|
| |
|
SOME DRUGS WORK
BETTER THAN OTHERS
|
|
As I write this, I'm flying at 35,000 feet on my way from San
Francisco to Nashville for a business trip. I'm sitting in the exit row,
where I always try to sit. Extra legroom, and first out in a crash---unless
someone pulls that guilt thing and makes me assist some others before
bailing.
I've always been a fearful flyer, ever since I was five years old and
on my first trip to Disneyland. I was on my grandmother's lap (no seat belts
necessary in those days) and was singing Jingle Bells as we rolled down the
runway. Well, I was until I threw up all over her. Welcome to flying,
kid.
But not anymore. I'm as calm as can be up here in the sky, barreling
along in a flimsy metal tube. I know how safe it is. I know the statistics.
I know how many thousands of planes are in the air at this very moment, none
of which will crash. Yet that's not why I feel calm and safe.
IT'S BECAUSE I'M ON DRUGS!!
Ativan, an anti-anxiety drug, to be exact. Have a headache? Take an
aspirin. Depressed? Try Prozac. Convinced you're going to die on an
airplane? Take Atavan. Drugs and modern science can work wonders.
Atavan is pretty harmless, taken moderately. And since I only
fly six or seven times a year, I'll be fine. However, I'm the first to
admit that drugs can be dangerous, especially when traveling alone, and I've
got three stories to tell that are good examples.
STORY ONE: These were the days before Atavan, when a doctor
prescribed Xanax for my flying anxiety. While Atavan simply calms the
nerves, Xanax is a little more powerful. It not only made me feel flying was
safe, it made me feel flying was FUN!
I couldn't wait to get to the airport and pop a Xanax. I had a flight
to Chicago many years ago, and I was going solo. I pulled into SFO, took my
precious Xanax out of my medicine bag and gleefully slid it down my
throat. Now all I had to was wait for the soothing nirvana.
I bought an orange juice and morning paper and sat down near
the gate, waiting to board my golden chariot to Chicago. Then I promptly
passed out.
I awoke and could still see the plane at the gate. I ran to the
entrance and asked if I could still board my plane to Chicago.
"Sir, that plane is going to St. Louis," the gate attendant
replied, rolling her eyes. "Your flight to Chicago left an hour
ago."
Damn Xanax. Oh, well, at least I took the news without a trace of
panic.
STORY TWO: I was flying solo again, a very early morning
business trip to Atlanta. I popped my beloved Xanax, boarded the plane and
found myself in a middle seat next to a rather large woman. I was squished
and not looking forward to the 4 ½ hour flight.
But I was very calm, relaxed and maybe a little loopy. I closed my
eyes to enjoy my little world, and once again fell asleep before takeoff.
The flight attendant promptly woke me up this time. "Sir,
we feel you might be more comfortable towards the rear of the plane where
you'll have more room."
How sweet!!! Seeing how cramped I was, the staff took pity on
me and made me more comfortable. I gleefully accepted, with a twinge of
guilt that I was embarrassing the overweight lady by moving. But my Xanax
induced state didn't really care.
It wasn't until I got off the plane and the Xanax wore off that I
realized it made no sense to WAKE SOMEONE UP to make them more comfortable.
To my horror, I realized I must have been snoring like a drunken sailor,
irritating everyone around me. Damn Xanax.
STORY THREE: No Xanax, no Atavan. This was before I
discovered anti-anxiety drugs, back in the mid-80's. As fearful as ever, I
had only one option that I could sometimes rely on in those days---good old
alcohol. It was no miracle drug, but sometimes it would have to do. And this
was one of those times.
I was in the Newark airport, again solo, about to board a 45
minute puddle jumper flight to Nantucket in which I would surely die. Small
planes are death traps. I saw a bar near the gate and, not being a hard
liquor guy, ordered a big beer and downed it in moments. I looked out at the
tiny plane, saw my fiery death, and ordered another big beer. Downed that,
too. I then boarded, feeling a little calmer and happier.
As they say, you don't buy beer, you rent it. Once the flimsy
little plane miraculously made it to cruising altitude, I thankfully
loosened my seatbelt and stepped into the tiny aisle, where the one flight
attendant greeted me.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked.
"Just need to use the bathroom," I answered, cringing just
a bit.
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't have a bathroom on this plane. We
should be landing soon."
"Soon" can be interpreted many ways. And the only
"soon" that would work for me would be about 2 ½ minutes. Her
"soon" was apparently 25 minutes, an absolute eternity. And that's
when the turbulence hit.
I'll spare the details that followed. All I can report is that in all
my years of flying, that was probably the one time where I was HOPING the
plane would crash.
So avoid drugs if you can. They can help, they can hurt. But right
now, at 35,000 feet and lunch being served, the state of Colorado
majestically below me, I'm feeling pretty darn good. Thanks to Atavan, I
know I'm going to live.
|
|
|
