nausea unleashed by this not-so-amusing ride. Alarmed, Sydney rubbed my back, watching, in horror, as I sank lower and lower in my seat, contorted in pain and desperation...finally, I was even unable to hold my tiny fan, laying it, face-up/full-power, on the seat-back tray and lowering my face directly onto it. Face-on-fan. 

Fortunately or not fortunately, we were in the very back seats of the plane so Sydney was able to communicate with the strapped in flight attendants who were the perfect balance of firm and funny to the frightened passengers. A wonderful balance of "We got this" and "No, sit down. You'll have to vomit in your seat, thank you very much." 

"Can I get my mom a ginger ale?" Sydney shouted. She was handed a (yucky tasting but...who's complaining?) tonic water. While I sipped the bitter-tasting concoction and mentally recited the 10 Commandments (forwards and backwards), Sydney alternated between chatting it up with the flight staff and exclaiming over the majestic beauty of the light-show out our window. As the attendant predicted, I started feeling a bit better (I could lift my head off the fan) after about five minutes. Tonic water contains quinine which is derived from the bark of the cinchona tree found in South America, the Caribbean, and western Africa. Not only does it ease nausea, it may also address issues associated with restless leg syndrome and is a common treatment for malaria. 

"Better?" Sydney asked, smoothing my hair. I nodded, reluctantly sipping my bitter beverage. I noticed then that Sydney was armed with the familiar white airplane "lunch"  bag as well as a roomier version that the flight attendant had tossed at her during my darkest hour. I had been unaware of these receptacles so, as I had stuffed my face between the seat-back in front of me and the tiny plane window, I had indulged in a bit of brainstorming about how I would handle it if/when the levies rose and the dam broke. Eyeing up Sydney's cheetah print snuggie that I had alternately wrapped around my shivering self or tossed off my sweating self, I realized that it might have to take one for the team...fast. Fortunately, it never came to that.

Exhausted, I leaned into my daughter and sighed. With a sweet side hug, she gently urged me to take some more sips of the awful antidote. "I'm so glad you're here," I admitted, shuddering at the idea of having had to deal with my hunched-over hysterics among horrified strangers. "I'm sorry if I didn't show enough appreciation for all of your effort to make me feel safe and comfortable," I told her. "Not to worry," Sydney assured me, smiling, "under these circumstances, it's understandable for anyone to have a bad altitude."