Saying goodbye to my parents at the airport was harder than I anticipated. I was torn between sadness about leaving my family and excitement about starting life as a newlywed in Dallas. I could feel my parents’ struggle between the desire for happiness for their child and grief for her absence.
I sat at gate 3, obsessively checking the flight board from the uninviting molded plastic airport seating. Urgent boarding calls, over-excited and unchecked children, nervous first-time passengers, and the alternating wafts of duty-free perfume and fast food punctuated the wait.
I heard my name being called over the loudspeakers. Last boarding call for the AA996 flight to Dallas at gate 5. Gate 3 was for the Miami flight. I must have missed the gate change announcement. My anxiety spiked. I’d been flying internationally since I was six years old. I knew better than to make such a rookie mistake.
I ran like a woman possessed. I was the last passenger on board. I hurried to my seat, my panicky fingers struggling to buckle my seat belt.
I tried to settle down as we taxied down the runway. I felt the plane gathering speed and the nose gently pulling up. Liftoff was imminent. So was my first panic attack. Clammy hands, heartbeat out of control, shortness of breath. The retracting landing gear meant I wasn’t touching home soil anymore. I burst into tears.
The lady seated next to me looked at me with maternal concern. “Are you all right?” she asked kindly and offered me a tissue. I clung to that nugget of comfort.
That was the first of many panic attacks I had right before takeoff. I needed help, and my doctor prescribed anxiety medication. I wasn’t going to let that stop me from visiting my family.
Years later, those panic attacks stopped as abruptly and mysteriously as they started.
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