Man, that flight was SICK!

And how.

Travel from Armenia to Ft. Lauderdale.  No prob. Got to LA, spent the night with Hector’s family.  No problem.

The next day, catch the flight to Portland, and run to the gate to make my last flight, to Anchorage.  No problem.

The last leg of travel; I’m sitting there, 25D, reading and ready for take off.  The engines gear up, the first few inches down the run way, and damn.

My stomach seizes, “that was a weird feeling.”  It hurt, then passed.  But I wasn’t feeling so good.

And sure enough, within the hour:

The chicken sandwich I bought from Starbucks at the Orange County airport? Seems the likely culprit.  And oh, this is gonna be a long flight…

ThankFULLY the seat next to me wasn’t taken.  Enough space for me to imagine being comfortable.  Slightly dizzy and dozing, it wasn’t long before:

‘The chicken sandwich, the damn chicken sandwich!!“

Most of the flight I spent in the bathroom, at times staring at myself in mirror, the ways I look and how I’ve changed.  I do this check-in everytime I go back home, home being the marker that shows how I’m different and changed, and frustratingly, still the same.

Of course, these thoughts sandwiched inbetween the nausea and a gripping disorientation served to feed my insecurities and no matter how hard I try to travel without them, make their way through security.  They are definitely more than three ounces, and a lot more of a threat than that nail clipper I forgot was in my backpack.

Just a minute:

Barely made it that time.

The last round of metaphorical deliverance I found myself in was timed perfectly with the final moments of being able to move about the cabin before landing.  One last look in the mirror – I have my hoody to hide in and a positive “I can get off the plane all by myself” attitude.

I’m back in my seat, the flight attendants taking the last of my cups of ginger ale (they were very sweet, the sodas and the flight attendants).  I buckle in and quite suddenly a tsunami of turbulence hits.

I started praying; it was that kind of flight and that kind of turbulence where prayer seemed the most tangible thing to hold onto.  The last stewardess, getting those seats and trays into their upright positions, was knocked to floor.

So I’m praying for a safe landing.  She’s probably praying too, whilst scrambling into a nearby empty passenger seat and buckling up.

Phew.

We land.

And then the cabin fills with smoke.  The stewardesses are up…

…fire extinguishers in hand. And ‘sniff, sniff – it doesn’t smell like smoke.’

They can’t find the source of the smoke. And it doesn’t take long for passengers to remark that it doesn’t smell like smoke from something burning.  There is a wave of relief (not complete, but some is better than none, right?) that permeates the cabin, like smoke does, I guess.

I’m feeling safe enough that we’ll make it to the gate; we’re on the ground, right?

The captain gets on the intercom, “Folks, not to worry, that isn’t smoke from a fire.  They just de-iced the runway, and sometimes this happens right after de-icing.  We’re sorry about the alarm, but not to worry.  It’s only urea.“

Wow.  Ok.

Pee.  Now I’m breathing pee.

Josh met me, dragged me and the bags home to my Dad’s place.  Dad took good care of me the next day, as did my brother and sister when they dropped by.  I was well stocked with chicken soup and fruit.

That darn chicken sandwich, right? Well, no.  Hector, funnily (?) enough, got sick with the same symptoms within a few hours of myself.  Apart for over 24 hours and we both wind up sick in bed (although my bed was 25D) at the same time.  Even before I knew this bit of info, I’d wondered if this flight signaled things to come.

Wouldn’t you? I hope so.  I hold little belief in coincidence in this dream-life we all take part in.  And though, right now, I may not understand absolutely and scientifically, my question of what this trip home is has started off with an (upside-down) exclamation point – I guess life’s grammar is multi-lingual.

I left 25D wondering what was in store for my time here, and with secret hopes that really this is just beginning of purging any old, poisonous matters in my being, and with new space I can create the me I’ve been searching for.

Surprise, Dad!  I brought you fresh picked and roasted coffee from Colombia, and, a flu bug.

Then it was my turn to take care of him for a day or two.