I hate to fly. I don’t mean that I feel a discomfort when I’m on the airplane and a
twinge of nervousness. I mean I start to hyperventilate when I think about a flight
that’s three months away. This is an especially big problem since Hernán is in
Buenos Aires right now, and I am in Texas.
I do have medication for flying, and it does help me sleep some. However, I
discovered during a trip back from Argentina that the medication does not work
during turbulence, and I spent a harrowing half an hour (or possibly six hours; it’s
hard to tell under those conditions) convinced that I was going to die over Peru.
They’re probably still trying to remove the finger dents from the armrests of that
seat. Sadly, I have yet to find a doctor who will put me in a medically induced
coma for traveling purposes, which frankly I feel is pretty ungenerous.
I think visiting other places is about the most awesome thing one can do, so I’ll
have to make due with my woefully inadequate sleeping pills. It’s my turn to
visit Hernán, and that trip is coming up quickly and will likely be proceeded by a
public prayer request. Again. Being on a plane with the whole family helps, but
until that’s possible, I might start washing down those sleeping pills with a tequila
sunrise. I could call the combo “the in-flight movie.”