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."

Parasailing

Parasailing is a painful topic in the Mosiman home.  Once it was determined that we were, indeed, making tracks for a May trip to Mexico, Savannah and I began planning our airborne adventure.  My mountain-climbing, kayak-paddling, scuba-diving husband immediately began to fuss and fret.  The man who voluntarily leaped from airplanes, scrambled up greased poles in Panama, dashed across a piranha-filled river, and consumed raw rabbit during military winter survival training expressed great concern for my safety.  I immediately translated this concern to mean that he had serious doubts regarding my judgment and overall common sense.  Ridiculous!  I have a staunch history of sound decision-making.  The tone of our conversations escalated and some of us said words that will inevitably be thrown back in his face for the rest of his life.  Two of those words were "foolish" and "floppy."  Excuse me...?  Despite Brad's efforts to keep me safely grounded in an unrealistic world of pre-planning, research, and regimented physical therapy to build up the atrophied muscles in my left shoulder, this Bird of Paradise was destined to fly.

In response to our parasailing inquiries, Savannah and I were directed to a stretch of beach in search of a man named Israel.  A strong biblical name...a sure sign.  Israel happily accepted our sixty dollars each, handed us two sketchy-looking life jackets and pointed us to a jet ski manned by a twelve-year-old boy.  I waded into the ocean to gracefully board this flimsy vessel using what is now referred to in the local lingo as suplicando camello or the supplicating camel position. Soon, I was screaming over the crystal blue water, leaping from one five foot wave to the next to approach the waiting boat.  Savannah and I waved good-bye to our now-deaf driver who could once again breath as soon as my arms were wrestled from about his collapsed chest cavity.  Our boat immediately raced off, forcing my already-nervous stomach to drop forty fathoms.  I revisited Brad's now fateful words when I realized that the crew's English was limited to "How much do you weigh?"  After initially being offended (and embarrassed), I more-or-less answered and then, became alarmed as I realized I couldn't make the necessary metric conversion.  Bright side...if my stomach was any indication, I could soon deduct a few lbs from my original answer.

With a lot of enthusiastic gesturing, I was soon wrestled into a harness and hooked onto a steel arm.  Savannah and I took one look at the industrial-sized carabiners and searched our brains for the Spanish translation of "We appreciate your impressive equipment but we'd prefer you use locking carabiners as the man in our life won't even let our car keys dangle from a carabiner without a locking mechanism."  Before we were able to adequately voice these valid concerns, I felt myself suddenly lift off, as gently as a dandelion spore.  Wait!  Where was my safety lecture?  I haven't signed a disclaimer yet.  

Amy Mosiman, human kite, floated gracefully over the ocean, the occasional tug of the tether rope reminding me of my earth-bound connections.  Were it not for my sagging seat and the building muscle spasms threatening my upper upper thighs, I would have been utterly euphoric.  Savannah slightly diminished my excitement as she explained how I was the hypotenuse created by the boat to human triangle.  Truly, math is everywhere. 

We were reeled in, brought back to earth.  The boat ride brought me back to a belly-ache.  Nausea was my new companion and I feared our new friend would cause an uncomfortable riff in my relationship with my daughter.  I dug my toes into the worn, indoor/outdoor carpet, gritted my teeth, and kept an unwavering eye on the horizon. Finally,  I  flopped from the boat onto the waiting jet ski.  I noticed our driver was also gritting his teeth.  Maybe he was suffering from motion sickness as well.  Savannah and my stomach successfully made it to shore.  As our adventure came to its inevitable end, I thought with a great deal of satisfaction that, as usual, Brad was wrong.  Foolish and floppy?  Ridiculous!