Just in case

I have my ID out and ready with my boarding pass. I have it down to a system - how many little plastic bins I need, when to take off my shoes to minimize sock-to-dirty-tile time, what order to empty my pockets and take off my belt, my watch, sunglasses. Frankly, I'm glad for the distraction. I always have a book or magazine to pass the few minutes between arrival at the gate and when I can board, because I try to cut it close. I've only missed two flights in my life. One was this morning.

But this time, I'm ready. I even had a nap and a shower to make up for the hectic morning. This trip is going to be great. When they start pre-boarding, I go to refill the water bottle that I finished off at security and use the bathroom so I don't have to go while we're in the air. I shuffle onto the plane with a few dozen other passengers. Tossing my duffel bag into the overhead bin, I slide into my row. I check out the air flow above me and turn the knob quickly, making sure I can find and adjust it without looking. Water bottle and magazine go in the seat pocket; airsick bag is located and put right in front, just in case. I fish out my ipod and make sure it's hidden from flight attendants' prying eyes but easily accessible. Maybe it's the distraction, maybe it's the way the sound waves hit my inner ear, but listening to music nearly always helps, if just a little.

I'm absorbed in my magazine for the rest of boarding so I don't notice until we take off that my row is empty. The row ahead of me is empty also. I sneak a look across the aisle to my left and see a couple about my parents' age, chatting. I can't make out what they're saying over the roar of takeoff. A small wave rolls over my head and I turn my eyes straight ahead, and close them. I breathe deeply and try to focus.

I focus on anything - usually breathing and relaxing, but if things get challenging, I'll try my tricks of doing long division or name the state capitals in alphabetical order. As soon as we tip back to go airborne, I think the same thing I think every single time, a gentle self-scolding: What am I doing here? Don't I remember all of the awful flights I've been on in the past? Don't I remember that last awful flight? My heart races and I wonder how bad this one will be. Most of this flight to Austin is very smooth, but I realize I'm used to going east and west, not north and south. Maybe the wind patterns will be really different? My palms are getting sweaty. Breathe. It's too bad there's no one to talk to. I travel with someone I know so rarely but sometimes light chit chat with a stranger is distracting in a good way.

When we level out, I stare at the seat back in front of me and eye my magazine cautiously. Do I dare try to read? Often it's tempting fate, but I'm already bored. The plane lurches and my eyes widen. We smooth out and I remember to breathe again, slumping down a bit in my chair. I put on my ipod and load up a playlist of gentle music - a plane list. I decide to try sleeping for a bit, even though I'd already had a nap that day.

The plane shakes a bit and wakes me a little while later. Then a bigger shaking makes my eyes fly wide open. I'm dizzy, the way you get when you spin around a bunch or someone pushes you on the tire swing for too long. There is such a short lead time between that and losing my lunch that I don't understand how people find that feeling pleasurable at all, why they ride tire swings and roller coasters and get drunk. My heart is racing again as the threat looms. I use the hair tie on my wrist to pull my hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck, just in case. I can feel my pulse everywhere - in my temples, in my chest, in my arms. My arms are turning to jelly and I try to swallow.

The plane jerks downward, what feels like about a ten-foot drop, though at that height who knows how far it actually was. I get a second or two of lead time and fumble for the airsick bag, sticking just my mouth inside, just in time. Only the very practiced know just how to keep their nose outside the bag with scary accuracy; the acid, rotting smell only makes it worse. After a few heaves, there's nothing left in my stomach (again, carefully planned). Normally this is when it stops. I can hear the pilot over my retches explaining what wind shear is - sounds worse than your average turbulence, which also explains why I can't stop. I lean my forehead against the seat in front of me just to take some of the burden off my neck and help hold my head a bit still, keeping the bag firmly planted to my face. Eventually the plane evens out and my stomach settles.

I take a deep breath and lean back. Honestly, I feel better. A flight attendant comes by to offer me some napkins and I ask for a new bag too, just in case. I wipe my mouth and take a small mouthful of water, mostly to rinse my mouth. I have my toothbrush and toothpaste in my carryon for exactly this reason and once I get off the plane and sit still for a bit, my first stop will be the bathroom. I can't wait.

I hear the announcement for the initial descent and force myself to take a deep breath. The landing is as smooth as they get, but I've got one eye out the window, praying for a quick landing. I'm sweating, so I reach up to turn on the air. A minute later, I snap it off; I'm freezing. We bump down and my hips press against the seatbelt as the brakes are applied to calm this roaring cheetah of a machine to the speed of the average housecat, fitting in with the other grounded vehicles. I always remember that this was one of my least favorite parts when I was little, after all the trauma of takeoff, turbulence, and then the grand finale of landing, when I would cry and beg my parents to make the plane stop. I couldn't understand why, now that we were on the ground, we had to keep moving at all. I just wanted it to stop. They would just smooth my hair and murmur soothingly to me, which was all they could do. But now I'm a grownup and there's no one to cry to. The rushing of braking has dulled any other noises and the plane seems almost quiet for a moment in the white roar.

We finally come to a full stop and the flights flash on. Signs unlight with a bing, seatbelts unclick, phones chime to life. Around me, life springs forward, eager to catch a connection, meet their family, get checked into the hotel, move on. I sit. My legs are jelly.

As they leave their row, the couple seated across the aisle pauses. The woman asks if I'm all right and I nod with a weak smile. She says, "Our daughter is about your age. We had our eye on you. Just in case. Looked like you were having a rough time." I thank her and wonder vaguely if she was the one who called the flight attendant for me.

Once the rest of the passengers have left, I pack up my water bottle, magazine and ipod and drag myself out of my seat. I grab my duffel bag from the bin above me, retie my hair and make my way off the plane. I thank the staff, especially the flight attendant who helped me. I leave the new airsick bag for the next person. Just in case.