Inexplicable panic attacks set in, following Sherry's death. I'd heard of panic attacks, but never realized the paralyzing fear produced upon onset.
My first attack came by way of heart palpitations while driving up the 405 freeway during rush hour traffic. "Dear God..." I thought, "I'm having a heart attack!" I swung my car over to the shoulder and braced for unconsciousness. "This is it. My mother's going to get a phone call that her youngest son was found dead on the side of the road. Dear God..."
After several agonizing minutes, I pulled myself together and white-knuckled my way home. From then on, every excursion into the outside world incited an onset of hyperventilation and cold sweats, accompanied by the overwhelming sense of impending doom.
The coups-de-grâce arrived by way of a trip to the airport. At the time, my parents lived in Australia and had purchased a round-trip ticket for me to visit. I arrived at LAX with barely enough time to make my flight, at which point I sat in the parking lot for 20 minutes trying to gain the courage to get out of my car. I had traveled by air hundreds of times in my life, all over the world. I'd even been to Australia before! Never once had the smallest amount of apprehension ever entered the equation. For some reason, I convinced myself this flight would be the death of me. I gripped the steering wheel, frozen. The flight left without me.
The panic attacks eventually faded, but for some reason the fear of flying held fast. Only recently have I overcome my apprehension of air travel.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't afraid of flying, I just wasn't comfortable with it. Blasting through the atmosphere in an aluminum tube, topping 600 mph at 35,000 feet, defies the natural order of things. Do you know why they pressurize the cabin? Because there's not enough oxygen to support human life at that altitude! Not to mention, the -70 degrees just outside your window. The only thing standing between you and certain death is 12 inches of aluminum siding. If you think about it, it's a bit unsettling.
It kills me when people say, “You have a better chance of dying in a car accident than in a plane crash.” Apples and oranges, man! Of course we have a better chance of dying in a car crash – we’re always in cars and rarely in planes. That increases the odds a bit! That’s like dismissing galeophobia (fear of sharks) by saying, “you have a better chance of being bitten by a dog than a shark.” Well... duh! The fact that we share terra-firma with canines increases the odds. However, it does NOT make swimming in the ocean any less perilous! The point is this: If we traveled as often in planes as we did in cars, the ratio of fatalities would be far more balanced.
My first attack came by way of heart palpitations while driving up the 405 freeway during rush hour traffic. "Dear God..." I thought, "I'm having a heart attack!" I swung my car over to the shoulder and braced for unconsciousness. "This is it. My mother's going to get a phone call that her youngest son was found dead on the side of the road. Dear God..."
After several agonizing minutes, I pulled myself together and white-knuckled my way home. From then on, every excursion into the outside world incited an onset of hyperventilation and cold sweats, accompanied by the overwhelming sense of impending doom.
The coups-de-grâce arrived by way of a trip to the airport. At the time, my parents lived in Australia and had purchased a round-trip ticket for me to visit. I arrived at LAX with barely enough time to make my flight, at which point I sat in the parking lot for 20 minutes trying to gain the courage to get out of my car. I had traveled by air hundreds of times in my life, all over the world. I'd even been to Australia before! Never once had the smallest amount of apprehension ever entered the equation. For some reason, I convinced myself this flight would be the death of me. I gripped the steering wheel, frozen. The flight left without me.
The panic attacks eventually faded, but for some reason the fear of flying held fast. Only recently have I overcome my apprehension of air travel.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't afraid of flying, I just wasn't comfortable with it. Blasting through the atmosphere in an aluminum tube, topping 600 mph at 35,000 feet, defies the natural order of things. Do you know why they pressurize the cabin? Because there's not enough oxygen to support human life at that altitude! Not to mention, the -70 degrees just outside your window. The only thing standing between you and certain death is 12 inches of aluminum siding. If you think about it, it's a bit unsettling.
It kills me when people say, “You have a better chance of dying in a car accident than in a plane crash.” Apples and oranges, man! Of course we have a better chance of dying in a car crash – we’re always in cars and rarely in planes. That increases the odds a bit! That’s like dismissing galeophobia (fear of sharks) by saying, “you have a better chance of being bitten by a dog than a shark.” Well... duh! The fact that we share terra-firma with canines increases the odds. However, it does NOT make swimming in the ocean any less perilous! The point is this: If we traveled as often in planes as we did in cars, the ratio of fatalities would be far more balanced.
All of that aside, I’d rather die ten times in a car accident than once in a plane crash. First off, in a car crash, you’re probably going to die of some sort of head trauma. A little blood from the ears and nose but not very messy.
Second, there’s a good chance you’re not going to see it coming in a car. One moment, you’re driving along, listening to Manilow’s Greatest Hits, the next thing you know - BOOM! - you’re floating above your body, headed for a white light.
Much more preferable to the alternative: falling from 6 miles up and hitting the ground like a lawn dart. You’re cruising along at altitude and suddenly the wing freezes over - WHOOSH! The aircraft inverts into what you instinctively know to be an uncorrectable pitch. Now you have approximately 3 minutes of free-fall to ponder how it all will end. I'm sorry, that's about 2 minutes and 59 seconds longer than I'd care to think about my inevitable demise. And don’t even get me started on the ‘splatter effect.' Total dismemberment and carnage. Nothing to bury. Thanks, I’ll drive.
Having said all that, I'd take 1000 plane crashes over a single cancerous mortality. Sherry's excruciating exit from this mortal coil shall forever be burned in my memory. I wouldn't wish such an end on my worst enemy.
But I morbidly digress...
Where were we? Oh yes, panic attacks!
My fast-track to self annihilation, via booze, grew steadily more apparent. I now understand my panic attacks stemmed from the knowledge that my behaviors would eventually catch up to me, resulting in an early and ominous death. I was scared.
It took me another 6 months to gain the courage to walk into the rooms of recovery. Sherry's death sponsored the first step in that direction.
Years later, someone acknowledged me as their Eskimo. By far, one of the greatest gifts I ever received in recovery.
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