Rising Higher

Once, an Australian friend was staying with us on his sojourn around the world.  Me, prone to seeing the greener grass, told our visitor how much I longed to go back to live in Australia where I had grown up.  “Why,” he said.  “Look at that view!  It’s like the Alps.”  All these years later, my husband and I still marvel at his comparison of our Mount Washington view to the Alps. 

 These days, when it’s cold outside, I dim the lights in the living room until it’s a sky with stars.  Sitting in the rocking chair, I look out.  It’s strange to be up so high.  The view extends into a ribbon of freeways, mountains, trees, landing lights, streets, houses, stores, cloud formations, sunsets and birds flying in shifting patterns.  Every room has a unique perspective.  It’s all about being up high.  Watching the world from a certain vantage point that gives you distance, perspective, protection. 

 I love our house on the hill.   But it wasn’t always this way. 

When I first arrived in Los Angeles, I was scared of heights. I would brace myself for meetings in high-rise office buildings (Yes, they have them in LA!).  Elevators went from Floor 14 to 55, completely missing the other floors.  Why?  Where did they go?  What would happen if you got stuck?  The more I tried not to, the more I focused on getting stuck.  During the meeting, usually in a long room with floor length windows to take advantage of the view, I would sit with my back to the window, looking like the noble colleague rather than the panicked coward that I was.  All I could focus on was the building collapsing and the pounding of my heart.  Like so many new immigrants, I was caught off balance in the City of Earthquakes.

In 1982, after a visit with my family in Israel, I got stuck in the Tel Aviv airport while the war with Lebanon raged on.  We were delayed for six hours.  I was not sure if I would ever see my boyfriend (now husband) again.  I landed safely, but would not get back in a plane—for ten years.  This is hard for a person expected to fly for work, and with immediate family in Israel and Australia.  Not to mention aunts, uncles and cousins in New York and Florida.  Nevertheless, I could have gone on like that for years more, except that my fear spread.  First to elevators—and then freeways.  My first full-blown panic attack happened on the 101 Freeway heading towards Glendale as it merged into the 134 East and the 2 North. 

Of course the freeway is there.  Just keep the car pointed ahead.  Keep going keep going keep going.  Not too fast, not too slow.  Steady, steady.  But where is the road?  It’s there, there, there.  No, it’s disappeared.  Vanished.  Shall I pull over on the side?  But where is the side?  Will other cars ram into me and crush me to death on the side that I can’t see? 

Clutching the steering wheel with hands clammy with fear, I somehow managed to stay the course.  Many of you might be saying what’s the big deal?  This is not real.  Not compared to Veterans experiencing Post Traumatic Stress, or people being followed by maniac killers.  But it was the same level of fear as if I were being pursued by a maniac—except the maniac was inside my head. 

And then one day, I was sitting on the couch at home, on a hill you must remember, and dozed off.  I was startled awake. The room was shaking. Earthquake!  Would the house roll down the hill crushing me, my husband and our two pooches? 

But no, it was just my mind playing tricks on me. 

I have a Master’s Degree in Social Work.  This is not to brag, but rather to inform you that I was well aware that this kind of fear, panic disorder, was listed in the DSM Diagnostic Codes for Mental Disorders.  In extreme cases it could even lead to agoraphobia, i.e. being unable to leave one’s home --EVER.  But here I was, even afraid in my own home.  

“People with panic disorder have feelings of terror that strike suddenly and repeatedly with no warning. They can’t predict when an attack will occur, and many develop intense anxiety between episodes, worrying when and where the next one will strike. In between times there is a persistent, lingering worry that another attack could come any minute. When a panic attack strikes, most likely your heart pounds and you may feel sweaty, weak, faint, or dizzy. Your hands may tingle or feel numb, and you might feel flushed or chilled. You may have chest pain or smothering sensations, a sense of unreality, or fear of impending doom or loss of control. You may genuinely believe you’re having a heart attack or stroke, losing your mind, or on the verge of death.”  DSM Diagnostic Code. 

It was the realization that I had reached the depths of fear that finally drove me to search for a Fear of Flying Course.  Avoiding flying is not too hard but being panicked in an elevator, and then in one’s own home, well that is very, very hard.  I figured if I could tackle the fear of flying, I could reverse the downward trajectory of my life. 

Once I make up my mind, I take action quickly.  Just ask my husband.  (That is another whole blog.)  Suffice it to say, I read extensively, researched what was available, and finally found a Fear of Flying class that was given by a creditable airline carrier that no longer exists.  (So much for credibility.)  It offered a six weeks Fear of Flying course led by a licensed clinical social worker who used a combination of relaxation and behavior modification techniques. 

Twenty-five of us met in an office building near LAX.  I was amazed that there were that many people who feared flying.  Though humiliated to be there in the first place, I felt less weird.  “To graduate,” the short, blond-haired, no-nonsense social worker told us, “you must attend every session, the last of which will end in an actual flight.  But don’t worry.  I will give you the tools you need to be successful.  But then, you must practice, practice, practice.” 

We introduced ourselves and shared what had brought us there.  I kept mine deliberately vague: scared of flying and not having flown for 10 years.  Most shared more.  A former pilot told us that he had flown in the air force in Vietnam, but not since his tour of duty was over.  Now he could not even get into an elevator, let alone a plane.  He was a large man with broad shoulders and intense blue eyes that didn’t shy away when he spoke to you.  I was fascinated.  How could an air force pilot have been reduced to such a panicked state?  Clearly, he had suffered real trauma.  Maybe he’d dropped bombs on innocent women and children.  Maybe he’d watched his comrades being blown up.  What excuse did I have?

The sessions involved learning about Relaxation Techniques, coupled with lessons on aerodynamics.  Stopping negative thoughts about flying and replacing them with positive ones, with a snap of a rubber band worn around our wrists, was also key.  Thereafter, if I started thinking about the plane doors sealing me in, or the plane bursting into flames and crashing, I would snap the rubber band (which I wore day and night).  I would chant one of the following: “You are working so hard and you will conquer this fear.  You will be able to visit beloved family in Israel and Australia.  You will love this flight.  The pilot is in charge and knows what he is doing.  The plane will not crash.  I can control my fear.”  So many positive thoughts to choose from!  That in itself was a revelation.  Also, that the mind can only hold one thought at time, (that’s why multi-tasking is so ineffective) so if you can fill your mind with a positive one, you are home free. 

We slowly got closer and closer to our object of terror—the plane.  For the first two weeks, we studied aerodynamics in the nondescript hotel near the airport: how the plane stayed up, what a pilot actually did, and the role of the traffic controllers.  The first twenty minutes of each session was devoted to the relaxation exercise that we were also encouraged to practice every day.  We were each given a tape of the exercise with the social worker’s voice walking us through our various body parts.  Tense.  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.  Relax.  And keep snapping that rubber band.  (I practiced it three times a day.  I would beat this thing!) 

Week three—now we were 20.  We moved to LAX and were invited up to the control tower.  The air traffic controllers showed us how everything worked.  They seemed very professional, competent and focused.  This was supposed to give us all confidence.  But I kept wondering why they were talking to a demented class instead of concentrating on those planes in the sky.  We ended with a badly needed relaxation exercise.

Week four—now we were 18—sat in an actual plane. No movement at all.  Just the social worker guiding us through the relaxation tape.

Week five—now there were 15—jetted down the runway.  But first, relaxation.  And after, more relaxation.

Week six—now there were 12—the plane taxied, took off and landed without actually going anywhere.  Much more relaxation involved.

I knew from past experience that hard work led to good grades, graduation, jobs, and promotions.  My hard work would pay off this time, too.  I was sure of it.

I had read everything I could get my hands on about phobias, fear of flying and being brave.  Bravery, I learned, has nothing to do with how scared you are, but how you keep going despite that fear.  What’s the big deal about climbing mountains if you’re not scared of heights?  Or flying, if you’re not afraid to fly? This made me feel better.

Week seven—now there were 10—was “Graduation Day.”  I boarded the plane with my nine remaining compatriots.  We all strapped ourselves in, listening intently to our social worker/guide.  “You’ve all worked so hard for this.  Now it’s time to enjoy.  Once the plane has stabilized, you may walk around the plane.  We have refreshments in the back.  Remember.  This is Graduation, so have fun.”

The pilot from Vietnam sat next to me.  We both put on our headsets and began listening to our respective tapes.  The plane taxied.  He grabbed my hand.  He must be terrified, I thought as I squeezed back.   The plane raced down the runway.  Suddenly, my heart started racing.  Faster and faster.  I retrieved my sweating hand and stretched both arms into the relaxation position.  I pushed the start button for the relaxation tape. It hadn’t worked so far.  Maybe if I started it again. Tense.  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.  Relax.  Start from the top of your head and work down to your toes.  Once your body is completely relaxed, imagine a beautiful place.  I tried to see Lake Shrine on Sunset Boulevard.  I tried to remember the swans floating in the lake.  I squeezed my eyes tighter to remember the flowers and trees shimmering in the afternoon sun.  I imagined sitting on the tiled bench, palms turned up in supplication.  Still my heart pounded, my hands were sweaty and my entire body trembled.

It was very still on the plane as everyone listened intently to his/her relaxation tapes. 

Lift off. 

Could my heart burst?  Could it break?  Could I die right here before the plane stabilized? 

I snapped the rubber band around my wrist. I have practiced for this.  I can lower my level of fear.  I can replace negative thoughts with positive ones and fill up my mind.  The pilot is well trained.  He knows what he’s doing.  I know how to handle my fear.  I have been in training for seven weeks.  I can do this.

The plane stabilized, but not my heart.  The seatbelt sign pinged off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an amazing thing.  The Vietnam pilot took off his headset and unstrapped his seatbelt.  He motioned for me to come with him.  I shook my head vehemently. He got up, nevertheless, and mingled with the other passengers.  All of them had been doing the same thing.  Unstrapping, mingling. 

I closed my eyes and rewound the tape again.  My heart was beating way too fast.  I gripped the armrests to stop trembling.  Despite my endless practice, all I could think about was crashing, burning, dying.  Why were all these other people wandering, willy nilly, all over the plane?  Why were they spreading cheese on their crackers and sipping champagne?  How could they slap one other’s backs and give one another the high five?  Why were they laughing and talking and stumbling all over the plane?  Some of them, I noticed, were quite large.  Their combined motion and weight could destabilize the plane.  Why weren’t they sitting quietly, like I was?  They needed to stop rocking the plane!

Despite my assumption that my situation was so much less dire than these other demented people, here I was, the only one still strapped in and glued to my relaxation tape. 

During the descent, the others, a little inebriated, returned to their respective seats and strapped in.  They looked happy.  They looked relaxed.

By the time the plane landed at LAX, I had played my relaxation tape three times, back to back.  I was still shaking, and in all honesty, fighting back tears of disappointment.  I was stunned at the implications of this.  Why had all my hard work not added up to “letting go” and being brave? 

Once we landed and went into the VIP lounge, a row of pilots were lined up, ready to shake the hands of the ten brave survivors.  Except for one of them.  Me.  The fraud.  The coward.  The failed survivor.  The fallen runner.  Nevertheless, each of us received a certificate that proclaimed: Congratulations!  You are now a Fearless Flyer. 

I shook the pilots’ hands, still that seven-year-old in a running race in Florida.  The little girl in front of me, who was faster than I was, slipped and fell right before the finish line, and so I, second in place, won.  I was given a gorgeous finger painting set that for years felt fraudulent to me, although it didn’t stop me from squirting out those vibrant colors onto the white paper and smearing it into beautiful patterns.  She should have won, I told myself (that little girl whose name I don’t even remember, and if you are reading this I am so, so sorry) because she was faster.  “Not so,” my husband says.  “You legitimately won.  She fell.  You didn’t.  Therefore, you were the best in that race.” 

But clearly, I was not the best in the Fear of Flying race.

A month after graduation, I flew one way to Phoenix, Arizona.  A one-hour flight from Los Angeles.  My husband had already driven to Phoenix for a computer conference. He would drive me back.  So all I had to do was take the sixty minute flight, unprotected by my classmates and social worker guide.  On my own.  I was terrified.  “Keep flying,” the social worker/guide had said.  “Don’t stop.  The more you fly, the better you’ll become.”

It was a good thing that my husband wasn’t on that flight.  I was braver, because I had to pretend to be normal.  I sat next to a businessman in a grey suit and red tie.  I nodded to him before I strapped myself in and put on my relaxation tape.  During take-off, he loosened his tie, stretched his legs, and started to read his law book, which he only closed after the plane had skidded dangerously close to crashing.  Although, clearly, he did not realize it.  He had no idea what had led me to this place.  He could not hear the thundering of my heart.  He knew nothing of the courage it took.  I played the tape 3 times before we landed.

I staggered onto the tarmac, shaking all over.  I felt dizzy.  I wanted to drop on all fours and kiss the tarmac.

 
The next flight, a year later, was to Melbourne, Australia.  Seventeen hours from L.A.  It was to be a sibling reunion.  We hadn’t all been in the same country for a couple of decades. Two sisters in Israel, two brothers in Melbourne, and moi in Los Angeles. 

But I was not going. 

My one hour flight to Phoenix had been traumatic enough.  Besides, I had been the worst in the Fear of Flying Class.  Seventeen hours was out of the question.

My baby sister wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.  “You have to do this,” she said.  “It’s important for us to be together.  I want to see you.  We all do.”  She’d served in the Israeli army and was fearless.  She couldn’t understand what it would take for me.  But that was also an incentive because she assumed It Could Be Done.  I loved her and my other siblings so much.  Why else had I taken this class?  Keep flying.  Don’t stop. So, I flew. 

I survived the seventeen hour flight to Melbourne and back.  That has to count for many, many, many domestic flights even though I barely unstrapped the seatbelt during the entire flight, except to go to the bathroom when the plane seemed very stabilized.  I couldn’t eat anything.  I couldn’t sleep. 

But I made it.  Was I cured?  Was I normal in the fear department?  No.  Had I made progress?  Definitely. 

I still have challenges when I fly.  But I have learned how to make it better.  I leave myself plenty of time to get to the airport, travel light, and relax before the flight.  I bring my relaxation tape (now loaded onto my IPod that also has over 10,000 songs thanks to my wonderful brother), plenty of reading material (God Bless Kindle!), mindless magazines (thank you ‘People”) and a bottle of Zanax, thanks to my doctor and the entire blessed pharmaceutical industry. 

What does this extreme fear come down to?  Is it a fear of dying?  Why should I be so much more afraid of that than normal people?  Why do I cling so hard to control?  Is it because my entire childhood felt so terrifyingly out-of-control to me?  A mother who was prodigiously unpredictable?  A father whose finances got the family into constant trouble with many creditors.  Was I more sensitive and shy than normal child and so the constant moving towns, states and countries—and turning up in new schools was more traumatic?    Maybe having so little control during my first 18 years with a tumultuous family whose shifting patterns I could not fathom, led me to become super organized and prepared.  Maybe it was how I survived.

Or is it genetic?  Did I somehow inherit ‘fearful’ genes that needed to be tricked into acting differently?

And if it is the ultimate fear of letting go—how will I approach my own death?  Those who work in hospice, report that most people are afraid and fight at the end.  That fighting spirit, after all, is what keeps us alive in the face of tremendous upsets and challenges.  Perhaps those with the strongest wills live the longest, or at least, take the longest time to ‘let go.’   Some believe that once one has made peace with one’s life, one can ‘let go’ peacefully and completely.  Knowing, for example, that your husband will survive when you are gone, your children will be okay, or your research for a cancer cure will go on despite your demise.  That the world will go on without you and be fine. 

Now, all these years later, I’ve figured out a few things.  First of all, there were 25 people in the first Fear of Flying session.  Only 10 finished—and I was among them.  I didn’t give up.  I kept flying in the face of tremendous fear.  That makes me brave.  Terribly, terribly flawed but brave.  Also, sometimes the harder you try to be perfect, the worse it can be.  Letting go means not clutching the armrests.  It means not trying to control every detail.  It means that sometimes, the truth is, you have no control.  You have to trust in the pilot, your staff, your husband, the world.  And maybe things will go wrong.  Maybe you will be caught in an earthquake, a campus shooting, the heart attack of a loved one, or your own.  And then, what?  You needn’t stay in the place of extreme fear.  You can’t control much, but you can control your own fear.  Maybe not the circumstances surrounding that fear but you can rise above it.  Even if the plane crashes, you can still control how you approach your own demise.  You can die hysterical—or calm.  You can even help save a few people and die a hero. 

I’m still working on that. 

 

 

 

 

On Being a Temporary Gimp

Upon returning to work after a lovely two week vacation, I slipped in the hallway on my fashionable short boots and fell in front of a line of registering students. A faculty member helped me to my feet, or rather foot, because my right ankle was sore and bruised and soon swelled, purplish and scary looking.  My husband took me to the emergency clinic whereupon the verdict was delivered:  a fractured ankle.  I have now been home for 3 weeks.  Thus begins my 2014.

Fracturing one’s ankle comes with a host of learning opportunities.  For example, bending down to pick up a dropped object is a complex act, never again to be taken for granted.  Using crutches involves great arm strength which one builds up to painfully.  And forget trying to carry anything with crutches; therefore pockets become your best friend.  Finding a skirt online with two pockets becomes a small miracle.  Along with wrap-around pants, make-up and facial cleanser.  In fact, on-line shopping is elevated to new heights:  it is freedom, it is fun.  One also appreciates a loving partner even more, especially the kind who has the mind of an inventor/engineer/architect.  This kind ties ice around one’s broken foot with pillowcases and sashes with just the right pressure.  This kind helps to re-configure the furniture so that one doesn’t trip, and helps lift and carry away all errant objects.  This kind rigs up the bathroom so that taking a shower is possible.

If, in addition, one has friends who drop by with chicken soup and good cheer, one should count oneself very lucky.  Making chicken soup with one leg requires considerable ingenuity, not to mention grit.  But eventually it can be done, although carrying it on a tray out of the kitchen requires an able-bodied partner.  Learning to turn corners in a wheelchair is not as simple as it seems. One needs to practice a good deal to not take off pieces of the wall and one’s flesh.  There are many other in-house learning opportunities.  Getting dressed.  Going to the bathroom in the middle of the night when one is unsteady on one’s feet.  Gradually, though, one builds confidence and skills.  And then, it’s time to leave the house.

Leaving the abode brings dazzling panoply of new learning.  It is a tremendous help to have the above-mentioned partner who figures out a system for going down and coming up 32 steps that doesn’t kill one’s shoulders and builds leg strength. Of course, one needs a tall, strong partner with a good solid thigh for this to work.  One also needs to improve one’s hopping skills, and be able to balance on one leg, know when to use the crutches and when to use the handrails.  Stamina is involved, too, which builds slowly over the long, long days of recovery.  Also, a sense of humor helps, but laughing while hopping up steps causes some unsteadiness, so one must learn to keep it in check. 

Once down the 32 steps on terra firma, there is a whole new world of handicapped learning.  First, one needs to learn how to get into a car.  And have a willing driver because, of course, it’s your driving foot that is defective, so forget trying to drive yourself.  Again, that partner is crucial.  Sometimes your partner may drive you to the house of a terrific friend who will then drive you to the movies to catch up on Oscar nominations.  Or, that same partner might drive you to such places as the supermarket, or the restaurant, or the pharmacy, or the bank—all of which constitute a Major Outing.  Sometimes, while out in these various places, other people in wheelchairs, on crutches and in casts greet you like a long lost relative.  Total strangers want to know what happened as they hold open doors for you. One no longer feels guilty about having one’s hair washed and blow dried by a professional once a week.  And best of all, one can get a temporary disabled parking permit, which one’s partner can use while hauling you around.  This means you get the best parking spaces and don’t have to put money in the meters.  This almost makes the injury worth it.

When people look at your struggles with sympathy and ask how you are, it’s best not to go into unnecessary details about going stir-crazy, losing control over your life, how unattractive and blob-like you feel, and how you are counting the minutes of each day until recovery.  Rather, one needs to smile and say something reassuring like “I’m getting there.” Or “it’s only temporary.”  They don’t really want to have to worry or feel bad for you.

But if one is Zen-like about all of this, one can look forward to being elevated to greater heights of spirituality in which one recognizes the beauty of the little things, like picking up a dropped pen, taking a shower, standing on two feet, or driving.  One also celebrates anew one’s lifelong partner who still loves you despite with your bad temper, impatience, and despair.  One celebrates being able to go back to work, which one had not necessarily been celebrating after one’s lovely two week vacation.  But now, one sees what a glorious victory it will be to sit at one’s desk, walk the hallways, go up the steps, sit in real meetings with real people, and be able to drive anywhere one wants, whenever one wants.  After all, one is only a temporary gimp, and one has new respect for the permanently handicapped of the world.