For as long as I can remember I have battled, no succumbed, to the nauseating lurch of motion sickness. My body can transform a leisurely ferry ride into a three-hour stomach ache. It can warp a fun road trip into a bilious nightmare, and even the slight jolt of an ascending elevator can trigger my gag reflex. I’ve swallowed Dramamine, chewed on ginger, worn ridiculous bracelets, and stared at the horizon far too many times than I can count. I once spent the entire 30-minute flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles vomiting in the airplane bathroom. The patient flight attendant ushered me back to my seat where I shook violently next to an attractive undergrad in a crew neck sweater.
“It’s 78 degrees and sunny in Los Angeles,” the pilot crooned over the loudspeaker during our descent. “I’d like to thank all of you for flying Southwest,” he said as I burped my breakfast into my armpit.
I can proudly announce that after 26 years my motion sickness is improving, and I can finally share with you, dear reader, the amazing cure. Doctors hate her!
Go Flying With Your Pilot Partner
My boyfriend of two years is chasing a lifetime dream; he’s currently completing his commercial pilot license. When he isn’t riding his bike or braising pork chops, you can find him at a small Skypark just 25 minutes outside of Baltimore. The air is sweet and clean out there, and as I drag my Subaru through the bumpy gravel driveway, a parade of feral cats scatter through the woods.
He is the youngest member by about 40 years. One member is a Navy veteran; one fought in the second world war, one is a world-renowned oncologist. Some people buy Corvettes when they experience their mid-life crisis, some people by Harley Davidsons, and some people buy airplanes. They power up their Beechcraft Bonanza, mumble into a headset, and take off across the wide and distant valley to eat a cheeseburger at an airport in the next state over. For one reason or another, my boyfriend has discovered that he can achieve his flight hours at a reasonable rate at this Skypark, and it’s become a large part of his life.
I had my reservations about flying with him, especially after the incident I described above. But it had been some years since I expectorated during a flight and my last few plane rides had been relatively nausea free. I was excited about the idea of aeronautical travel, and we set off for a fun day of adventure. I just wasn’t expecting the airplane to be so small.
If you’ve ever flown in a Cessna 172, you understand that it’s kind of like sitting in Chitty Bang Bang except Dick Van Dyke isn’t singing to you. I climb in, and my boyfriend slams the door, and it makes the same sound of my parent’s rusty 1991 suburban.
“How old is this thing?” I ask.
“I think the early sixties,” he said.
I should have been making mental notes of his routine leading up to the flight. I should have paid attention to the professional phrases he said into his headset, to the precise clicking of modules, to the expert concentration he displayed during takeoff. But instead my fingernails were digging into the fabric of my seat, and my breathing became short and scarce. I managed to take one picture for the gram (pictured above) before allowing my phone to fall to the floor.
“Are you okay?” he asked, placing his hand on my knee.
“Yes, I just can’t feel my arms.”
He licked his lips, and his eyes scanned the alien mechanisms.
“Let’s turn around. We don’t have to go to the beach today; it’s windier than I thought.”
“Okay,” I said.
I felt like Charlie in the glass elevator, hopelessly floating through an endless sky… contemplating the fragility of my existence. That’s how that movie ends, right?
“Just breathe,” my boyfriend said. “Take my hand.”
He mumbled something into his headset, and I felt the warm, midday sun on my face as he slowly turned the flying Mini Cooper around. I looked down at the Chesapeake Bay, the water rippling with the wind, the trees swaying politely, and that’s when I felt the familiar sensation rumble in my esophagus.
I reached for the plastic envelope by my feet, licked my fingers, rubbed the creasing apart, and regurgitated a bellyful of huevos rancheros into the bag. Please note that my particular meal choice was devoured hours before we planned to fly that day.
My pilot beau was calm and collected. He gave me an old napkin that he found in his pocket, and he tried to wipe the goo that ran down the side of my cheek.
“I’m so sorry I said,” and then I hurled again.
“Just hold on we’re almost there, it’s going to be a little bumpy.”
I should note that I was his first non-pilot passenger. After moving across the East Coast, going back to school, and working two jobs to save money, my boyfriend was one step closer to achieving a childhood dream… and I was there to vomit all over it.
I felt horrible, physically horrible because I was covered in puke and my gullet was still wobbling, but mostly because I had ruined an experience that was supposed to be wonderful. I didn’t even get one selfie out of the deal… not one mid-air cheek kiss in Valencia filter.
Refer to an Inspirational Sports Poster
It’s been nearly six months since our romantic outing in the sky, and lately, I’ve found myself wanting to try it all again. It started as a thought I had in the shower while washing my hair: Next time I’ll eat nothing but toast, just one piece of toast, and we’ll check the weather ahead of time to ensure that the wind patterns are mild.
But the thought process continued at work: I’d rather not vomit in an airplane with my boyfriend again.
And then later on while jogging with the other treadmill hamsters at the local YMCA: Am I allowing my intense, uncomfortable fear of motion sickness stop me from traveling, exploring, etc.? IS MY FEAR OF STRIKING OUT KEEPING ME FROM PLAYING THE GAME?!?!
My sedentary thought processes are much different than my active ones, and once my heart rate settled, I reminded myself of the persistent, horrific, humiliating side effects of motion sickness. Yes, I thought to myself, it makes sense that I avoid certain things. I have an adequate reason to avoid theme parks. I know for a fact that swinging doesn’t bring me joy. I would much rather climb fifteen flights of stairs than ride thirty seconds in an elevator. But damn it all to hell if I’m going to let my weakness keep me from traveling the world with the person that I love (or even by myself).
Life is unfair, and the world rotates easier for some. Sally is better at numbers, George is better at art, and Sidney can sleep soundly on an airplane even if he sits in the middle seat. There are the Pippin and Merry Tooks of the world, and then there are the Samwise Gamgees. It might take one longer to pack than the other, but they will all arrive at their destination just the same.
Will she take her second trip in the Cessna? Or will she bail and stay in bed? Tune in to find out! ! !
Non Epiphany 