sweet sweet oxygen

written on Sept 26, 2011

Before heading down to the Dominican Republic, I took a week to join my fiancée, Dan, and his family for Dan’s Brother’s wedding near Lancaster (pronounced Lingcuster), South Carolina. It was good times all around, and I took advantage of that seeing as it was my last time to see Dan for a few months, not to mention getting to know his family better before marrying the guy. We danced so much at that wedding that I practically wore away the soles of my dancin’ shoes! (Southern accents, by the way, are very addictive – we all found ourselves at one point or another putting a little different eamphasis on our seallables, if you know what I mean.) So today was the day I was supposed to arrive in Santo Domingo. Actually, I would have been there by now…

I figured the trip to South Carolina was somewhat on the way to the DR (my shorthand for the Dominican Republic) from Massachusetts so it made sense to fly to Santo Domingo from there. Well, ironically (as I think is often the case) the cheapest flight to Santo Domingo from Charlotte, NC went back up north to a connecting flight at New York’s JFK.  It was on that flight, back nearly to where I started from, that my plans went awry.

About an hour after takeoff, I started to feel unusually light-headed and a little queasy. As soon as I was able to think to myself the words, “I don’t feel so good” there was a loud “BANG” and a hundred yellow oxygen masks bounced down out of the ceiling simultaneously. We all looked at each other like “seriously?” and for a minute, not one of us stunned passengers did anything. The flight attendant came on the loudspeaker, “Get on oxygen! Stay on oxygen!” And that was it, no explanation, no “ladies and gentlemen,” no reassurance that everything was going to be OK. Nervously, I pulled the mask down, unraveling the clear plastic tube and held the rubbery yellow cup over my nose and mouth, too frantic even to remember the strap that goes over your head and tightens just like in the safety demonstrations. I took a breath in and ahhhh, sweet sweet oxygen. The light-headed feeling disappeared immediately, but I thought my heart might jump right out of my chest it was beating so hard. My fingers went numb and I began to look around. It was like we were all frozen in time – all I could see were frightened eyes darting every which way and all I could hear was the overwhelming cacophony of Darth Vader breathing. I looked out that tiny oval window, down through the wispy clouds and to the green landscape below. “I might die today,” I said to myself. The plane was flying steadily, but I couldn’t help imagining the worst: the plane losing control and succumbing to gravity, free falling straight into the earth at a million miles an hour. I wondered what my funeral would look like. I wondered how much oxygen was actually in that plane. Would there be enough? Would we all be starved to death of air? After what seemed like eternity – in reality probably 10 minutes or less – the captain came on telling us that we had descended from 35,000 ft (!) down to 10,000 and that we should be able to breathe without the masks. He said we would make an emergency landing in Richmond, VA in 15 minutes. The landing was successful and everyone applauded. The flight attendant – a young black male – came on the loud speaker saying, “I had nothing to do with the landing but thank you for the applause. Now none of you will not pay attention to the safety instructions EVER AGAIN!” We all laughed, which eased some of the tension.

The entire contents of that plane ended up waiting in Richmond for almost 6 hours while they flew down an extra plane from Boston, and as compensation for almost dying, they bought us all pizza. By the time it was delivered and made it through security the 4 foot tall stack of dominoes boxes was lukewarm. My two slices were, needless to say, mediocre, though somehow comforting. It never was fully explained to us what happened up there. They think something was wrong with the devise that circulates the air in the plane and that’s how the cabin lost pressure. I think we flew too high. It didn’t matter really, I was just glad to have my two feet on the ground again. The airline employees at Richmond worked all day to make sure everyone’s different needs were met and that everyone’s connecting flights were rescheduled. I could only imagine what a complete nightmare this whole situation must have been for them and here were other customers complaining about the wait! I wanted to scream in their faces: “look, it is a complete miracle that we can fly at all and that we made it here safely today!” but I didn’t do it, instead I made sure to thank the employees and make my interactions with them brief so that they could get on with their work. They booked me an evening flight to Orlando, Florida and a hotel room, then a flight tomorrow at noon to Santo Domingo.

The Orlando airport is just as extravagantly theme-parkish as all its other “world class attractions” (as they announced just before exiting the plane). I have a room in the Regency Hyatt hotel, which shares the same palm tree filled and water spewing indoor courtyard as the airport’s security checkpoints. From the balcony of my extra fancy hotel room I can see people lugging their luggage and being interrogated for weapons and liquids. I have just returned from dinner at the fancier of the two restaurants that are within the hotel that is within the airport (I wouldn’t have been surprised if there had been a waterslide within the restaurant). Hungry and tired, I decided to take my $12 dinner voucher from the airline and put it toward a nice salad (veggies at last!) and a glass of wine. It’s one of those restaurants where you have to dress up and they only call you by your last name, “Miss Wise, would you like some fresh ground pepper on that?” Despite the stiff atmosphere of the place, I quickly made friends with the Puerto Rican waiter named Ruben. I think he could tell right away that he didn’t have to be fancy with me (maybe it was my blue jeans?). The place was nearly empty and whenever he came over he would end up standing there, sharing stories and thoughts and asking me all about myself. Before I knew it we were talking about marriage and God and our business ideas. He’s thinking of starting a little food truck. Every time he goes out to eat he thinks, “I could make this better at home.” So he wants to share his quality cooking with others and make a modest living while he’s at it. He knows the secret to business, which is to start small, doing what you love and not worrying about money. “The money will follow,” he said. “The most important is what one gives,” he went on. “I know that God is watching me all the time, and that if I see my friend in his car broken down by the side of the road, I cannot just drive by and pretend I don’t see him. I have to stop and help.” Ruben reminds me of the aspects of Latino culture that have always drawn me back to it; the way people just open up and tell you their whole life story and their deepest core beliefs; the way their (often strict) catholicism doesn’t get in the way of a broader, more universal feeling of spirituality and morality. After talking to Ruben for a while I felt confident about what I am heading into and prepared to get to work right away.

  

In the moments that I was left alone to eat at that very classy restaurant I had another revelation – about the responsibility of feeding oneself. I was eating very slowly (which normally is difficult for me, being the serious food enthusiast that I am) because flying in airplanes makes my stomach more sensitive (especially after today’s first flight!). I was careful to check in with my gut after almost every bite, to make sure I wanted more and to ask what it was that my body needed to eat. After eating only bread and pizza the entire day the vegetables were soothing. I was treating myself so unusually well that I had this thought: when a mother is in charge of feeding a child, she is responsible for making sure that child’s diet is balanced, and that he/she eats enough but not too much. How often do we humans give ourselves the same consideration? Once it is no longer our mothers who are feeding us, we are in fact responsible for feeding ourselves. It’s a big responsibility – reading one’s own needs and properly fulfilling them - and one that’s often forgotten and overlooked. How can we expect to read into exactly what our kids need and make sure they get it if we ourselves are depleted? It’s like they always tell you in the safety demos – secure your own mask before assisting others.