9:39 p.m. in Philadelphia is unusually quiet for an airport. The connecting flight to Richmond, Virginia, was supposed to leave at 9:15. It’s delayed for a second time. Maybe it is always like this in January. It is more likely due to the impending, massive snowstorm devouring the east coast that threatens to keep us from going home.
I sit next to my boyfriend and father. We, along with about 10 other people, wonder if we will be home before the snow hits.
I can’t say we weren’t warned. My mother sharply chastised us for choosing to go to Las Vegas in January. What were we thinking?
At work, a concerned coworker, a woman named Hathaway with southern grace and a stern, motherly demeanor, told me, “You ain’t getting on that plane.”
However, I was determined and willing, in fact, to get on that plane.
This was not hubris. Instead, it was a “memento mori” philosophical approach to my life as well as exposure therapy.
I became functionally agoraphobic after a panic attack as a preteen. This means I was able to go to school, work, and do most everyday things, but often had issues on and off with traveling. I avoided trips involving planes. I would back out of things at the last minute out of extreme fear. I was a grown woman who hadn’t been on a plane since the 20th century. 1999 to be exact.
I overcame my agoraphobia and severe fear of flying two years ago by purchasing tickets to the last Alan Jackson concert tour that would be running. It was my last chance to see him one more time with my father again before he retired. I knew it was the real last time and wouldn’t be one of those fake retirements, either. He was diagnosed with Charcot-Marie-Tooth, a neurological disorder, deeply impacting his ability to perform.
“We could take the train to Boston,” I told my father.
He shook his head, and then lifted his arms up like a plane. “Nope. We’re flying.”
I crunched the numbers. A train ride was 13 hours. A plane ride was one. Illogical fears were suddenly interrupted by very clear logic.
I was familiar with the saying “memento mori,” or “remember you must die,” many times from historical research. Maybe something more along the lines of morbid curiosity. Something clicked when I read it was used by the Stoics to make the most of your life and not wait for life to happen for you. But I needed an extra edge. I determined the secret formula that my body and mind needed: a combination of urgency and a sense of despair at spending hundreds of dollars on a trip to prevent myself from backing out.
Two years later, I ensured I had truly gotten over it by purchasing tickets to the Eagles concert at the Sphere in Las Vegas, another one of those “once-in-a-lifetime” opportunities and my first time on the West Coast.
My therapy continued as we got stuck in the airport. There was nowhere else to go.
And what a privilege and a feat it was for me, I reminded myself, it was to be stuck in an airport in Philadelphia.
I wander off to find a snack or two. There are two men manning (ha) the snack kiosk closest to the gate. I pick string cheese and the locally made chia pudding with pineapple and coconut shavings. One man says something.
“What?” I ask, too enamored with the idea of string cheese to have paid attention closely.
He repeats himself. I thought he told me my glasses need to be cleaned.
“Oh, I agree. I haven’t had a chance to clean them and keep rubbing my eyes, so they’re all smudgy.”
“No, no,” says the other man, intervening for both of our sakes. “He said your glasses look great!”
“Oh!” I reply, feeling flattered and foolish at once.
What a privilege and a feat it was for me to feel embarrassed at the Philadelphia airport.
I return to my seat at the gate, nibbling on the cheese. I shovel chia pudding as I watch baggage handlers and other staff huddling and running around outside, looking for the plane that was promised an hour prior. Nervous murmuring between would-be passengers and flight staff commenced. Each sign of activity dulled every time we thought a plane was coming.
Finally, a plane slowly appears in the distance. We hear, “Alright, let’s get these folks home.”
We board the tiny plane. Mid-flight, the blinking lights on the wing illuminated the snowflakes dropping from the sky. A blanket of snow waits for us as we land, including a coat on the wing of the plane.
And yet, a victorious warmth surrounds me.
******
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